September 1850. 



The storm is roaring in blasts down the chimney, the doors 

 creak, the windows rattle, and the rain in impetuous gusts is 

 driven against the panes. A winter storm is raging among the 

 Hebrides, and howls and dashes round the island of Iona. 



Things being thus uninviting out of doors, indoor occupation 

 must be looked for. My gun, well oiled, lies idle in the corner, 

 with the ' Scarbh's ' flag dangling from its nail above it. Doran 

 has been out several times to survey the state of the weather, 

 and has at last returned resignedly to dry his shaggy hide at the 

 blazing peats, and I compose myself to start a new diary. But 

 this diary, before commencing it from the present date, I intend 

 prefacing with a few notes of the principal events as far back as 

 I can remember that have occurred to me during my life. 



Foster's first essay is on " A man's writing a memoir of 

 himself," which is recommended by that clever writer as a useful 



