Our travellers having stayed but one night at Ulva, on the morning of Sunday, October 17, took boat and rowed to Inchkenneth, “an island about a mile long, and perhaps half a mile broad, remarkable for pleasantness and fertility. It is verdant and grassy, and fit both for pasture and tillage; but it has no trees.” The only inhabitants were “the chief of the ancient and numerous clan of Macleane, his daughter and their servants.” SIR ALLAN MACLEANE. In a letter to Mrs. Thrale Johnson says: “Sir Allan, a chieftain, a baronet, and a soldier, inhabits in this insulated desert a thatched hut with no chambers. He received us with the soldier’s frankness and the gentleman’s elegance, and introduced us to his daughters, two young ladies who have not wanted education suitable to their birth, and who in their cottage neither forgot their dignity nor affected to remember it. His affairs are in disorder by the fault of his ancestors, and while he forms some scheme for retrieving them, he has retreated hither.” By chambers, Johnson seems to mean rooms on an upper floor. Boswell describes the habitation as commodious, “though it consisted but of a few small buildings only one story high.” In two of these huts were the servants’ rooms and the kitchen. “The dinner was plentiful and delicate. Neither the comforts nor the elegancies of life were wanting. There were several dishes and variety of liquors.” Sir Walter Scott many years later visited the island in company with a Gloucestershire baronet, Sir George Onesiphorus Paul:

Johnson, by the way, did not write “it wanted,” but “we wanted little that palaces afford.” We have from Sir Walter also an amusing story which shows how the chief of the Macleanes in the embarrassment of his affairs had learnt to hate the sight of an attorney—writers, as they are called in Scotland:

In his dislike of lawyers he would have found a common feeling in Johnson, who one day, “when inquiry was made concerning a person who had quitted a company where he was, observed that he did not care to speak ill of any man behind his back, but he believed the gentleman was an attorney.” Happily there was nothing to disturb the tranquillity of the scene during the visit of our travellers. A SUNDAY ON INCHKENNETH. The Sunday which Johnson spent on Inchkenneth was, as he told Boswell, “the most agreeable he had ever passed.” He thus describes it to Mrs. Thrale: “Towards evening Sir Allan told us that Sunday never passed over him like another day. One of the ladies read, and read very well, the evening service, ‘and Paradise was opened in the wild.’”[677] Such was the impression produced on him that he commemorated the day in some pretty Latin lines entitled, Insula Sancti Kennethi. Though he would not attend a Scotch church and hear Robertson preach, yet a woman’s reading the English service did not shock him.

He thus prettily ends his verses:

Sir Allan had chosen well his hermitage. The landing-place is on the south-eastern side of the island, in a little bay with a sandy beach, sheltered by a low point from the storms coming from the north-west, while the cold blasts from the north and the north-east are kept off by a low hill. The ground slopes up from the shore in pleasant meadow land. At the bottom of the slope, a little above the beach, Sir Allan, I conjecture, had his habitation. Here are the ruins of a farmhouse which was burnt down a few years ago. It is very likely that it occupied the same site as his cottages. THE CHAPEL ON INCHKENNETH. The road marked with cart-wheels, as on the main land, at the sight of which Dr. Johnson’s heart was cheered, I failed to discover. We wandered up the little path to where on the rising ground the ruined chapel stands within the hearing of the wave.

Our boatman, whom I had in vain questioned about Johnson’s host, led me up to the tomb of an old knight, clothed in armour, with a dog lying at his feet, and said, “That is Sir Allan.” The little fountain, in spite of the lapse of years and the long drought, still ran with a stream of pure water. Besides the chapel, there had once been on the island a seminary of priests. “Sir Allan,” writes Johnson, “had a mind to trace the foundations of a college, but neither I nor Mr. Boswell, who bends a keener eye on vacancy, were able to perceive them.” Where they failed we could not hope to succeed. We next explored, as they had done, a neighbouring islet.

The shells, perhaps, he kept to add to the collection of Mrs. Thrale’s eldest daughter. “I have been able,” he wrote later on, “to collect very little for Queeney’s cabinet.” The name which our boatman gave to the island was, so far as I could catch it, not Sandiland, but Sameilan. At the time of our visit it had for inhabitants four sheep, and flocks of sea-birds who made it their breeding ground. They flew circling and screaming over our heads, while a mother bird led off a late brood of little ones into the sea. Before each of the burrows in which they made their nests was a litter of tiny shells thrown up like sand before a rabbit-warren. The sun shone brightly, the little waves beat on the shore, while all around us there were mountains, islands, and lochs. As I picked up a few shells, I thought that on this lonely rock, perhaps, none had been gathered since the day when they caught Johnson’s eye by their glossy beauty. In sailing back to the mainland of Mull we saw four seals popping up their heads in the water near the shore.

So pleasant did Johnson find the life in Inchkenneth that he remained a day longer than he had intended. “We could have been easily persuaded,” he writes, “to a longer stay, but life will not be all passed in delight. The session at Edinburgh was approaching from which Mr. Boswell could not be absent.” On the morning of Tuesday, October 19, they started for Iona in a good strong boat, with four stout rowers under the guidance of the chief of the Macleanes. On the shore they took their last farewell of poor Col, “who,” wrote Johnson, “had treated us with so much kindness, and concluded his favours by consigning us to Sir Allan.” MACKINNON’S CAVE. On the way they visited Mackinnon’s Cave, on the opposite coast of Mull, “the greatest natural curiosity,” said Johnson, “he had ever seen.” He thus describes it in a letter to Mrs. Thrale.

“Tradition,” according to Boswell, “says that a piper and twelve men once advanced into this cave, nobody can tell how far; and never returned.” It is indeed a wonderful place. As we sat on the rocks near the entrance, with the huge cliffs rising sheer above us, and the waves breaking at our feet, we could see in the distance Iona, with its beach of white sand, Staffa with its lofty masses of dark rock, Little Colonsay with the waves dashing in foam upon it, and on the horizon a coast which we took to be the island of Col. Vast masses of rock lay along the beach in huge and wild disorder. Beyond the cavern they came to an end; for there the cliff rose from the sea steep as the wall of a house. The cascade near the cave, which Boswell mentions, was falling in a very slender stream. Hard by a huge crag was covered almost to the top by the fresh young leaves of a great ivy-tree. It called up to my memory the ivy-mantled ruins of Kenilworth Castle.

Our travellers, taking boat again, continued their voyage along the shore of Mull. “The island of Staffa,” writes Boswell, “we saw at no very great distance, but could not land upon it, the surge was so high on its rocky coast.” It is strange that Sir James Mackintosh, with this passage before him, should have accused Johnson of having visited Iona, “without looking at Staffa, which lay in sight, with that indifference to natural objects, either of taste or scientific curiosity, which characterised him.”[678] As they sailed along, “Sir Allan, anxious for the honour of Mull, was still talking of its woods, and pointing them out to Dr. Johnson, as appearing at a distance on the skirts of that island. ‘Sir,’ he answered, ‘I saw at Tobermory what they called a wood, which I unluckily took for heath. If you show me what I shall take for furze, it will be something.’”

They dined at “a cluster of rocks, black and horrid,” near to which was a public-house where they had hoped to procure some rum or brandy for the boatmen; “but unfortunately a funeral a few days before had exhausted all their store.” Smollett in his Humphry Clinker, tells how a Highland gentleman, at his grandmother’s funeral, “seemed to think it a disparagement to his family that not above a hundred gallons of whisky had been drunk upon such a solemn occasion.”[679] The rest of this day’s voyage Johnson thus finely described in one of his letters: “We then entered the boat again; the night came upon us: the wind rose; the sea swelled. We passed by several little islands in the silent solemnity of faint moonshine, seeing little, and hearing only the wind and the water. At last we reached the island; the venerable seat of ancient sanctity, where secret piety reposed, and where fallen greatness was reposited.” Boswell adds that as they “sailed along by moonlight in a sea somewhat rough, and often between black and gloomy rocks, Dr. Johnson said, ‘If this be not roving among the Hebrides nothing is.’”

Iona, which of old belonged to the Macleanes, in their recent embarassments had been sold to the Duke of Argyle. Though the tie of property was broken yet the feeling of clanship remained entire. “Whatever was in the island,” writes Johnson, “Sir Allan could demand, for the inhabitants were Macleanes; but having little they could not give us much.” A curious scene described by Boswell bears witness to the strength of the devotion of these poor people.

The memory of the power so lately exercised throughout the Highlands by the chiefs was not soon forgotten. It was noticed so late as 1793, that in Scotland master was still, for the most part, the term used for landlord. As an instance of this it was mentioned that in a sermon preached in the High Church of Edinburgh in 1788, the minister thus described the late Earl of Kinnoul in relation to his tenants.[680] Even after the abolition of the jurisdictions of the chiefs the powers left in the hands of the justices were very great. “An inferior judge in Scotland,” wrote the historian of Edinburgh in the year 1779, “makes nothing of sentencing a man to whipping, pillory, banishment from the limits of his jurisdiction, and such other trifling punishments, without the idle formality of a jury.”[681]

In Iona, however, there was no need of threats. The poor people were devoted to their former chief. “He went,” says Johnson, “to the headman of the island whom fame, but fame delights in amplifying, represents as worth no less than fifty pounds. He was, perhaps, proud enough of his guests, but ill prepared for our entertainment; however, he soon produced more provision than men not luxurious required.” There was not a single house in which, with any comfort, they could have been lodged. Pennant, who had been there a year earlier, “had pitched a rude tent formed of oars and sails.” There was but one house which had a chimney. “Nevertheless, even in this,” says Johnson, “the fire was made on the floor in the middle of the room, and notwithstanding the dignity of their mansion the inmates rejoiced like their neighbours in the comforts of smoke.” Though the soil was naturally fruitful, yet the poverty of the people was great. “They are,” he adds, “remarkably gross and remarkably neglected; I know not if they are visited by any minister. The island, which was once the metropolis of learning and piety, has now no school for education nor temple for worship, only two inhabitants that can speak English, and not one that can write or read.” The population was probably not less than four hundred souls.[682] Sacheverell, who was there in 1688, mentions a class of “hereditary servants. They are,” he adds, “miserably poor. They seem an innocent, simple people, ignorant and devout; and though they have no minister, they constantly assemble in the great church on Sundays, where they spend most part of the day in private devotions.”[683] According to Pennant they were “the most stupid and the most lazy of all the islanders.” “They used,” he says, “the Chapel of the Nunnery as a cow-shed; the floor was covered some feet thick with dung, for they were too lazy to remove this fine manure, the collection of a century, to enrich their grounds.”[684] Boswell, however, gives a much better report. “They are industrious,” he says, “and make their own woollen and linen cloth; and they brew a good deal of beer, which we did not find in any of the other islands.” In July, 1798, Dr. Garnett and his companion, Mr. Watts, the painter, passed a night in the public-house. The floor of their chamber was liquid mud; the rain fell on their beds. For fellow-lodgers they had several chickens, a tame lamb, a dog, some cats, and two or three pigs. Next morning they invited the schoolmaster to breakfast, and found that the inn could boast of only two tea-cups and one spoon, and that of wood.[685] Sir Walter Scott, who visited Iona in 1810 mentions “the squalid and dejected poverty of the inhabitants—the most wretched people he had anywhere seen.”[686] With such houses and such people Sir Allan Macleane certainly did wisely in choosing a barn for the lodgings of himself and his two friends. “Some good hay,” writes Boswell, “was strewed at one end of it, to form a bed for us, upon which we lay with our clothes on; and we were furnished with blankets from the village. Each of us had a portmanteau for a pillow. When I awaked in the morning, and looked round me, I could not help smiling at the idea of the chief of the Macleanes, the great English Moralist, and myself, lying thus extended in such a situation.”

The smile might have passed into a sigh, had Boswell contrasted the splendours of Iona’s past with the meanness of her present lot. They had come to

Like the pilgrim

amidst the ruins of fallen greatness and fallen learning they had sought

Whether with Johnson among “those illustrious ruins,” we look upon Iona as the instructress of the west, or with Gibbon as the island whence was “diffused over the northern regions a doubtful ray of science and superstition,” in either case it is surely a spot where we are forced to pause, and with pensive mind “revolve the sad vicissitude of things.” I must not, however, be unjust to Boswell. It was his enthusiasm which had led them hither. It was he who had longed to survey Iona. “I,” said Johnson, “though less eager did not oppose him.” To him then we owe that splendid passage in which the great Englishman celebrates the power exerted over the mind by the sight of places where noble deeds were done, and noble lives were lived.

Boswell surely not without good reason maintains that “had their tour produced nothing else but this sublime passage the world must have acknowledged that it was not made in vain.”