Febriles aestus, victumque ardoribus orbem
Flevit, non tantis par Medicina malis.
Et post mille artes, medicae tentamina curae,
Ardet adhuc Febris; nec velit arte regi.
Praeda sumus flammis; solum hoc speramus ab igne,
Ut restet paucus, quem capit urna, cinis.
Dum quaerit medicus febris caussamque, modumque,
Flammarum et tenebras, et sine luce faces;
Quas tractat patitur flammas, et febre calescens,
Corruit ipse suis victima rapta focis.
Qui tardos potuit morbos, artusque trementes,
Sistere, febrili se videt igne rapi.
Sic faber exesos fulsit tibicine muros;
Dum trahit antiquas lenta ruina domos.
Sed si flamma vorax miseras incenderit aedes,
Unica flagrantes tunc sepelire salus.
Fit fuga, tectonicas nemo tunc invocat artes;
Cum perit artificis non minus usta domus.
Se tandem Sydenham febrisque Scholaeque furori]
We spoke of Fingal. Dr Johnson said calmly, 'If the poems were really
translated, they were certainly first written down. Let Mr Macpherson
deposite the manuscript in one of the colleges at Aberdeen, where
there are people who can judge; and, if the professors certify the
authenticity, then there will be an end of the controversy. If he does
not take this obvious and easy method, he gives the best reason to
doubt; considering too, how much is against it a priori.'
We sauntered after dinner in Sir Alexander's garden, and saw his
little grotto, which is hung with pieces of poetry written in a fair
hand. It was
[Footnote: Opponens, morbi quaerit, et artis opem.
Non temere incusat tectae putedinis ignes;
Nec fictus, febres qui fovet, humor erit,
Non bilem ille movet, nulla hic pituita; Salutis
Quae spes, si fallax ardeat intus aqua
Nec doctas magno rixas ostentat hiatu,
Quis ipsis major febribus ardor inest.
Innocuas placide corpus jubet urere flammas,
Et justo rapidos temperat igne focos.
Quid febrim exstinguat; varius quid postulat usus,
Solari aegrotos, qua potes arte, docet.
Hactenus ipsa suum timuit Natura calorem,
Dum saepe incerto, quo calet, igne perit:
Dum reparat tacitos male provida sanguinis ignes,
Praelusit busto, fit calor iste rogus.
Jam secura suas foveant praecordia flammas,
Quem Natura negat, dat Medicina modum.
Nec solum faciles compescit sanguinis aestus,
Dum dubia est inter spemque metumque salus;
Sed fatale malum domuit, quodque astra malignum
Credimus, iratam vel genuisse Stygem.
Extorsit Lachesi cultros, Pestique venenum
Abstulit, et tantos non sinit esse metus.
Quis tandem arte nova domitam mitescere Pestem
Credat, et antiquas ponere posse minas
Post tot mille neces, cumulataque funera busto,
Victa jacet, parvo vulnere, dira Lues.
Aetheriae quanquam spargunt contagia flammae,
Quicquid inest istis ignibus, ignis erit.
Delapsae coelo flammae licet acrius urant,
Has gelida exstingui non nisi morte putas
Tu meliora paras victrix Medicina; tuusque,
Pestis qua superat cuncta, triumphus eris.
Vive liber, victis febrilibus ignibus; unus
Te simul et mundum qui manet, ignis erit.
J. LOCK, A. M. Ex. Aede Christi, Oxon.]
agreeable to observe the contentment and kindness of this quiet,
benevolent man. Professor Macleod was brother to Macleod of Talisker,
and brother-in-law to the Laird of Col. He gave me a letter to young
Col. I was weary of this day, and began to think wishfully of being
again in motion. I was uneasy to think myself too fastidious, whilst I
fancied Dr Johnson quite satisfied. But he owned to me that he was
fatigued and teased by Sir Alexander's doing too much to entertain
him. I said, it was all kindness. JOHNSON. 'True, sir: but sensation
is sensation.' BOSWELL. 'It is so: we feel pain equally from the
surgeon's probe, as from the sword of the foe.'
We visited two booksellers' shops, and could not find Arthur
Johnston's Poems. We went and sat near an hour at Mr Riddoch's. He
could not tell distinctly how much education at the college here
costs, which disgusted Dr Johnson. I had pledged myself that we should
go to the inn, and not stay supper. They pressed us, but he was
resolute. I saw Mr Riddoch did not please him. He said to me,
afterwards, 'Sir, he has no vigour in his talk.' But my friend should
have considered that he himself was not in good humour; so that it was
not easy to talk to his satisfaction. We sat contentedly at our inn.
He then became merry, and observed how little we had either heard or
said at Aberdeen: that the Aberdonians had not started a single mawkin
(the Scottish word for hare) for us to pursue.