Alphonse Daudet,(1840-1897)

Costacalde the gunsmith is a wry, yellowish, feral sort of person, eager to be nominated to the presidency of the Alpine Club.  The current president, long-time resident of Tarascon in southern France is Tartarin, the famous lion-hunter and mountain climber, noted for his ascent of the local hills, some 600′ high.  In order to enhance his social standing and prove himself worthy of being re-elected to the post of president, Tartarin has vowed to conquer the Swiss Alps.

With several associates, he entrains for Lucerne and after a frolicking night of riotous celebration, sets out to conquer Mt. Rigi.  Ignoring the cog railway that takes tourists to the top, Tartarin vows to climb it solo.  He’s so inflated by his success that he dreams of furthering his stature by attempting the Jungfrau, a much more ambitious project with considerable objective difficulties.  As a result of a conversation with an old friend and guide, Jules Bompard, Tartarin has come to the conclusion that the entire Swiss locality is just a business run by the authorities:  the mountains are under corporate control, the hotels have been built to a Disney-like standard, the guides are actors, and finally, that no dangers lurk in the vast glacial slopes and crevasses of the alpine peaks.  So it was with cheerful and insouciant mien that at two o’clock one morning he follows his guides up the lower slopes onto the glacier, cutting steps and blithely ascending the vertiginous cliffs.

Until the little group falls into a hidden crevasse.  With one guide clutching the rope on the slippery surface, Tartarin and the other guide dangle helplessly in space, waiting for the instantaneous demise that surely looms.  Except that Tartarin knows that it’s all just part of the game devised by the business owners and so he experiences no fear whatsoever.  The lower guide manages to cut a few steps in the ice wall, and they haul Tartarin out of the frigid mausoleum, while he makes wise-cracks and joshes with his rescuers.  They finally reach the top of the mountain and after an uneventful descent they return to the hotel to receive the plaudits of their anxious comrades.

Still living in his dream world, Tartarin decides to climb Mt. Blanc.  He and his friends take the train to Chamonix, hire guides and arise at midnight to begin the ascent.  The weather turns ugly, however, and most of the party turns back.  But Tartarin and his friend, roped together, continue to climb until they are trapped in an avalanche.  Swept down the mountain, they cross a sharp salient that severs the rope, so Tartarin falls down the steep slope on one side and Gompard plummets down the other.

Back in Tarascon, Costacalde is just about to be elected president, when (spoiler ahead) who should nonchalantly appear, but Tartarin.  After a miserable night on the mountain, both he and his friend survived the fall and made their ways separately back to Tarascon.  So naturally he’s re-elected and Costacalde slinks off to sulk in his shop.

I’m not positive about Daudet’s intentions in writing this book the way he did, but i have a feeling that he was trying to say something about reality and how most human beings deal with it:  that most of us create our own little worlds and are quite unconscious of the actuality that hangs over us.  And i think his satirical approach often brushes the border of sarcasm, indicating that he had some negative reactions about the Parisien society he lived in.  It was a very funny book in spots, and I thought it was better than the work that preceded it,  Tartarin of Tarascon, in which he travels to Algeria to shoot a lion.  It’s certainly not a monument to deathless prose, but it’s entertaining and humorous.



Edward Du Bois (1774-1850)

Barclay Temple was the son of a moderately wealthy English land owner in the late 18th century.  He was educated at Eton and Oxford and subsequently led the life of a young waster in the theaters and clubs of London.  His best friend was Keppel von Heim, a nascent lawyer.  One day on the street Barclay was accosted by Gregory, his father’s servant, who had come to the city to apprise Barclay of his father’s illness:  a slight case of consumption.  After more conversation, Gregory admits that the illness might be a little worse than he had indicated; in fact he was dead.

Barclay and Keppel hasten to his father’s house and discover that not only was his father deceased, but three bailiffs were present intending to confiscate the entire property in satisfaction of long-standing debts.  They find out that the elder Temple had been taken advantage of by a shady stock broker who had rifled the estate.  The bailiffs were intent on arresting Barclay but Keppel offers to pay them off and advance whatever monies may be required to set his friend up in life.

The two friends arrange living quarters in the city but soon Barclay becomes depressed over not having work and absorbing his friend’s substance.  Fortuitously he learns of a job available in a small village, helping the wife of a local parson translate the Bible into Hebrew.  After a long eventful journey including fisticuffs in defense of a Quaker and his daughter (fighting being contrary to the precepts of their belief system), Barclay meets Mrs. Pawlet and her husband.  She has been educated by her father to the point that she feels in command of all literary and scientific knowledge.  In fact she thinks of herself as “Mrs. Encyclopedia”.  Her husband the parson is forgiving, tolerant and understanding and loves her just as she is.  Their daughter Penelope is just eighteen and supposedly promised to Keppel in marriage.  But soon Barclay and she fall in love.

The household is invited to a soiree at the parson’s brother’s house.  His name is George and he was one of the passengers on the coach that first brought Barclay to the village.  George’s wife and son and daughter are all musicians and they sneer at the father for his proletarian values.  A local hanger-on is l’Abbe Dupont, a sort of musician/sycophant and scoundrelly type person who manages to secrete himself into the affairs of the parson and his brother.  Following a very loud and bangy concert, the parson and family board their carriage to return home, but the driver (Peter) has over-imbibed and takes the wrong road, ending up on the local Mt. Olympus (so called by Mrs. Pawlet).  Rounding a curve, the vehicle drops a wheel over the edge and catapults the carriage down a cliff into the creek.  Everyone survives, including the horse, but as the toga she had worn to the party was stuck in the frame members of the wrecked carriage, Mrs. Pawlet was forced to lie in the mud for several hours before being rescued.  Possibly as a result she becomes ill and in her attempts to utilize her assumed medical knowledge to doctor herself, she becomes seriously sick and has to suffer the attentions of the local physician, whom she calls a quack, but who cures her in short order.

Gregory appears as the owner/operator of the neighborhood barber shop.  He had transferred himself as servant from the father to the son and was maniacally attached to Barclay.  He was a sort of Harpo Marx type character, full of energy and seriously lacking in discretion, and frequently involved his master in complex and unpleasant predicaments.

Mrs. Buckle comes to visit.  She has been barred the house by Mr. Buckle because smallpox ruined her complexion, and a new lady had taken her place.  In short order, Buckle falls for Penelope while visiting the Pawlets, at the same time that Keppel arrives to join his supposedly future bride.  Through jealousy Keppel, discovering Barclay’s feeling for Penelope (but not Buckle’s), orders the arrest of his friend for debt, so Barclay takes the next stage coach out of town.  Gregory goes with him and they have assorted adventures with bandits and landlords until they reach London on foot.  Gregory manages to support them for a while, utilizing his barber skills, and Barclay writes a play, but ultimately the latter is arrested and thrown into debtor’s prison.  There he begins writing essays and making small contributions to the local magazines and becomes relatively successful.  Finally George Pawlet appears and pays his debts and Barclay and Gregory leave the city.  One night at a remote inn Keppel, still in a tsunami of envy, meets Barclay.  They have a duel and Barclay is wounded.  At the same time, in the same inn, Buckle has absconded with Penelope and while in the process of fulfilling his evil designs, is foiled by Gregory who roundly punishes him;  Buckle feels bad and rejoins his wife, repentant. As the denouement approaches, Penelope is revealed to be Keppel’s daughter, she marries Barclay, and they all live happily…

This book is subtitled “A Satirical Story”.  It’s full of digressions and authorly interventions.  Du Bois stops often interrupts his own story-telling to rant about topics ranging from humor to the classics, to politics and literature, medicine and happiness.  In fact in the introduction to the book he says the title was chosen because the book is full of lies and as Old Nick is a liar, it’s punnishly appropriate.  The novel viewed as a whole was remarkably like a Marx Brothers movie, with characters dashing about and surprising and bizarre events following one another like clockwork.  It was hard to believe that it was published in 1800.  In some ways it was a lot like Tom Jones (Fielding was referred to more than once by Du Bois).

Reading this old three-decker book was a bit of a challenge.  My copy was down-loaded from Internet Archive and was electronically printed by a computer designed for the purpose.  Originally an old black type novel, with f’s being used for s’s, the situation was complicated by the computer not being able to tell the difference between tall letters and short ones.  Here are some examples:  plcafc=please, lbon=soon, liriffnefs=seriousness, ioil=lost, and fpiic=spite.  So it was a struggle to begin with, but got easier as i got used to it.  I saw an article once about how readers can make sense out of a sentence even though most the words were spelled wrong.  This novel was a good practical example of that, although not one i’d care to repeat on a regular basis.  It was fun, though, and the writing was certainly witty, funny, learned, even if occasionally more than off-the-wall.


Harold Steele Mackaye (1866-1928)

Rebecca and Phoebe Wise live quiet lives in a small midwestern town, knitting, gardening, and being involved in charity work.  One of the charity cases is Copernicus Droop, the town drunk.  He visits the two ladies one night, perfectly sober and full of plans to get rich.  While sobering up from his last bout with the bottle, he had found himself lying in the local swamp, in the shadow of a large machine-like vehicle with wings.  Even more startling was the occupant:  a man from the future.  Copernicus was invited to enter the conveyance and to go for a ride.  Which he did, soon discovering that he was in an operational time machine.  The two traveled a few years into the past, and the operator caught a cold and died.  Being sober, Droop had found out enough about the machine to make it go, so he went back to his own time and visited the Wises to tell them his great plan.  He wanted to take a phonograph and a camera into the past and reinvent them and get rich.  After a certain amount of arguing, he convinced the ladies to come with him, mainly because Phoebe already was interested in Shakspeare and wanted to learn more about him and Rebecca wouldn’t let her go alone.  Phoebe had letters from Mary Burton, an ancestor from the Elizabethan times as well, and she was not convinced that Shakspeare had written the plays.  She thought maybe Francis Bacon had.

Anyway, they take off in the time machine, headed for the north pole.  Some years before, the man from the future had installed a steel post with a ball on top to mark the spot, as part of the method by which the time machine worked.  The idea, which makes perfect sense and i’m amazed no one has thought of it before, is related to the international date line.  Traveling over the line causes a person to either lose or gain a day.  If one goes to the north pole, it’s very easy to cross the line just by walking around the post, so that circling it one way takes a person into the past and walking the other way moves him into the future.  So, riding in the machine when it’s attached to the pole via a rope, one is only limited by centripetal force as to the speed with which they might advance into the future or the past.  Simple, haha.

Reaching the pole, they connect the machine as referred to above and kick it into gear.  Unfortunately they fall asleep, mainly because Droop discovered a bottle of rye and rendered himself blotto.  The rope connecting them to the post wore through and the car whipped through the ether and landed in a field near London in 1598.  The occupants become separated, Phoebe taking on the personality of Mary Burton and eventually becoming engaged to Sir Guy.  Droop has brought his bicycle along and, clutching the camera and phonograph, pedals to London, experiencing various and sundry hilarious adventures, some of them in concert with a Falstaff wanna-be, while trying to avoid being accused of witchcraft and attempting to get Queen Elizabeth interested in his gadgetry.  Rebecca acts as a sort of lady’s maid to Phoebe.

(Spoilers ahead)  There’s a grand climax at the Queen’s court that results in all three characters being chased by different elements of Elizabethan society back to the time machine which they succeed in entering and flying back to their own era.  Sir Guy goes along and Phoebe and him marry and live happily ever after.  They leave the time machine in the swamp, where it still is, probably.

This is a very funny book.  And enlightening as well, providing a lot of period color re the Elizabethan era, and, insofar as i could tell, a considerable amount of legitimate information as to what the society of that time must have been like.  Mackaye had a lot of fun deriding the idea that Bacon wrote the plays;  Shakspeare was depicted as a sort of low grade actor with not much talent, the kind of person Bacon would never associate with.  Actually, Phoebe, meeting him clandestinely in a garden, recited Jacques “seven ages of man” and Hamlet’s “to be” speeches to him while Shakspeare frantically wrote them down.  I was quite surprised that such a novel could have been written around 1900, until i remembered H.G. Wells.  I wonder if he knew about this book, or maybe it was the other way around…  anyhow, it’s highly recommended and available on Gutenberg…


LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859)

His forebears were landholders in Barbados until his father moved to Philadelphia before the Revolutionary War.  He and his wife did well until the conflict began, when they were persecuted for their Tory inclinations.  Mrs. Hunt left the country, turning down Benjamin Franklin’s offer of guitar lessons, moving back to the island first and then on to England.  Her husband was taken in a riot and narrowly escaped being tar-and-feathered.  He escaped from jail and made his way to London to rejoin his family.  Leigh was born soon after, the youngest of five brothers and one sister.  The family lived for a while with Nathaniel West (the painter) until they found their own place near the edge of town.  Leigh was a somewhat fearful boy partly because of his brother Stephen’s relentless teasing and persecution.  But he loved escaping into the woods and fields with a book of poetry or Day’s Sandford and Merton stories and talking to the cowboys and sheepherders.  He was occasionally ill and once was sent to France to recover his health at the seashore.  His brother’s persecution resulted in frequent nightmares, one of which featured a mantichore.  The grinning toothy face scared him for years before he outgrew bad dreams.

Leigh was sent to Christ Hospital school, the largest free educational institution in London with 600 boys as students.  Charles Lamb and Sam Coleridge both were students, but preceded Leigh by several years.  The foundation of his future financial difficulties began at this point because the student body was split into different categories, none of which associated with the others.  So Leigh learned languages and soft subjects but no arithmetic or physical sciences.  He suffered the usual beatings and practical jokes common to the era but also made some life-long friendships.  As his status improved, he was able to access local bookstores on Paternoster Row, where he found books on Spenser, Collins, Grey, Shakspere and others.  He read the Arabian Nights, Hamlet, Hudibras, Paradise Lost and wrote a lot of poetry himself.  When in bed with scalded legs he learned the flute.  One of the instructors, known as Boyer the Beater knocked out one of his front teeth.  At fifteen years of age he left the school and almost immediately had a book of poetry published.  He graduated at a lower level than some of his peers because he stuttered.  Fully accredited students had to be able to speak fluently.

For several years he left a mildly madcap existence.  He was almost drowned while sailing on the Isis when the small sailboat he and a friend were in jibbed at the wrong time and he was thrown into the water with the main sheet wrapped around his neck.  He and another associate once walked from Ramsgate to Brighton (112 miles) in four days.  The reign of Napoleon began in 1802 and Leigh joined the civilian militia.  At the same time he became interested in the theater and started writing reviews of plays that were published in small magazines and newspapers.  His work was first printed in The Traveller, a minor gossip sheet with a short life.  His father made him a present of a 36 volume edition of English poetry that he devoured, and that materially influenced his writing style and provided a foundation for his later critical efforts.  Reviews of the drama at that time were mostly involved with puffing up plays in order to increase attendance and to sell more tickets.  Leigh’s essays concentrated more on literary and objective qualities;  he raised the level of criticism even though his reviews were only printed in smaller journals and magazines.

One day while riding he experienced severe heart palpitations.  Associating these with  episodes of depression (which he’d been suffering from for a while), he came to the conclusion that strenuous exercise was the best cure.  So he started walking long distances and rowing on the Thames.  One day on the water they came across a line that ran from one bank to the other, apparently supporting a fishnet that spanned the whole river.  They cut it and subsequently got into a row with the fisherpersons who’d been watching from the bank.  Luckily a policeman appeared before any substantial damage was done to any of the participating parties.

In 1810 Leigh became the managing editor of his brother’s paper, The Reflector.  Some of his friends, C. Lamb and Barnes submitted essays for it.  It lasted four issues before going broke.  Shortly after, Leigh went to jail.  The Prince of Wales had engaged himself as a supporter of the Free-Ireland movement some months before, but reneged on his promises to a group of Reformers and Leigh wrote a scathing criticism of his behavior.  So he was arrested and spent two years in prison and was fined 1000 pounds.  Eventually he lived in a two room suite in the prison hospital with his family and they enjoyed good food, stayed warm in the winter and were able to go for walks in the garden.  Lamb was a frequent visitor as was Thomas Moore.  William Hazlitt appeared, as did Percy Shelley. Jeremy Bentham was a regular badminton participator.  Lord Byron came to ride the younger Hunt’s rocking horse.  Leigh noted that Thomas Carlyle had the finest eyes he’d ever seen.  Keats and Shelley didn’t agree too well;  the former was experiencing the first symptoms of tuberculosis and he was defensive in the presence of the latter;  and probably was jealous as well.  Lamb loved practical jokes and was addicted to punning.  But he valued truth:  “truth was precious, and not to be wasted on everybody”.  Coleridge was an idler and a waster of his great talents.

After his release, Leigh and his family took ship for Italy.  It was a very rough passage, with four children and his wife confined in a small cabin with a goat.  During the period they were sailing, 1500 ships were noted by the officials as being lost.  The Hunts rented a house north of Leghorn and Byron and Shelley were frequent visitors.  One evening Shelley, who loved the water, was sailing back to his residence when his boat was swamped and he drowned.  Leigh had named Shelley as his best friend at one time and he was devastated by the accident.  Shortly after, they moved closer to Genoa with Byron.  The latter soon left, however, as the government was becoming upset with his associations with the Carbonari (the Mafia of the time).  Byron left for Greece, where he had an appointment with fate at Missolonghi.  Walter Savage Landor visited fairly often and became a good friend and helped in dealing with the authorities and merchants.  Later, another move took place when they all relocated to Florence.  Leigh loved it there:  the art, architecture, statuary and culture gave him great pleasure.  But money became an issue so the family moved back to England.

The balance of his life was devoted to writing essays and reviews and poetry and the occasional book.  He continued to experience difficulties with money and debt.  His friends made a futile attempt to have the government issue him a pension.  His most popular and successful play was “A Legend of Florence” which was produced in 1840.  Queen Victoria saw it four times.  Charles Dickens, Forster and Jerrold held a benefit dinner for Leigh that was quite successful in terms of money.  Bulwer-Lytton had nice things to say about him and aided with his financial entanglements.

The book ends in 1858 with a short codicil in ’59 that contained his final thoughts concerning his lifelong exertions.  His last book, “Religion of the Heart”  was well-accepted.  It described his religious convictions and hopes for the future.

This was a peculiar book in some ways.  It rambled about quite a lot and was difficult to follow occasionally.  He liked long sentences and employed them at the drop of a conjunction.  Sometimes the meaning got lost in the underbrush.  Hunt was the target of resentment and jealousy for part of his life, mostly having to do with his financial ineptness:  he made the point more than once that he knew no arithmetic.  His health was peripatetically  terrible, although the exact nature of his trouble was never stated:  just hypochondria and depression.  He was not a believer in established religion, although he believed in an afterlife.  He thought Dante’s Inferno was ‘childishly mistaken”.  Im not sure what he meant by that.

I’d read about Hunt for years and was always curious about him so i’m glad to have finally read the book.  He wasn’t an exceptional talent, but he was apparently very knowledgeable and personable.  He was generous with his time and attracted lights greater than himself, for which he should be honored.  I’d recommend the book to anyone interested in the period, but the intended reader should be one who was capable of “summoning up the blood”…



Aldous Huxley (1894-1963)

Jeremey Pordage has just arrived in Los Angeles airport.  He’s been hired by a local millionaire, Mr. Stoyte, to catalog his recently acquired journals of the fifth Earl of Hauberk, a member of the minor nobility of 18th century England.  Driving toward Stoyte’s castle in a chauffeured limousine, Pordage sees Consul gas stations, owned by Stoyte, a cafe shaped like a bulldog, a real estate office built to resemble the Sphinx, and the Beverly Pantheon, a cemetery with statues, fountains, a perpetual Wurlitzer organ, and a wedding chapel.  En route they pass Stoyte’s Hospital for Sick Children.  the chauffeur stops momentarily to pick up Mr. Propter, the manager of Stoyte’s extensive farming interests.  Approaching Stoyte’s castle, the auto passes over a moat, through several gates and into a sort of keep before parking.  Mr. Propter proffers a few bits of advice re Stoyte:  he’s manic, has had a stroke, has a very short fuse, and worries a lot.  Soon, Jeremey meets the tubby, fidgety owner who takes him on an orientation tour.  The building is constructed on top of a hill, with a swimming pool on the top floor.  Descending on one of the elevators, they visit the library, lushly decorated with famous paintings and woodwork by Grinling Gibbons, but with no books.  The lower levels contain a laboratory, where Dr. Obispo conducts his researches, and the collections facility, where Jeremey is to work.  Later, Peter Boone, lab assistant to Dr. Obispo, and Virginia, Stoyte’s girlfriend, appear.

After several days, Jeremy and Peter, a personable sort, meet mister Propter in order to investigate some of Stoyte’s agricultural interests.  They have a nice visit under some eucalyptus trees and talk about the dire plight of the migrant workers suffering on Stoyte’s farms.  They poor souls live in vermin infested conditions and are paid pennies a day.  Propter does his best to improve their lives, but his boss hates the poor because he was once like them;  also they make him feel guilty, for which he actively tries to make their existence more miserable.  Propter is a wise and learned soul, who over a good quarter of the book decants his philosophical views about life and reality into the willing ears of his companions.  Basically, life on earth is divided into three levels:  animal, human, and spiritual.  Humans are trapped by time and craving, which they must overcome in order to enter the upper level, a kind of enlightenment in tune with the universe and true reality.  People are basically trapped into the middle level, ignorant and misled about almost everything.  Attempts to do good are usually foiled and evil almost always results.

Later, Stoyte becomes jealous of Peter, who he thinks is making love to Virginia.  Actually Dr. Obispo is the guilty party.  Dashing about with his revolver, Stoyte shoots Peter to the amusement of Obispo, who is an amoral villain with a sadistic sense of humor.  Obispo’s researches have been directed into the search for immortality at the behest of Stoyte, and, discovering clues in the pages of the journals being examined by Jeremey, he induces Stoyte to undertake a trip to England to investigate the mysterious catacombs underlying Hauberk’s ancient castle in the hopes of uncovering the truth behind the subtle hints revealed in the journals.

The ending of the book is pretty grim.  In fact, i wish i’d never read it, in spite of the fairly interesting ideas of Mr. Propter.  I think Huxley must have been influenced by the terrible effects of the first World War and thrown into an emotional abyss by the Spanish Civil War, which some of his friends participated in,  as well as experiencing a lot of depression over the immediate future, which he must have known was going to develop into another global holocaust.  The book was published in 1939.

Insofar as the actual writing was concerned, Huxley was a master craftsman;  the details in the book highlight to an almost egregious degree the irony and sarcasm inherent in the indiscriminate flourishing of money.  Although Propter (propter hoc is abbreviated Latin for a basic logical fallacy) had interesting ideas, they were pretty one-sided and nebulous, i thought, and i couldn’t help but feel that they were due to H’s depression and anxiety over what he saw lurking in the future.  I wouldn’t recommend this book to anyone unless they had a imperative need to probe the depths of Huxley’s thought.  His other works are much better, i think;  I’d start with Chrome Yellow, a very funny parody on the activities of the British upper classes.

The Sea for Breakfast

Lillian Beckwith (1916-2004)

Morag, a land-lady in Skye, has been letting rooms to the author (Lillian B.) for some time  until the latter decides to purchase her own croft (cottage) in the tiny village of Bruach.  The story opens with her laboriously extracting nails from the kitchen walls with a hammer with a loose head.  Tigh-na-Mushroom (house on the rock) croft is in sad shape and in order to be liveable will require a new roof and extensive redecoration, including paint, paper, tile-work, new stove, chimney cleaning, a new gate, and sundry other repairs and parts.

Difficulties abound.  The van delivering new furniture must cross a bridge held together with string and hope;  the chimney is cleaned by a local expert dangling a boulder on the end of a piece of rope;  the only available coal is more shale than coal and is rife with  active communities of fleas;  peat is collected in the old-fashioned way:  by knife and shovel;  and all the heavy lifting is done by the ladies, as the men are too busy stealing wheelbarrows, ladders, windows, chickens, sheep and cows from each other and chasing rabbits and fish to have time to do anything else.

One day one of the locals found a mass of felty material on the beach and used it to make a chicken coop.  It was so spongy and soft he also used it as a mattress for himself.  It was some time before he, a dedicated pipe smoker, realized it was highly explosive gun cotton.

Lilian was an artist of sorts.  After completing a nice scene of the lighthouse across the strait, Hector, Morag’s nephew, found a frame for it on the beach.  Light blue, it was perfect, except for being a toilet seat.

The local grade-school teacher went on a vacation so Lillian volunteered to substitute for several weeks.  There was a problem with rats, though, so a couple of the neighbors offered to get rid of them.  Two men showed up after dark with several bottles of whiskey.  Next morning they were found lying on the ground with a number of drunk rats decorating the premises.  The men had hang-overs but the rats vanished, never to return.  Becky (Lillian’s nickname) achieved a certain measure of popularity with her edificational skills.  Another neighbor tried to hire her to teach his dog to swim after she’d done the same for several of the local boat owners.  He said the poor thing was afraid of the water.

One of the elders enlisted her to help write a letter to Queen Elizabeth.  Having observed a picture of the Duke of Edinburgh dressed in a polo outfit, wearing long boots and consequently probably suffering from corns, the old lady wanted the queen’s advice on how to deal with her own foot troubles.

Along with a friend, Lillian made a shopping trip to Edinburgh.  On the way back they spent a night in Dingwall.  She said it was the only place she’d ever seen where the men stood around on street corners for the sole purpose of confusing the nearby dogs.  Dingwall also had a gorgeous four-cornered clock tower that showed the incorrect time on all four sides, but with no face agreeing with any other.

Herring season occurred in the late summer.  Two boats, the Wayfarer and the Seagull, competed over the number of fish caught and which haul would be first to the shipping point, thus accruing the best prices.  Lots of mackerel were caught as well.  Two trucks were loaded up with the competitors’ catch and raced up the dirt road, each trying to outrun the other.  Neck and neck they sped, and the deck hands sitting on top of the loads began throwing fish at each other, frequently missing their targets, so that the next morning the happily surprised villagers discovered that it had rained fish overnight.

Parties usually lasted all night and not uncommonly occasioned a lot of drinking and obscurely odd behavior, such as sheep stealing and cow chasing.  Halloween proffered an opportunity for the children to match the adults.  Gates disappeared and were replaced with any number of oddities:  fish baskets, wheelbarrows, peat wagons;  a common prank was to place a chunk of peat atop the chimney of an enemy and placing boulders against the door to seal in the occupants

The book described a lot more of this sort of hilarity.  Lillian, who had moved there seeking peace and quiet, probably didn’t find a whole lot of that, but maybe discovered something better:  friendship.  This was the middle volume of a trilogy describing more of the same sort of existence.  The other two books:  “The Hills is Lonely” and “The Loud Halo”.  This wasn’t timeless prose, but i liked it.


The route they followed together led from Edinburgh, through Aberdeen and Inverness, west to the coast and over the sea to Skye.  On the way they stopped to visit ruined cathedrals in St. Andrews and Aberdeen among other places.  Dr. Johnson took his hat off whenever he stepped into a holy place, even though there was nothing left but a few rocks to denote where the walls had been.  After Inverness, they rode horses, stopping for the night at various Lairds’ castles.  Occasionally they stayed at crofts, or small farms.  Boswell was nervous about the doctor’s reaction to dirt and squalor, but Johnson showed no reaction, taking it all in stride and, as he stated several times, enjoying himself immensely.  The weather was stormy for the most part, and the travelers came to expect rain as the normal ambiance.  They sailed across to Skye courtesy of the MacDonald clan and marveled at the courage of Flora MacDonald, who saved Bonny Prince Charlie from the redcoats by dressing him up as a lady’s maid and sailing with him to a hiding place on the island and later arranging his escape to France.

Most of the Hebrides were in the possession of the Macleans or the MacDonalds, and several times they stayed for a week or more (usually due to bad weather) at one of the houses belonging to relatives of the two clans.  They spent their time rambling about the islands, talking to the inhabitants and dodging showers,  Local attractions consisted of two very large sea-caves, one of which they didn’t explore all the way because they only had one candle and were apprehensive of the dark.  Bogs and sand dunes were common and gave trouble to the horses.  All of the indigenes made their own clothes, shoes, houses, and acted as their own farriers, farmers, ditch-diggers, doctors and orchestras (bagpipes).  The Doctor was a little hard of hearing, but he enjoyed standing next to the bagpipers, listening to the great drone.  Boswell and Johnson attended more than one celebration with music and dancing and story-telling.  Johnson had given up drinking hard liquor years before and resisted temptation almost religiously, except for the occasional imperative dose  needed to drive off the chill associated with being rain-soaked.

The two friends visited Rasay, Skye, Col, Mull, Ulva, Inchkenneth, Icolmkill, and Mull again, in that order.  They received hearty welcomes universally, as Dr. Johnson was famous for his dictionary.  He became upset at losing his walking stick on Col;  he blamed the loss on the sticky fingers of a local swain who was acting as baggage handler, but forgave him because wood was so scarce that the natives snatched every scrap they could find.  They ate the same things the islanders did:  sheep, oatmeal, occasional turnips, tea, and fish.  But the good Doctor resented being presented with a sheep’s head for breakfast at one of the local establishments.  One evening at Columba, a settlement in Icolmkill, the Lady Lochbuy described Johnson as “a dungeon of wit”:  referring to the depth of his knowledge in a typical Scottish vein of humor.  A frequent topic of evening conversation revolved around the supposed original poetry of Ossian as discovered and revealed by James MacPherson.  Samuel argued that it was forged, but Boswell and others wouldn’t believe it, feelings of national pride perhaps influencing their opinions.  Later in life, Bozzie (as Samuel called him), became an adherent of James Ireland who had discovered new plays by Shakespeare.  He didn’t live long enough to see Ireland convicted of forgery.  At the end of October they removed to Oban on the mainland and shortly after travelled back to Edinburgh, where they partied with political and religious luminaries, mostly friends and associates of Boswell’s, until the Doctor boarded the coach back to London.

I read Johnson’s Journal first.  It revealed a slightly different man than i came to know from reading Boswell’s biography of him.  He seemed more sensitive to  national travails and warmer at heart than i would have suspected.  He was the sort of person that was interested in religion above all, but also in economics, politics, philosophy, history, mathematics, and agriculture.  He must have had close to perfect recall, because he could reel off yards of Latin poetry appropriate to almost any occasion.  And he seemed to be familiar with the  history not only of England and Scotland, but even with individual cathedrals and churches they investigated en route.  I remembered a description of how he read books:  his associates didn’t like to lend them to him, because he literally tore into them, reducing them in some cases to shreds and tatters.  He was one of a kind, and full of surprises, maybe the most startling one of which was his friendship with James Boswell.  Two more unlike persons would be difficult to imagine, but apparently there was a plane of some sort connecting their outlooks that proved satisfactory to both.

Boswell seems to have been a highly strung, ambitious scion of a noble family, who decided at some point to devote himself to interviewing and publishing accounts of famous persons, perhaps with a desire to ride to fame on their coat-tails, as it were.  He had been shy as a boy, and possibly drove himself to succeed socially as a result.  He chased Rouseau and Voltaire with much the same enthusiasm that he displayed to his pursuit of Johnson, but with less success.  He drank too much and injured his health with pursuing the ladies, dying prematurely, perhaps.  I really enjoyed traveling with the pair, in spite of their understandably dated opinions and would recommend both books to any interested party.

Thanks to Cleo, Marian and Cirtnecce for suggesting these two books and the fortuity of reading them together.  It was a novel experience…