On Saturday, October 16, the weather changed for the better, owing to a new moon, as Boswell thought. A long day’s journey lay before them, for they hoped to reach Inchkenneth, a little island which lies at the mouth of Loch Na Keal, close to the western coast of Mull. Here they were to be the guest of Sir Allan Macleane.
A DOLOROUS COUNTRY.
“We set out [writes Boswell] mounted on little Mull horses. Dr. Johnson was not in very good humour. He said, it was a dreary country, much worse than Skye. I differed from him. ‘O, Sir,’ said he, ‘a most dolorous country!’ We had a very hard journey. I had no bridle for my sheltie, but only a halter; and Joseph rode without a saddle. At one place, a loch having swelled over the road, we were obliged to plunge through pretty deep water. Dr. Johnson observed, how helpless a man would be, were he travelling here alone, and should meet with any accident; and said, ‘he longed to get to a country of saddles and bridles.’”
When he called the country “most dolorous” he had no doubt in mind the lines which describe the march of “the adventurous bands” in Paradise Lost:
“Through many a dark and dreary vale
They passed and many a region dolorous.”
A WEARY RIDE.
Writing to Mrs. Thrale he speaks of this day’s journey “as difficult and tedious over rocks naked and valleys untracked through a country of barrenness and solitude. We came almost in the dark to the sea side, weary and dejected, having met with nothing but water falling from the mountains that could raise any image of delight.” Sacheverell had found the same ride no less gloomy.
“We proceeded on our journey [he writes] over a country broken, rocky, boggy, barren, and almost wholly unarable. Wet and weary at last we came to a Change-House (so they call a house of entertainment); if a place that had neither bed, victuals, or drink may be allowed that name. Our servants cut us green fern, wet as it was, for bedding. We set forward early next morning. If I thought the first day’s journey hard and unequal, this was much worse; high and craggy mountains, horrid rocks and dreadful precipices; Pelion upon Ossa are trifling and little if compared to them.”[674]
Our travellers made their way so slowly over this rough country that though they started at eleven, they did not reach the coast till seven at night. Yet they had been told that the distance was but eight miles. To add to the gloom, it was here that Johnson discovered that he had lost that famous piece of timber, his huge oak-stick. THE CHIEF OF ULVA’S ISLE. Seeing how late it was, Col, who throughout had been their guide, “determined that they should pass the night at Macquarrie’s, in the Island of Ulva, which lies between Mull and Inchkenneth.” The ferry-boat unfortunately was on the other side of the narrow channel. The wind was so high that their shouts could not be heard, and the darkness was too great for their signals to be seen. They might have been forced to spend the night on the shore had there not chanced to be lying in the little Sound of Ulva a ship from Londonderry. In its long-boat they were ferried over. In this same Sound less than a year later, on the night of September 25, 1774, poor Col lost his life. “His boat,” says Sir Walter Scott, “was swamped by the intoxication of the sailors, who had partaken too largely of Macquarrie’s wonted hospitality.” Here, perhaps, the Macleanes will some day set up a memorial to the unhappy youth. “Col does every thing for us,” said Johnson: “We will erect a statue to Col. He is a noble animal. He is as complete an islander as the mind can figure. He is a farmer, a sailor, a hunter, a fisher; he will run you down a dog; if any man has a tail, it is Col. He is hospitable; and he has an intrepidity of talk whether he understands the subject or not.” His untimely end was regretted by those who only knew “this amiable man” by the reports of our two travellers. “At the death of Col,” said Boswell, “my wife wept much.”[675] “There is great lamentation here,” wrote Johnson from Lichfield, “for the death of Col. Lucy is of opinion that he was wonderfully handsome.” Though they were in the land of second-sight there was no shadow thrown by coming events on the very liberal entertainment provided by their host. Nevertheless the Chief of Ulva’s Isle had a sea of troubles of his own to oppose. He was almost overwhelmed with the stormy waters, not of Loch Gyle, but of debt. “His ancestors,” wrote Johnson to Mrs. Thrale, “had reigned in Ulva beyond memory, but he has reduced himself by his negligence and folly to the necessity of selling this venerable patrimony.” His house was a strange mixture of luxury and squalor. The room in which Johnson slept was unboarded, and through a broken window the rain had driven in and turned the floor to mud. He thus describes his night’s lodging:—“The house and the furniture are not always nicely suited. We were driven once, by missing a passage, to the hut of a gentleman where, after a very liberal supper, when I was conducted to my chamber, I found an elegant bed of Indian cotton, spread with fine sheets. The accommodation was flattering; I undressed myself, and felt my feet in the mire. The bed stood upon the bare earth which a long course of rain had softened to a puddle.”
