Chapter VIII: Letter I: allude. You say, "I fear there is little chance of anything else (2)

My dear Reynolds--I'll not run over the Ground we have passed; that would be merely as bad as telling a dream--unless perhaps I do it in the manner of the Laputan printing press--that is I put down Mountains, Rivers, Lakes, dells, glens, Rocks, and Clouds, with beautiful enchanting, Gothic picturesque fine, delightful, enchanting, Grand, sublime--a few blisters, etc.--and now you have our journey thus far: where I begin a letter to you because I am approaching Burns's Cottage very fast. We have made continual inquiries from the time we saw his Tomb at Dumfries--his name of course is known all about--his great reputation among the plodding people is, "that he wrote a good _mony_ sensible things." One of the pleasantest means of annulling self is approaching such a shrine as the Cottage of Burns--we need not think of his misery--that is all gone, bad luck to it--I shall look upon it hereafter with unmixed pleasure, as I do upon my Stratford-on-Avon day with Bailey. I shall fill this sheet for you in the Bardie's country, going no further than this till I get into the town of Ayr which will be a 9 miles' walk to Tea.

[Kingswells, July 13.]

We were talking on different and indifferent things, when on a sudden we turned a corner upon the immediate Country of Ayr--the Sight was as rich as possible. I had no Conception that the native place of Burns was so beautiful--the idea I had was more desolate, his 'rigs of Barley' seemed always to me but a few strips of Green on a cold hill--O prejudice! it was as rich as Devon--I endeavoured to drink in the Prospect, that I might spin it out to you as the Silkworm makes silk from Mulberry leaves--I cannot recollect it--Besides all the Beauty, there were the Mountains of Arran Isle, black and huge over the Sea. We came down upon everything suddenly--there were in our way the 'bonny Doon,' with the Brig that Tam o' Shanter crossed, Kirk Alloway, Burns's Cottage, and then the Brigs of Ayr. First we stood upon the Bridge across the Doon; surrounded by every Phantasy of green in Tree, Meadow, and Hill,--the stream of the Doon, as a Farmer told us, is covered with trees from head to foot--you know those beautiful heaths so fresh against the weather of a summer's evening--there was one stretching along behind the trees. I wish I knew always the humour my friends would be in at opening a letter of mine, to suit it to them as nearly as possible. I could always find an egg shell for Melancholy, and as for Merriment a Witty humour will turn anything to Account--My head is sometimes in such a whirl in considering the million likings and antipathies of our Moments--that I can get into no settled strain in my Letters. My Wig! Burns and sentimentality coming across you and Frank Fladgate in the office--O scenery that thou shouldst be crushed between two Puns--As for them I venture the rascalliest in the Scotch Region--I hope Brown does not put them punctually in his journal--If he does I must sit on the cutty-stool all next winter. We went to Kirk Alloway--"a Prophet is no Prophet in his own Country"--We went to the Cottage and took some Whisky. I wrote a sonnet for the mere sake of writing some lines under the roof--they are so bad I cannot transcribe them--The Man at the Cottage was a great Bore with his Anecdotes--I hate the rascal--his Life consists in fuz, fuzzy, fuzziest--He drinks glasses five for the Quarter and twelve for the hour--he is a mahogany-faced old Jackass who knew Burns--He ought to have been kicked for having spoken to him. He calls himself "a curious old Bitch"--but he is a flat old dog--I should like to employ Caliph Vathek to kick him. O the flummery of a birthplace! Cant! Cant! Cant! It is enough to give a spirit the guts-ache--Many a true word, they say, is spoken in jest--this may be because his gab hindered my sublimity: the flat dog made me write a flat sonnet. My dear Reynolds--I cannot write about scenery and visitings--Fancy is indeed less than a present palpable reality, but it is greater than remembrance--you would lift your eyes from Homer only to see close before you the real Isle of Tenedos--you would rather read Homer afterwards than remember yourself--One song of Burns's is of more worth to you than all I could think for a whole year in his native country. His Misery is a dead weight upon the nimbleness of one's quill--I tried to forget it--to drink Toddy without any Care--to write a merry sonnet--it won't do--he talked with Bitches--he drank with Blackguards, he was miserable--We can see horribly clear, in the works of such a Man his whole life, as if we were God's spies.--What were his addresses to Jean in the latter part of his life? I should not speak so to you--yet why not--you are not in the same case--you are in the right path, and you shall not be deceived. I have spoken to you against Marriage, but it was general--the Prospect in those matters has been to me so blank, that I have not been unwilling to die--I would not now, for I have inducements to Life--I must see my little Nephews in America, and I must see you marry your lovely Wife. My sensations are sometimes deadened for weeks together--but believe me I have more than once yearned for the time of your happiness to come, as much as I could for myself after the lips of Juliet.--From the tenor of my occasional rodomontade in chit-chat, you might have been deceived concerning me in these points--upon my soul, I have been getting more and more close to you, every day, ever since I knew you, and now one of the first pleasures I look to is your happy Marriage--the more, since I have felt the pleasure of loving a sister in Law. I did not think it possible to become so much attached in so short a time--Things like these, and they are real, have made me resolve to have a care of my health--you must be as careful.

The rain has stopped us to-day at the end of a dozen Miles, yet we hope to see Loch Lomond the day after to-morrow;--I will piddle out my information, as Rice says, next Winter, at any time when a substitute is wanted for Vingt-un. We bear the fatigue very well--20 Miles a day in general--A Cloud came over us in getting up Skiddaw--I hope to be more lucky in Ben Lomond--and more lucky still in Ben Nevis. What I think you would enjoy is poking about Ruins--sometimes Abbey, sometimes Castle. The short stay we made in Ireland has left few remembrances--but an old woman in a dog-kennel Sedan with a pipe in her Mouth, is what I can never forget--I wish I may be able to give you an idea of her--Remember me to your Mother and Sisters, and tell your Mother how I hope she will pardon me for having a scrap of paper pasted in the Book sent to her. I was driven on all sides and had not time to call on Taylor--So Bailey is coming to Cumberland--well, if you'll let me know where at Inverness, I will call on my return and pass a little time with him--I am glad 'tis not Scotland--Tell my friends I do all I can for them, that is, drink their healths in Toddy. Perhaps I may have some lines by and by to send you fresh, on your own Letter--Tom has a few to show you.

Your affectionate friend

JOHN KEATS.

LXI.--TO THOMAS KEATS.

Cairn-something [for Cairndow,] July 17, [1818].

My dear Tom--Here's Brown going on so that I cannot bring to mind how the two last days have vanished--for example he says The Lady of the Lake went to Rock herself to sleep on Arthur's seat and the Lord of the Isles coming to Press a Piece.... I told you last how we were stared at in Glasgow--we are not out of the Crowd yet. Steam Boats on Loch Lomond and Barouches on its sides take a little from the Pleasure of such romantic chaps as Brown and I. The Banks of the Clyde are extremely beautiful--the north end of Loch Lomond grand in excess--the entrance at the lower end to the narrow part from a little distance is precious good--the Evening was beautiful nothing could surpass our fortune in the weather--yet was I worldly enough to wish for a fleet of chivalry Barges with Trumpets and Banners just to die away before me into that blue place among the mountains--I must give you an outline as well as I can.[73]

No{t} B--the Water was a fine Blue silvered and the Mountains a dark purple, the Sun setting aslant behind them--meantime the head of ben Lomond was covered with a rich Pink Cloud. We did not ascend Ben Lomond--the price being very high and a half a day of rest being quite acceptable. We were up at 4 this morning and have walked to breakfast 15 Miles through two Tremendous Glens--at the end of the first there is a place called rest and be thankful which we took for an Inn--it was nothing but a Stone and so we were cheated into 5 more Miles to Breakfast--I have just been bathing in Loch Fyne a salt water Lake opposite the Windows,--quite pat and fresh but for the cursed Gad flies--damn 'em they have been at me ever since I left the Swan and two necks.[74]

All gentle folks who owe a grudge
To any living thing
Open your ears and stay your trudge
Whilst I in dudgeon sing.

The Gadfly he hath stung me sore--
O may he ne'er sting you!
But we have many a horrid bore
He may sting black and blue.

Has any here an old gray Mare
With three legs all her store,
O put it to her Buttocks bare
And straight she'll run on four.

Has any here a Lawyer suit
Of 1743,
Take Lawyer's nose and put it to't
And you the end will see.

Is there a Man in Parliament
Dumbfounder'd in his speech,
O let his neighbour make a rent
And put one in his breech.

O Lowther how much better thou
Hadst figur'd t'other day
When to the folks thou mad'st a bow
And hadst no more to say.

If lucky Gadfly had but ta'en
His seat upon thine A--e
And put thee to a little pain
To save thee from a worse.

Better than Southey it had been,
Better than Mr. D----,
Better than Wordsworth too, I ween,
Better than Mr. V----.

Forgive me pray good people all
For deviating so--
In spirit sure I had a call--
And now I on will go.

Has any here a daughter fair
Too fond of reading novels,
Too apt to fall in love with care
And charming Mister Lovels,

O put a Gadfly to that thing
She keeps so white and pert--
I mean the finger for the ring,
And it will breed a wort.

Has any here a pious spouse
Who seven times a day
Scolds as King David pray'd, to chouse
And have her holy way--

O let a Gadfly's little sting
Persuade her sacred tongue
That noises are a common thing,
But that her bell has rung.

And as this is the summum bo-
num of all conquering,
I leave "withouten wordes mo"
The Gadfly's little sting.

[Inverary, July 18.]

Last Evening we came round the End of Loch Fyne to Inverary--the Duke of Argyle's Castle is very modern magnificent and more so from the place it is in--the woods seem old enough to remember two or three changes in the Crags about them--the Lake was beautiful and there was a Band at a distance by the Castle. I must say I enjoyed two or three common tunes--but nothing could stifle the horrors of a solo on the Bag-pipe--I thought the Beast would never have done.--Yet was I doomed to hear another.--On entering Inverary we saw a Play Bill. Brown was knocked up from new shoes--so I went to the Barn alone where I saw the Stranger accompanied by a Bag-pipe. There they went on about interesting creaters and human nater till the Curtain fell and then came the Bag-pipe. When Mrs. Haller fainted down went the Curtain and out came the Bag-pipe--at the heartrending, shoemending reconciliation the Piper blew amain. I never read or saw this play before; not the Bag-pipe nor the wretched players themselves were little in comparison with it--thank heaven it has been scoffed at lately almost to a fashion--

Of late two dainties were before me placed
Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent,
From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent
That Gods might know my own particular taste:
First the soft Bag-pipe mourn'd with zealous haste,
The Stranger next with head on bosom bent
Sigh'd; rueful again the piteous Bag-pipe went,
Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste.
O Bag-pipe thou didst steal my heart away--
O Stranger thou my nerves from Pipe didst charm--
O Bag-pipe thou didst re-assert thy sway--
Again thou Stranger gav'st me fresh alarm--
Alas! I could not choose. Ah! my poor heart
Mumchance art thou with both oblig'd to part.

I think we are the luckiest fellows in Christendom--Brown could not proceed this morning on account of his feet and lo there is thunder and rain.

[Kilmelfort,] July 20th.

For these two days past we have been so badly accommodated more particularly in coarse food that I have not been at all in cue to write. Last night poor Brown with his feet blistered and scarcely able to walk, after a trudge of 20 Miles down the Side of Loch Awe had no supper but Eggs and Oat Cake--we have lost the sight of white bread entirely--Now we had eaten nothing but Eggs all day--about 10 a piece and they had become sickening--To-day we have fared rather better--but no oat Cake wanting--we had a small Chicken and even a good bottle of Port but all together the fare is too coarse--I feel it a little.--Another week will break us in. I forgot to tell you that when we came through Glenside it was early in the morning and we were pleased with the noise of Shepherds, Sheep and dogs in the misty heights close above us--we saw none of them for some time, till two came in sight creeping among the Crags like Emmets, yet their voices came quite plainly to us--The approach to Loch Awe was very solemn towards nightfall--the first glance was a streak of water deep in the Bases of large black Mountains.--We had come along a complete mountain road, where if one listened there was not a sound but that of Mountain Streams. We walked 20 Miles by the side of Loch Awe--every ten steps creating a new and beautiful picture--sometimes through little wood--there are two islands on the Lake each with a beautiful ruin--one of them rich in ivy.--We are detained this morning by the rain. I will tell you exactly where we are. We are between Loch Craignish and the sea just opposite Long Island.[75] Yesterday our walk was of this description--the near Hills were not very lofty but many of them steep, beautifully wooded--the distant Mountains in the Hebrides very grand, the Saltwater Lakes coming up between Crags and Islands full tide and scarcely ruffled--sometimes appearing as one large Lake, sometimes as three distinct ones in different directions. At one point we saw afar off a rocky opening into the main sea.--We have also seen an Eagle or two. They move about without the least motion of Wings when in an indolent fit.--I am for the first time in a country where a foreign Language is spoken--they gabble away Gaelic at a vast rate--numbers of them speak English. There are not many Kilts in Argyleshire--at Fort William they say a Man is not admitted into Society without one--the Ladies there have a horror at the indecency of Breeches. I cannot give you a better idea of Highland Life than by describing the place we are in. The Inn or public is by far the best house in the immediate neighbourhood. It has a white front with tolerable windows--the table I am writing on surprises me as being a nice flapped Mahogany one.... You may if you peep see through the floor chinks into the ground rooms. The old Grandmother of the house seems intelligent though not over clean. _N.B._ No snuff being to be had in the village she made us some. The Guid Man is a rough-looking hardy stout Man who I think does not speak so much English as the Guid wife who is very obliging and sensible and moreover though stockingless has a pair of old Shoes--Last night some Whisky Men sat up clattering Gaelic till I am sure one o'Clock to our great annoyance. There is a Gaelic testament on the Drawers in the next room. White and blue China ware has crept all about here--Yesterday there passed a Donkey laden with tin-pots--opposite the Window there are hills in a Mist--a few Ash trees and a mountain stream at a little distance.--They possess a few head of Cattle.--If you had gone round to the back of the House just now--you would have seen more hills in a Mist--some dozen wretched black Cottages scented of peat smoke which finds its way by the door or a hole in the roof--a girl here and there barefoot. There was one little thing driving Cows down a slope like a mad thing. There was another standing at the cowhouse door rather pretty fac'd all up to the ankles in dirt.

[Oban, July 21.]

We have walk'd 15 Miles in a soaking rain to Oban opposite the Isle of Mull which is so near Staffa we had thought to pass to it--but the expense is 7 Guineas and those rather extorted.--Staffa you see is a fashionable place and therefore every one concerned with it either in this town or the Island are what you call up. 'Tis like paying sixpence for an apple at the playhouse--this irritated me and Brown was not best pleased--we have therefore resolved to set northward for fort William to-morrow morning. I fed upon a bit of white Bread to-day like a Sparrow--it was very fine--I cannot manage the cursed Oat Cake. Remember me to all and let me hear a good account of you at Inverness--I am sorry Georgy had not those lines. Good-bye.

Your affectionate Brother

JOHN ----.

LXII.--TO BENJAMIN BAILEY.

Inverary, July 18 [1818].

My dear Bailey--The only day I have had a chance of seeing you when you were last in London I took every advantage of--some devil led you out of the way--Now I have written to Reynolds to tell me where you will be in Cumberland--so that I cannot miss you. And when I see you, the first thing I shall do will be to read that about Milton and Ceres, and Proserpine--for though I am not going after you to John o' Grot's, it will be but poetical to say so. And here, Bailey, I will say a few words written in a sane and sober mind, a very scarce thing with me, for they may, hereafter, save you a great deal of trouble about me, which you do not deserve, and for which I ought to be bastinadoed. I carry all matters to an extreme--so that when I have any little vexation, it grows in five minutes into a theme for Sophocles. Then, and in that temper, if I write to any friend, I have so little self-possession that I give him matter for grieving at the very time perhaps when I am laughing at a Pun. Your last letter made me blush for the pain I had given you--I know my own disposition so well that I am certain of writing many times hereafter in the same strain to you--now, you know how far to believe in them. You must allow for Imagination. I know I shall not be able to help it.

I am sorry you are grieved at my not continuing my visits to Little Britain--Yet I think I have as far as a Man can do who has Books to read and subjects to think upon--for that reason I have been nowhere else except to Wentworth Place so nigh at hand--moreover I have been too often in a state of health that made it prudent not to hazard the night air. Yet, further, I will confess to you that I cannot enjoy Society small or numerous--I am certain that our fair friends are glad I should come for the mere sake of my coming; but I am certain I bring with me a vexation they are better without--If I can possibly at any time feel my temper coming upon me I refrain even from a promised visit. I am certain I have not a right feeling towards women--at this moment, I am striving to be just to them, but I cannot--Is it because they fall so far beneath my boyish Imagination? When I was a schoolboy I thought a fair woman a pure Goddess; my mind was a soft nest in which some one of them slept, though she knew it not. I have no right to expect more than their reality--I thought them ethereal above men--I find them perhaps equal--great by comparison is very small. Insult may be inflicted in more ways than by word or action--One who is tender of being insulted does not like to think an insult against another. I do not like to think insults in a lady's company--I commit a crime with her which absence would not have known. Is it not extraordinary?--when among men, I have no evil thoughts, no malice, no spleen--I feel free to speak or to be silent--I can listen, and from every one I can learn--my hands are in my pockets, I am free from all suspicion and comfortable. When I am among women, I have evil thoughts, malice, spleen--I cannot speak, or be silent--I am full of suspicions and therefore listen to nothing--I am in a hurry to be gone. You must be charitable and put all this perversity to my being disappointed since my boyhood. Yet with such feelings I am happier alone among crowds of men, by myself, or with a friend or two. With all this, trust me, I have not the least idea that men of different feelings and inclinations are more short-sighted than myself. I never rejoiced more than at my Brother's marriage, and shall do so at that of any of my friends. I must absolutely get over this--but how? the only way is to find the root of the evil, and so cure it "with backward mutters of dissevering power"--that is a difficult thing; for an obstinate Prejudice can seldom be produced but from a gordian complication of feelings, which must take time to unravel, and care to keep unravelled. I could say a good deal about this, but I will leave it, in hopes of better and more worthy dispositions--and also content that I am wronging no one, for after all I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not. You appeared to wish to know my moods on this subject--don't think it a bore my dear fellow, it shall be my Amen. I should not have consented to myself these four months tramping in the highlands, but that I thought it would give me more experience, rub off more prejudice, use to more hardship, identify finer scenes, load me with grander mountains, and strengthen more my reach in Poetry, than would stopping at home among books, even though I should reach Homer. By this time I am comparatively a Mountaineer. I have been among wilds and mountains too much to break out much about their grandeur. I have fed upon oat-cake--not long enough to be very much attached to it.--The first mountains I saw, though not so large as some I have since seen, weighed very solemnly upon me. The effect is wearing away--yet I like them mainly.

[Island of Mull, July 22.]

We have come this Evening with a guide--for without was impossible--into the middle of the Isle of Mull, pursuing our cheap journey to Iona, and perhaps Staffa. We would not follow the common and fashionable mode, from the great Imposition of Expense. We have come over heath and rock, and river and bog, to what in England would be called a horrid place. Yet it belongs to a Shepherd pretty well off perhaps. The family speak not a word but Gaelic, and we have not yet seen their faces for the smoke, which, after visiting every cranny (not excepting my eyes very much incommoded for writing), finds its way out at the door. I am more comfortable than I could have imagined in such a place, and so is Brown. The people are all very kind--We lost our way a little yesterday; and inquiring at a Cottage, a young woman without a word threw on her cloak and walked a mile in a mizzling rain and splashy way to put us right again.

I could not have had a greater pleasure in these parts than your mention of my sister. She is very much prisoned from me. I am afraid it will be some time before I can take her to many places I wish. I trust we shall see you ere long in Cumberland--At least I hope I shall, before my visit to America, more than once. I intend to pass a whole year there, if I live to the completion of the three next. My sister's welfare, and the hopes of such a stay in America, will make me observe your advice. I shall be prudent and more careful of my health than I have been. I hope you will be about paying your first visit to Town after settling when we come into Cumberland--Cumberland however will be no distance to me after my present journey. I shall spin to you in a Minute. I begin to get rather a contempt of distances. I hope you will have a nice convenient room for a library. Now you are so well in health, do keep it up by never missing your dinner, by not reading hard, and by taking proper exercise. You'll have a horse, I suppose, so you must make a point of sweating him. You say I must study Dante--well, the only Books I have with me are those 3 little volumes.[76] I read that fine passage you mention a few days ago. Your letter followed me from Hampstead to Port-Patrick, and thence to Glasgow. You must think me by this time a very pretty fellow. One of the pleasantest bouts we have had was our walk to Burns's Cottage, over the Doon, and past Kirk Alloway. I had determined to write a Sonnet in the Cottage. I did--but lawk! it was so wretched I destroyed it--however in a few days afterwards I wrote some lines cousin-german to the circumstance, which I will transcribe, or rather cross-scribe in the front of this.

Reynolds's illness has made him a new man--he will be stronger than ever--before I left London he was really getting a fat face. Brown keeps on writing volumes of adventures to Dilke. When we get in of an evening and I have perhaps taken my rest on a couple of chairs, he affronts my indolence and Luxury by pulling out of his knapsack 1st his paper--2ndly his pens and last his ink. Now I would not care if he would change a little. I say now why not Bailey, take out his pens first sometimes--But I might as well tell a hen to hold up her head before she drinks instead of afterwards.

Your affectionate Friend,

JOHN KEATS.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS AFTER A VISIT TO BURNS'S COUNTRY

There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,
Where patriot Battle has been fought, where glory had the gain;
There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been,
Where Mantles gray have rustled by and swept the nettles green;
There is a Joy in every spot made known by times of old,
New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told;
There is a deeper Joy than all, more solemn in the heart,
More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,
When weary steps forget themselves, upon a pleasant turf,
Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf,
Toward the Castle, or the Cot, where long ago was born
One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn.
Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away;
Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern,--the sun may hear his Lay;
Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear,
But their low voices are not heard, though come on travels drear;
Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks;
Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in Caves and weedy creeks;
Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the Air;
Ring-doves may fly convuls'd across to some high-cedar'd lair;
But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground,
As Palmer's, that, with weariness, mid-desert shrine hath found.
At such a time the Soul's a child, in childhood is the brain;
Forgotten is the worldly heart--alone, it beats in vain.--
Aye, if a Madman could have leave to pass a healthful day
To tell his forehead's swoon and faint when first began decay,
He might make tremble many a one whose spirit had gone forth
To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the silent North.
Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the bourn of Care,
Beyond the sweet and bitter world,--beyond it unaware!
Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a longer stay
Would bar return, and make a man forget his mortal way:
O horrible! to lose the sight of well remember'd face,
Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow--constant to every place;
Filling the Air, as on we move, with Portraiture intense;
More warm than those heroic tints that pain a Painter's sense,
When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old,
Locks shining black, hair scanty gray, and passions manifold.
No No, that horror cannot be, for at the cable's length
Man feels the gentle anchor pull and gladdens in its strength:--
One hour, half-idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall,
But in the very next he reads his soul's Memorial:--
He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance he may sit down
Upon rough marble diadem--that hill's eternal Crown.
Yet be his Anchor e'er so fast, room is there for a prayer
That man may never lose his Mind on Mountains black and bare;
That he may stray league after league some Great birthplace to find
And keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind.

LXIII.--TO THOMAS KEATS.

Dun an cullen,[77] Island of Mull [July 23, 1818].

My dear Tom--Just after my last had gone to the Post, in came one of the Men with whom we endeavoured to agree about going to Staffa--he said what a pity it was we should turn aside and not see the curiosities. So we had a little talk, and finally agreed that he should be our guide across the Isle of Mull. We set out, crossed two ferries--one to the Isle of Kerrara, of little distance; the other from Kerrara to Mull 9 Miles across--we did it in forty minutes with a fine Breeze. The road through the Island, or rather the track, is the most dreary you can think of--between dreary Mountains, over bog and rock and river with our Breeches tucked up and our Stockings in hand. About 8 o'Clock we arrived at a shepherd's Hut, into which we could scarcely get for the Smoke through a door lower than my Shoulders. We found our way into a little compartment with the rafters and turf-thatch blackened with smoke, the earth floor full of Hills and Dales. We had some white Bread with us, made a good supper, and slept in our Clothes in some Blankets; our Guide snored on another little bed about an Arm's length off. This morning we came about sax Miles to Breakfast, by rather a better path, and we are now in by comparison a Mansion. Our Guide is I think a very obliging fellow--in the way this morning he sang us two Gaelic songs--one made by a Mrs. Brown on her husband's being drowned, the other a jacobin one on Charles Stuart. For some days Brown has been enquiring out his Genealogy here--he thinks his Grandfather came from long Island. He got a parcel of people about him at a Cottage door last Evening, chatted with ane who had been a Miss Brown, and who I think from a likeness, must have been a Relation--he jawed with the old Woman--flattered a young one--kissed a child who was afraid of his Spectacles and finally drank a pint of Milk. They handle his Spectacles as we do a sensitive leaf.

[Oban,] July 26th.

Well--we had a most wretched walk of 37 Miles across the Island of Mull and then we crossed to Iona or Icolmkill--from Icolmkill we took a boat at a bargain to take us to Staffa and land us at the head of Loch Nakgal,[78] whence we should only have to walk half the distance to Oban again and on a better road. All this is well passed and done, with this singular piece of Luck, that there was an interruption in the bad Weather just as we saw Staffa at which it is impossible to land but in a tolerable Calm sea. But I will first mention Icolmkill--I know not whether you have heard much about this Island; I never did before I came nigh it. It is rich in the most interesting Antiquities. Who would expect to find the ruins of a fine Cathedral Church, of Cloisters Colleges Monasteries and Nunneries in so remote an Island? The Beginning of these things was in the sixth Century, under the superstition of a would-be-Bishop-saint, who landed from Ireland, and chose the spot from its Beauty--for at that time the now treeless place was covered with magnificent Woods. Columba in the Gaelic is Colm, signifying Dove--Kill signifies church, and I is as good as Island--so I-colm-kill means the Island of Saint Columba's Church. Now this Saint Columba became the Dominic of the barbarian Christians of the north and was famed also far south--but more especially was reverenced by the Scots the Picts the Norwegians the Irish. In a course of years perhaps the Island was considered the most holy ground of the north, and the old Kings of the aforementioned nations chose it for their burial-place. We were shown a spot in the Churchyard where they say 61 Kings are buried 48 Scotch from Fergus II. to Macbeth 8 Irish 4 Norwegians and 1 French--they lie in rows compact. Then we were shown other matters of later date, but still very ancient--many tombs of Highland Chieftains--their effigies in complete armour, face upwards, black and moss-covered--Abbots and Bishops of the island always of one of the chief Clans. There were plenty Macleans and Macdonnels; among these latter, the famous Macdonel Lord of the Isles. There have been 300 Crosses in the Island but the Presbyterians destroyed all but two, one of which is a very fine one, and completely covered with a shaggy coarse Moss. The old Schoolmaster, an ignorant little man but reckoned very clever, showed us these things. He is a Maclean, and as much above 4 foot as he is under 4 foot three inches. He stops at one glass of whisky unless you press another and at the second unless you press a third--

I am puzzled how to give you an Idea of Staffa. It can only be represented by a first-rate drawing. One may compare the surface of the Island to a roof--this roof is supported by grand pillars of basalt standing together as thick as honeycombs. The finest thing is Fingal's Cave--it is entirely a hollowing out of Basalt Pillars. Suppose now the Giants who rebelled against Jove had taken a whole Mass of black Columns and bound them together like bunches of matches--and then with immense axes had made a cavern in the body of these columns--Of course the roof and floor must be composed of the broken ends of the Columns--such is Fingal's Cave, except that the Sea has done the work of excavations, and is continually dashing there--so that we walk along the sides of the cave on the pillars which are left as if for convenient stairs. The roof is arched somewhat gothic-wise, and the length of some of the entire side-pillars is fifty feet. About the island you might seat an army of Men each on a pillar. The length of the Cave is 120 feet, and from its extremity the view into the sea, through the large Arch at the entrance--the colour of the columns is a sort of black with a lurking gloom of purple therein. For solemnity and grandeur it far surpasses the finest Cathedral. At the extremity of the Cave there is a small perforation into another cave, at which the waters meeting and buffeting each other there is sometimes produced a report as of a cannon heard as far as Iona, which must be 12 Miles. As we approached in the boat, there was such a fine swell of the sea that the pillars appeared rising immediately out of the crystal. But it is impossible to describe it--

Not Aladdin magian
Ever such a work began.
Not the Wizard of the Dee
Ever such a dream could see,
Not St. John in Patmos Isle
In the passion of his toil
When he saw the churches seven
Golden-aisled built up in heaven
Gaz'd at such a rugged wonder.
As I stood its roofing under
Lo! I saw one sleeping there
On the marble cold and bare.
While the surges wash'd his feet
And his garments white did beat
Drench'd about the sombre rocks,
On his neck his well-grown locks
Lifted dry above the Main
Were upon the curl again--
"What is this? and what art thou?"
Whisper'd I, and touch'd his brow;
"What art thou? and what is this?"
Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss
The Spirit's hand, to wake his eyes;
Up he started in a trice:
"I am Lycidas," said he,
"Fam'd in funeral Minstrelsy--
This was architected thus
By the great Oceanus.
Here his mighty waters play
Hollow Organs all the day,
Here, by turns, his dolphins all,
Finny palmers great and small,
Come to pay devotion due--
Each a mouth of pearls must strew!
Many a Mortal of these days
Dares to pass our sacred ways,
Dares to touch, audaciously
This Cathedral of the sea--
I have been the Pontiff-priest,
Where the Waters never rest,
Where a fledgy sea-bird choir
Soars for ever--holy fire
I have hid from Mortal Man.
Proteus is my Sacristan.
But the stupid eye of Mortal
Hath pass'd beyond the Rocky portal.
So for ever will I leave
Such a taint and soon unweave
All the magic of the place--
'Tis now free to stupid face--
To cutters and to fashion boats,
To cravats and to Petticoats.
The great Sea shall war it down,
For its fame shall not be blown
At every farthing quadrille dance."[79]
So saying with a Spirit's glance
He dived----

I am sorry I am so indolent as to write such stuff as this. It can't be helped. The western coast of Scotland is a most strange place--it is composed of rocks, Mountains, mountainous and rocky Islands intersected by lochs--you can go but a short distance anywhere from salt water in the highlands.

I have a slight sore throat and think it best to stay a day or two at Oban--then we shall proceed to Fort William and Inverness, where I am anxious to be on account of a Letter from you. Brown in his Letters puts down every little circumstance. I should like to do the same, but I confess myself too indolent, and besides next winter everything will come up in prime order as we verge on such and such things.

Have you heard in any way of George? I should think by this time he must have landed. I in my carelessness never thought of knowing where a letter would find him on the other side--I think Baltimore, but I am afraid of directing it to the wrong place. I shall begin some chequer work for him directly, and it will be ripe for the post by the time I hear from you next after this. I assure you I often long for a seat and a Cup o' tea at Well Walk, especially now that mountains, castles, and Lakes are becoming common to me. Yet I would rather summer it out, for on the whole I am happier than when I have time to be glum--perhaps it may cure me. Immediately on my return I shall begin studying hard, with a peep at the theatre now and then--and depend upon it I shall be very luxurious. With respect to Women I think I shall be able to conquer my passions hereafter better than I have yet done. You will help me to talk of George next winter, and we will go now and then to see Fanny. Let me hear a good account of your health and comfort, telling me truly how you do alone. Remember me to all including Mr. and Mrs. Bentley.

Your most affectionate Brother

JOHN.

LXIV.--TO THOMAS KEATS.

Letter Findlay, August 3 [1818].

Ah mio Ben.

My dear Tom--We have made but poor progress lately, chiefly from bad weather, for my throat is in a fair way of getting quite well, so I have had nothing of consequence to tell you till yesterday when we went up Ben Nevis, the highest Mountain in Great Britain. On that account I will never ascend another in this empire--Skiddaw is nothing to it either in height or in difficulty. It is above 4300 feet from the Sea level, and Fortwilliam stands at the head of a Salt water Lake, consequently we took it completely from that level. I am heartily glad it is done--it is almost like a fly crawling up a wainscoat. Imagine the task of mounting ten Saint Pauls without the convenience of Staircases. We set out about five in the morning with a Guide in the Tartan and Cap, and soon arrived at the foot of the first ascent which we immediately began upon. After much fag and tug and a rest and a glass of whisky apiece we gained the top of the first rise and saw then a tremendous chap above us, which the guide said was still far from the top. After the first Rise our way lay along a heath valley in which there was a Loch--after about a Mile in this Valley we began upon the next ascent, more formidable by far than the last, and kept mounting with short intervals of rest until we got above all vegetation, among nothing but loose Stones which lasted us to the very top. The Guide said we had three Miles of a stony ascent--we gained the first tolerable level after the valley to the height of what in the Valley we had thought the top and saw still above us another huge crag which still the Guide said was not the top--to that we made with an obstinate fag, and having gained it there came on a Mist, so that from that part to the very top we walked in a Mist. The whole immense head of the Mountain is composed of large loose stones--thousands of acres. Before we had got halfway up we passed large patches of snow and near the top there is a chasm some hundred feet deep completely glutted with it.--Talking of chasms they are the finest wonder of the whole--they appear great rents in the very heart of the mountain though they are not, being at the side of it, but other huge crags arising round it give the appearance to Nevis of a shattered heart or Core in itself. These Chasms are 1500 feet in depth and are the most tremendous places I have ever seen--they turn one giddy if you choose to give way to it. We tumbled in large stones and set the echoes at work in fine style. Sometimes these chasms are tolerably clear, sometimes there is a misty cloud which seems to steam up and sometimes they are entirely smothered with clouds.

After a little time the Mist cleared away but still there were large Clouds about attracted by old Ben to a certain distance so as to form as it appeared large dome curtains which kept sailing about, opening and shutting at intervals here and there and everywhere: so that although we did not see one vast wide extent of prospect all round we saw something perhaps finer--these cloud-veils opening with a dissolving motion and showing us the mountainous region beneath as through a loophole--these cloudy loopholes ever varying and discovering fresh prospect east, west, north and south. Then it was misty again, and again it was fair--then puff came a cold breeze of wind and bared a craggy chap we had not yet seen though in close neighbourhood. Every now and then we had overhead blue Sky clear and the sun pretty warm. I do not know whether I can give you an Idea of the prospect from a large Mountain top. You are on a stony plain which of course makes you forget you are on any but low ground--the horizon or rather edges of this plain being above 4000 feet above the Sea hide all the Country immediately beneath you, so that the next object you see all round next to the edges of the flat top are the Summits of Mountains of some distance off. As you move about on all sides you see more or less of the near neighbour country according as the Mountain you stand upon is in different parts steep or rounded--but the most new thing of all is the sudden leap of the eye from the extremity of what appears a plain into so vast a distance. On one part of the top there is a handsome pile of Stones done pointedly by some soldiers of artillery; I clim[b]ed on to them and so got a little higher than old Ben himself. It was not so cold as I expected--yet cold enough for a glass of Whisky now and then. There is not a more fickle thing than the top of a Mountain--what would a Lady give to change her head-dress as often and with as little trouble!--There are a good many red deer upon Ben Nevis--we did not see one--the dog we had with us kept a very sharp look out and really languished for a bit of a worry. I have said nothing yet of our getting on among the loose stones large and small sometimes on two, sometimes on three, sometimes four legs--sometimes two and stick, sometimes three and stick, then four again, then two, then a jump, so that we kept on ringing changes on foot, hand, stick, jump, boggle, stumble, foot, hand, foot (very gingerly), stick again, and then again a game at all fours. After all there was one Mrs. Cameron of 50 years of age and the fattest woman in all Inverness-shire who got up this Mountain some few years ago--true she had her servants--but then she had her self. She ought to have hired Sisyphus,--"Up the high hill he heaves a huge round--Mrs. Cameron." 'Tis said a little conversation took place between the mountain and the Lady. After taking a glass of Whisky as she was tolerably seated at ease she thus began--

_Mrs. C._

Upon my Life Sir Nevis I am pique'd
That I have so far panted tugg'd and reek'd
To do an honor to your old bald pate
And now am sitting on you just to bait,
Without your paying me one compliment.
Alas 'tis so with all, when our intent
Is plain, and in the eye of all Mankind
We fair ones show a preference, too blind!
You Gentle man immediately turn tail--
O let me then my hapless fate bewail!
Ungrateful Baldpate have I not disdain'd
The pleasant Valleys--have I not madbrain'd
Deserted all my Pickles and preserves
My China closet too--with wretched Nerves
To boot--say wretched ingrate have I not
Left my soft cushion chair and caudle pot.
'Tis true I had no corns--no! thank the fates
My Shoemaker was always Mr. Bates.
And if not Mr. Bates why I'm not old!
Still dumb ungrateful Nevis--still so cold!

Here the Lady took some more whisky and was putting even more to her lips when she dashed it to the Ground for the Mountain began to grumble--which continued for a few minutes before he thus began--

_Ben Nevis._

What whining bit of tongue and Mouth thus dares
Disturb my slumber of a thousand years?
Even so long my sleep has been secure--
And to be so awaked I'll not endure.
Oh pain--for since the Eagle's earliest scream
I've had a damn'd confounded ugly dream,
A Nightmare sure. What Madam was it you?
It cannot be! My old eyes are not true!
Red-Crag, my Spectacles! Now let me see!
Good Heavens Lady how the gemini
Did you get here? O I shall split my sides!
I shall earthquake----

_Mrs. C._

Sweet Nevis do not quake, for though I love
Your honest Countenance all things above
Truly I should not like to be convey'd
So far into your Bosom--gentle Maid
Loves not too rough a treatment gentle Sir--
Pray thee be calm and do not quake nor stir
No not a Stone or I shall go in fits--

_Ben Nevis._

I must--I shall--I meet not such tit bits--
I meet not such sweet creatures every day--
By my old night cap night cap night and day
I must have one sweet Buss--I must and shall!
Red Crag!--What Madam can you then repent
Of all the toil and vigour you have spent
To see Ben Nevis and to touch his nose?
Red Crag I say! O I must have them close!
Red Crag, there lies beneath my furthest toe
A vein of Sulphur--go dear Red Crag, go--
And rub your flinty back against it--budge!
Dear Madam I must kiss you, faith I must!
I must Embrace you with my dearest gust!
Block-head, d'ye hear--Block-head I'll make her feel
There lies beneath my east leg's northern heel
A cave of young earth dragons--well my boy
Go thither quick and so complete my joy
Take you a bundle of the largest pines
And when the sun on fiercest Phosphor shines
Fire them and ram them in the Dragon's nest
Then will the dragons fry and fizz their best
Until ten thousand now no bigger than
Poor Alligators--poor things of one span--
Will each one swell to twice ten times the size
Of northern whale--then for the tender prize--
The moment then--for then will Red Crag rub
His flinty back--and I shall kiss and snub
And press my dainty morsel to my breast.
Block-head make haste!
O Muses weep the rest--
The Lady fainted and he thought her dead
So pulled the clouds again about his head
And went to sleep again--soon she was rous'd
By her affrighted servants--next day hous'd
Safe on the lowly ground she bless'd her fate
That fainting fit was not delayed too late.

But what surprises me above all is how this Lady got down again. I felt it horribly. 'Twas the most vile descent--shook me all to pieces. Over leaf you will find a Sonnet I wrote on the top of Ben Nevis. We have just entered Inverness. I have three Letters from you and one from Fanny--and one from Dilke. I would set about crossing this all over for you but I will first write to Fanny and Mrs. Wylie. Then I will begin another to you and not before because I think it better you should have this as soon as possible. My Sore throat is not quite well and I intend stopping here a few days.

Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud
Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist!
I look into the chasms, and a shroud
Vapourous doth hide them,--just so much I wist
Mankind do know of hell; I look o'erhead,
And there is sullen mist,--even so much
Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread
Before the earth, beneath me,--even such,
Even so vague is man's sight of himself!
Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet,--
Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf,
I tread on them,--that all my eye doth meet
Is mist and crag, not only on this height,
But in the world of thought and mental might!

Good-bye till to-morrow.

Your most affectionate Brother

JOHN ----.

LXV.--TO MRS. WYLIE.

Inverness, August 6 [1818].