reveals the Moffat lady again, 'like a girl of eighteen, with the finest black hair,' whom he loves so much that he is in a fever. '_This_,' he adds truly enough, '_is unworthy of Paoli's friend_.' The May of 1769 saw him in Ireland, where his relations in County Down secured his entry into the best society. A dispatch to the _Public Advertizer_, of July 7th, informed the public that 'James Boswell, Esq., dined with His Grace the Duke of Leinster at his seat at Carton. He went by special invitation to meet the Lord Lieutenant; came next morning with his Excellency to the Phoenix Park, where he was present at a review of Sir Joseph Yorke's dragoons; he dined with the Lord Mayor, and is now set out on his return to Scotland.' The _belle Irlandaise_ had forgotten him, but it is to this occasion that we may refer some verses that were published by his son Sir Alexander. Chambers thinks they refer to his cousin, but the general belief tends in the direction of the notorious Margaret Caroline Rudd, the associate in later years of the brothers Perreau, who were executed for forgery. In the _Life of Johnson_ we find Boswell, in 1776, expressing to his companion a desire to be introduced to this person, so celebrated for her address and insinuation, and later on he is shewn, on his own confession, to have visited her, 'induced by the fame of her talents and irresistible power of fascination,' and to have sent an account of this interview to his wife, but to have offered its perusal first, 'as it appeared to me highly entertaining,' to Temple, who was indignant over it. It would appear, then, that Boswell did not reveal to Johnson his former flirtation with this notorious woman, but we think that the obvious marks of the brogue in the verses shew conclusively that either the feeling was imitative and based on an earlier Irish song, or that the verses were judged by Boswell's son, not too devoted, as we shall find, to his father's memory, to be free from offence. 'O Larghan Clanbrassil, how sweet is thy sound, To my tender remembrance as Love's sacred ground; For there Marg'ret Caroline first charm'd my sight, And fill'd my young heart with a flutt'ring delight. When I thought her my own, ah! too short seemed the _day_ For a jaunt to Downpatrick, or a trip on the _sea_; To express what I felt, then all language was vain, 'Twas in truth what the poets have studied to feign. But, too late, I found even she could _deceive_, And nothing was left but to sigh, weep, and _rave_; Distracted, I flew from my dear native shore, Resolved to see Larghan Clanbrassil no more. Yet still in some moments enchanted I find A ray of her fondness beams soft on my mind; While thus in bless'd fancy my angel I see, All the world is a Larghan Clanbrassil to me.'