'On Tuesday the 5th of July, I again visited Johnson. He told me he had looked into the poems of a pretty voluminous writer, Mr. (now Dr.) John Ogilvie, one of the Presbyterian ministers of Scotland, which had lately come out, but could find no thinking in them. Boswell. "Is there not imagination in them, Sir?" Johnson. "Why, Sir, there is in them what [italics] was [end italics] imagination, but it is no more imagination in [italics] him [end italics] than sound is sound in the echo. And his diction too is not his own. We have long ago seen [italics] white-robed innocence [end italics] and [italics] flower-bespangled meads[end italics]".'