“With Reynolds’ pencil, vivid, bold and true So fervent Boswell gives him to our view: In every trait we see his mind expand; The master rises by the pupil’s hand: We love the writer, praise his happy vein, Graced with the _naiveté_ of the sage Montaigne; Hence not alone are brighter parts display’d, But e’en the specks of character portray’d: We see the ‘Rambler’ with fastidious smile Mark the lone tree, and note the heath-clad isle; But when the heroic tale of ‘Flora’[76] charms, Deck’d in a kilt, he wields a chieftain’s arms; The tuneful piper sounds a martial strain, And Samuel sings ‘The King shall have his _ain_.’ * * * * * “Can Boswell be forgot, Scarce by North Britons now esteem’d a Scot? Who to the sage devoted from his youth Imbib’d from him the sacred love of truth; The keen research, the exercise of mind, And that best art, the art to know mankind.” Much as his performance was appreciated by friendly persons, it was impossible that Boswell’s morbid egotism should escape ridicule. Thomas Rowlandson, the noted caricaturist, issued twenty cartoons, presenting the unguarded tourist in absurd and grotesque scenes and attitudes, founded on descriptions in his book. They were placed in the shop windows and hawked about the streets, while the laughter-rousing Peter Pindar[77] addressed Boswell in a “Poetical and Congratulatory Epistle,” mercilessly castigating him in sarcastic and crushing rhymes. Here is a specimen:— “At length, ambitious Thane, thy rage To give one spark to Fame’s bespangled page Is amply gratified. A thousand eyes Survey thy book with rapture and surprize! Loud of thy tour, a thousand tongues have spoken, And wonder’d that thy bones were never broken. * * * * * Nay, though thy Johnson ne’er had bless’d thine eyes, Paoli’s deeds had rais’d thee to the skies; Yes! his broad wing had rais’d thee (no bad luck) A tomtit twitt’ring on an eagle’s back.” Equally pungent was the savage Pindar in a subsequent poem, entitled “Bozzy and Piozzi.” He wrote:— “For thee, James Boswell, may the hand of Fate Arrest thy goose-quill and confine thy prate! Thine egotism the world disgusted hears— Then load with vanities no more our ears. Like some lone puppy, yelping all night long, That tires the very echoes with his tongue. Yet, should it lie beyond the pow’rs of Fate To stop thy pen, and still thy darling prate; To live in solitude, oh! be thy luck A chattering magpie on the Isle of Muck.” Than the shafts of ridicule, Boswell experienced even more substantial discomfort. Respecting Sir Alexander Macdonald, Bart., chief of the Macdonalds, he had written thus unguardedly:—