letters in the Oxford Paper:[66] because independent of that unlawful and
mortal feeling of pleasure at praise, there is a glory in enthusiasm; and
because the world is malignant enough to chuckle at the most honourable
Simplicity. Yes, on my soul, my dear Bailey, you are too simple for the
world--and that Idea makes me sick of it. How is it that by extreme
opposites we have, as it were, got discontented nerves? You have all your
life (I think so) believed everybody. I have suspected everybody. And,
although you have been so deceived, you make a simple appeal--the world
has something else to do, and I am glad of it--Were it in my choice, I
would reject a Petrarchal coronation--on account of my dying day, and
because women have cancers. I should not by rights speak in this tone to
you for it is an incendiary spirit that would do so. Yet I am not old
enough or magnanimous enough to annihilate self--and it would perhaps be
paying you an ill compliment. I was in hopes some little time back to be
able to relieve your dulness by my spirits--to point out things in the
world worth your enjoyment--and now I am never alone without rejoicing
that there is such a thing as death--without placing my ultimate in the
glory of dying for a great human purpose. Perhaps if my affairs were in a
different state, I should not have written the above--you shall judge: I
have two brothers; one is driven, by the "burden of Society," to America;
the other with an exquisite love of life, is in a lingering state--My love
for my Brothers, from the early loss of our Parents, and even from earlier
misfortunes,[67] has grown into an affection "passing the love of women."
I have been ill-tempered with them--I have vexed them--but the thought of
them has always stifled the impression that any woman might otherwise have
made upon me. I have a sister too, and may not follow them either to
America or to the grave. Life must be undergone, and I certainly derive
some consolation from the thought of writing one or two more poems before
it ceases.
I have heard some hints of your retiring to Scotland--I should like to
know your feeling on it--it seems rather remote. Perhaps Gleig will have a
duty near you. I am not certain whether I shall be able to go any journey,
on account of my Brother Tom, and a little indisposition of my own. If I
do not you shall see me soon, if _no_ on my return or I'll quarter myself
on you next winter. I had known my sister-in-law some time before she was
my sister, and was very fond of her. I like her better and better. She is
the most disinterested woman I ever knew--that is to say, she goes beyond
degree in it. To see an entirely disinterested girl quite happy is the
most pleasant and extraordinary thing in the world--It depends upon a
thousand circumstances--On my word it is extraordinary. Women must want
Imagination, and they may thank God for it; and so may we, that a delicate
being can feel happy without any sense of crime. It puzzles me, and I have
no sort of logic to comfort me--I shall think it over. I am not at home,
and your letter being there I cannot look it over to answer any
particular--only I must say I feel that passage of Dante. If I take any
book with me it shall be those minute volumes of Carey, for they will go
into the aptest corner.
Reynolds is getting, I may say, robust, his illness has been of service to
him--like every one just recovered, he is high-spirited--I hear also good
accounts of Rice. With respect to domestic literature, the Edinburgh
Magazine, in another blow-up against Hunt, calls me "the amiable Mister
Keats"--and I have more than a laurel from the Quarterly Reviewers for
they have smothered me in "Foliage." I want to read you my "Pot of
Basil"--if you go to Scotland, I should much like to read it there to you,
among the snows of next winter. My Brothers' remembrances to you.
Your affectionate friend
JOHN KEATS.
LV.--TO JOHN TAYLOR.
[Hampstead,] Sunday Evening [June 21, 1818].
My dear Taylor--I am sorry I have not had time to call and wish you health
till my return--Really I have been hard run these last three
days--However, au revoir, God keep us all well! I start to-morrow Morning.
My brother Tom will I am afraid be lonely. I can scarce ask a loan of
books for him, since I still keep those you lent me a year ago. If I am
overweening, you will I know be indulgent. Therefore when you shall write,
do send him some you think will be most amusing--he will be careful in
returning them. Let him have one of my books bound. I am ashamed to
catalogue these messages. There is but one more, which ought to go for
nothing as there is a lady concerned. I promised Mrs. Reynolds one of my
books bound. As I cannot write in it let the opposite[68] be pasted in
'prythee. Remember me to Percy St.--Tell Hilton that one gratification on
my return will be to find him engaged on a history piece to his own
content--And tell Dewint I shall become a disputant on the landscape--Bow
for me very genteelly to Mrs. D. or she will not admit your diploma.
Remember me to Hessey, saying I hope he'll _Cary_ his point. I would not
forget Woodhouse. Adieu!
Your sincere friend
JOHN O' GROTS.
LVI.--TO THOMAS KEATS.
Keswick, June 29th [1818].
My dear Tom--I cannot make my Journal as distinct and actual as I could
wish, from having been engaged in writing to George, and therefore I must
tell you without circumstance that we proceeded from Ambleside to Rydal,
saw the Waterfalls there, and called on Wordsworth, who was not at home,
nor was any one of his family. I wrote a note and left it on the
mantel-piece. Thence on we came to the foot of Helvellyn, where we slept,
but could not ascend it for the mist. I must mention that from Rydal we
passed Thirlswater, and a fine pass in the Mountains--from Helvellyn we
came to Keswick on Derwent Water. The approach to Derwent Water surpassed
Windermere--it is richly wooded, and shut in with rich-toned Mountains.
From Helvellyn to Keswick was eight miles to Breakfast, after which we
took a complete circuit of the Lake, going about ten miles, and seeing on
our way the Fall of Lowdore. I had an easy climb among the streams, about
the fragments of Rocks and should have got I think to the summit, but
unfortunately I was damped by slipping one leg into a squashy hole. There
is no great body of water, but the accompaniment is delightful; for it
oozes out from a cleft in perpendicular Rocks, all fledged with Ash and
other beautiful trees.[69] It is a strange thing how they got there. At
the south end of the Lake, the Mountains of Borrowdale are perhaps as fine
as anything we have seen. On our return from this circuit, we ordered
dinner, and set forth about a mile and a half on the Penrith road, to see
the Druid temple. We had a fag up hill, rather too near dinner-time, which
was rendered void by the gratification of seeing those aged stones on a
gentle rise in the midst of the Mountains, which at that time darkened all
around, except at the fresh opening of the Vale of St. John. We went to
bed rather fatigued, but not so much so as to hinder us getting up this
morning to mount Skiddaw. It promised all along to be fair, and we had
fagged and tugged nearly to the top, when, at half-past six, there came a
Mist upon us and shut out the view. We did not, however, lose anything by
it: we were high enough without mist to see the coast of Scotland--the
Irish Sea--the hills beyond Lancaster--and nearly all the large ones of
Cumberland and Westmoreland, particularly Helvellyn and Scawfell. It grew
colder and colder as we ascended, and we were glad, at about three parts
of the way, to taste a little rum which the Guide brought with him, mixed,
mind ye, with Mountain water. I took two glasses going and one returning.
It is about six miles from where I am writing to the top--So we have
walked ten miles before Breakfast to-day. We went up with two others, very
good sort of fellows--All felt, on arising into the cold air, that same
elevation which a cold bath gives one--I felt as if I were going to a
Tournament.
Wordsworth's house is situated just on the rise of the foot of Mount
Rydal; his parlour-window looks directly down Windermere; I do not think I
told you how fine the Vale of Grasmere is, and how I discovered "the
ancient woman seated on Helm Crag"[70]--We shall proceed immediately to
Carlisle, intending to enter Scotland on the 1st of July via--
[Carlisle,] July 1st.
We are this morning at Carlisle. After Skiddaw, we walked to Treby the
oldest market town in Cumberland--where we were greatly amused by a
country dancing-school holden at the Tun, it was indeed "no new cotillon
fresh from France." No, they kickit and jumpit with mettle extraordinary,
and whiskit, and friskit, and toed it, and go'd it, and twirl'd it, and
whirl'd it, and stamped it, and sweated it, tattooing the floor like mad.
The difference between our country dances and these Scottish figures is
about the same as leisurely stirring a cup o' Tea and beating up a
batter-pudding. I was extremely gratified to think that, if I had
pleasures they knew nothing of, they had also some into which I could not
possibly enter. I hope I shall not return without having got the Highland
fling. There was as fine a row of boys and girls as you ever saw; some
beautiful faces, and one exquisite mouth. I never felt so near the glory
of Patriotism, the glory of making by any means a country happier. This is
what I like better than scenery. I fear our continued moving from place to
place will prevent our becoming learned in village affairs: we are mere
creatures of Rivers, Lakes, and Mountains. Our yesterday's journey was
from Treby to Wigton, and from Wigton to Carlisle. The Cathedral does not
appear very fine--the Castle is very ancient, and of brick. The City is
very various--old white-washed narrow streets--broad red-brick ones more
modern--I will tell you anon whether the inside of the Cathedral is worth
looking at. It is built of sandy red stone or Brick. We have now walked
114 miles, and are merely a little tired in the thighs, and a little
blistered. We shall ride 38 miles to Dumfries, when we shall linger awhile
about Nithsdale and Galloway. I have written two letters to Liverpool. I
found a letter from sister George; very delightful indeed: I shall
preserve it in the bottom of my knapsack for you.
[Dumfries, evening of same day, July 1.]
ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS.
The Town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,
The Clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,
Though beautiful, Cold--strange--as in a dream,
I dreamed long ago, now new begun.
The short-liv'd, paly Summer is but won
From Winter's ague, for one hour's gleam;
Though sapphire-warm, their stars do never beam:
All is cold Beauty; pain is never done:
For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,
The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue
Sickly imagination and sick pride
Cast wan upon it! Burns! with honour due
I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide
Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.
You will see by this sonnet that I am at Dumfries. We have dined in
Scotland. Burns's tomb is in the Churchyard corner, not very much to my
taste, though on a scale large enough to show they wanted to honour him.
Mrs. Burns lives in this place; most likely we shall see her
to-morrow--This Sonnet I have written in a strange mood, half-asleep. I
know not how it is, the Clouds, the Sky, the Houses, all seem anti-Grecian
and anti-Charlemagnish. I will endeavour to get rid of my prejudices and
tell you fairly about the Scotch.
[Dumfries,] July 2nd.
In Devonshire they say, "Well, where be ye going?" Here it is, "How is it
wi' yoursel?" A man on the Coach said the horses took a Hellish heap o'
drivin'; the same fellow pointed out Burns's Tomb with a deal of
life--"There de ye see it, amang the trees--white, wi' a roond tap?" The
first well-dressed Scotchman we had any conversation with, to our surprise
confessed himself a Deist. The careful manner of delivering his opinions,
not before he had received several encouraging hints from us, was very
amusing. Yesterday was an immense Horse-fair at Dumfries, so that we met
numbers of men and women on the road, the women nearly all barefoot, with
their shoes and clean stockings in hand, ready to put on and look smart in
the Towns. There are plenty of wretched cottages whose smoke has no outlet
but by the door. We have now begun upon Whisky, called here Whuskey,--very
smart stuff it is. Mixed like our liquors, with sugar and water,'tis
called toddy; very pretty drink, and much praised by Burns.
LVII.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Dumfries, July 2nd [1818].
My dear Fanny--I intended to have written to you from Kirkcudbright, the
town I shall be in to-morrow--but I will write now because my Knapsack has
worn my coat in the Seams, my coat has gone to the Tailor's and I have but
one Coat to my back in these parts. I must tell you how I went to
Liverpool with George and our new Sister and the Gentleman my fellow
traveller through the Summer and autumn--We had a tolerable journey to
Liverpool--which I left the next morning before George was up for
Lancaster--Then we set off from Lancaster on foot with our Knapsacks on,
and have walked a Little zig-zag through the mountains and Lakes of
Cumberland and Westmoreland--We came from Carlisle yesterday to this
place--We are employed in going up Mountains, looking at strange towns,
prying into old ruins and eating very hearty breakfasts. Here we are full
in the Midst of broad Scotch "How is it a' wi' yoursel"--the Girls are
walking about bare-footed and in the worst cottages the smoke finds its
way out of the door. I shall come home full of news for you and for fear I
should choak you by too great a dose at once I must make you used to it by
a letter or two. We have been taken for travelling Jewellers, Razor
sellers and Spectacle vendors because friend Brown wears a pair. The first
place we stopped at with our Knapsacks contained one Richard Bradshaw, a
notorious tippler. He stood in the shape of a [Symbol: ounce] and
ballanced himself as well as he could saying with his nose right in Mr.
Brown's face "Do--yo--u sell spect--ta--cles?" Mr. Abbey says we are Don
Quixotes--tell him we are more generally taken for Pedlars. All I hope is
that we may not be taken for excisemen in this whisky country. We are
generally up about 5 walking before breakfast and we complete our 20 miles
before dinner.--Yesterday we visited Burns's Tomb and this morning the
fine Ruins of Lincluden.
[Auchencairn, same day, July 2.]
I had done thus far when my coat came back fortified at all points--so as
we lose no time we set forth again through Galloway--all very pleasant and
pretty with no fatigue when one is used to it--We are in the midst of Meg
Merrilies's country of whom I suppose you have heard.
Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
And liv'd upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.
Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
Her Sisters larchen trees--
Alone with her great family
She liv'd as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.
But every morn of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew
She wove, and she would sing.
And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
She met among the Bushes.
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere--
She died full long agone!
If you like these sort of Ballads I will now and then scribble one for
you--if I send any to Tom I'll tell him to send them to you.
[Kirkcudbright, evening of same day, July 2.]
I have so many interruptions that I cannot manage to fill a Letter in one
day--since I scribbled the song we have walked through a beautiful Country
to Kirkcudbright--at which place I will write you a song about myself--
There was a naughty Boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be--
He took
In his Knapsack
A Book
Full of vowels
And a shirt
With some towels--
A slight cap
For night cap--
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New Stockings
For old ones
Would split O!
This Knapsack
Tight at's back
He rivetted close
And followed his Nose
To the North,
To the North,
And follow'd his nose
To the North.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
But scribble poetry--
He took
An inkstand
In his hand
And a Pen
Big as ten
In the other,
And away
In a Pother
He ran
To the mountains
And fountains
And ghostes
And Postes
And witches
And ditches
And wrote
In his coat
When the weather
Was cool,
Fear of gout,
And without
When the weather
Was warm--
Och the charm
When we choose
To follow one's nose
To the north,
To the north,
To follow one's nose
To the north!
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
Of the Maid
Nor afraid
Of his Granny-good--
He often would
Hurly burly
Get up early
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook
And bring home
Miller's thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little Baby's
Little fingers--
O he made
'Twas his trade
Of Fish a pretty Kettle
A Kettle--
A Kettle
Of Fish a pretty Kettle
A Kettle!
There was a naughty Boy,
And a naughty Boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see--
Then he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red--
That lead
Was as weighty,
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England--
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd
He wonder'd,
He stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd.
[Newton Stewart, July 4.]
My dear Fanny, I am ashamed of writing you such stuff, nor would I if it
were not for being tired after my day's walking, and ready to tumble into
bed so fatigued that when I am asleep you might sew my nose to my great
toe and trundle me round the town, like a Hoop, without waking me. Then I
get so hungry a Ham goes but a very little way and fowls are like Larks to
me--A Batch of Bread I make no more ado with than a sheet of parliament;
and I can eat a Bull's head as easily as I used to do Bull's eyes. I take
a whole string of Pork Sausages down as easily as a Pen'orth of Lady's
fingers. Ah dear I must soon be contented with an acre or two of oaten
cake a hogshead of Milk and a Clothes-basket of Eggs morning noon and
night when I get among the Highlanders. Before we see them we shall pass
into Ireland and have a chat with the Paddies, and look at the Giant's
Causeway which you must have heard of--I have not time to tell you
particularly for I have to send a Journal to Tom of whom you shall hear
all particulars or from me when I return. Since I began this we have
walked sixty miles to Newton Stewart at which place I put in this
Letter--to-night we sleep at Glenluce--to-morrow at Portpatrick and the
next day we shall cross in the passage boat to Ireland. I hope Miss Abbey
has quite recovered. Present my Respects to her and to Mr. and Mrs.
Abbey. God bless you.
Your affectionate Brother,
JOHN.
Do write me a Letter directed to _Inverness_, Scotland.
LVIII.--TO THOMAS KEATS.
Auchtercairn [for Auchencairn,] 3rd [for 2d] July 1818.
My dear Tom--We are now in Meg Merrilies's country, and have this morning
passed through some parts exactly suited to her. Kirkcudbright County is
very beautiful, very wild, with craggy hills, somewhat in the Westmoreland
fashion. We have come down from Dumfries to the sea-coast part of it. The
following song you will have from Dilke, but perhaps you would like it
here.[71]...
[Newton Stewart,] July 5th [for 4th].
Yesterday was passed in Kirkcudbright, the country is very rich, very
fine, and with a little of Devon. I am now writing at Newton Stewart, six
miles into Wigtown. Our landlady of yesterday said very few southerners
passed hereaways. The children jabber away, as if in a foreign language;
the bare-footed girls look very much in keeping, I mean with the scenery
about them. Brown praises their cleanliness and appearance of comfort, the
neatness of their cottages, etc.--it may be--they are very squat among
trees and fern and heath and broom, on levels slopes and heights--but I
wish they were as snug as those up the Devonshire valleys. We are lodged
and entertained in great varieties. We dined yesterday on dirty Bacon,
dirtier eggs, and dirtiest potatoes, with a slice of salmon--we breakfast
this morning in a nice carpeted room, with sofa, hair-bottomed Chairs, and
green-baized Mahogany. A spring by the road-side is always welcome: we
drink water for dinner, diluted with a Gill of whisky.
[Donaghadee] July 6.
Yesterday morning we set out from Glenluce, going some distance round to
see some rivers: they were scarcely worth the while. We went on to
Stranraer, in a burning sun, and had gone about six miles when the Mail
overtook us: we got up, were at Port Patrick in a jiffey, and I am writing
now in little Ireland. The dialects on the neighbouring shores of Scotland
and Ireland are much the same, yet I can perceive a great difference in
the nations, from the chamber-maid at this _nate toone_ kept by Mr. Kelly.
She is fair, kind, and ready to laugh, because she is out of the horrible
dominion of the Scotch Kirk. A Scotch girl stands in terrible awe of the
Elders--poor little Susannahs, they will scarcely laugh, and their Kirk is
greatly to be damned. These Kirk-men have done Scotland good (Query?).
They have made men, women; old men, young men; old women, young women;
boys, girls; and all infants careful--so that they are formed into regular
Phalanges of savers and gainers. Such a thrifty army cannot fail to enrich
their Country, and give it a greater appearance of Comfort, than that of
their poor rash neighbourhood--these Kirk-men have done Scotland harm;
they have banished puns, and laughing, and kissing, etc. (except in cases
where the very danger and crime must make it very gustful). I shall make a
full stop at kissing, for after that there should be a better parenthesis,
and go on to remind you of the fate of Burns--poor unfortunate fellow, his
disposition was Southern--how sad it is when a luxurious imagination is
obliged, in self-defence, to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and rot[72]
in things attainable, that it may not have leisure to go mad after things
which are not. No man, in such matters, will be content with the
experience of others--It is true that out of suffering there is no
dignity, no greatness, that in the most abstracted pleasure there is no
lasting happiness--Yet who would not like to discover over again that
Cleopatra was a Gipsy, Helen a rogue, and Ruth a deep one? I have not
sufficient reasoning faculty to settle the doctrine of thrift, as it is
consistent with the dignity of human Society--with the happiness of
Cottagers. All I can do is by plump contrasts; were the fingers made to
squeeze a guinea or a white hand?--were the lips made to hold a pen or a
kiss? and yet in Cities man is shut out from his fellows if he is
poor--the cottager must be very dirty, and very wretched, if she be not
thrifty--the present state of society demands this, and this convinces me
that the world is very young, and in a very ignorant state--We live in a
barbarous age--I would sooner be a wild deer, than a girl under the
dominion of the Kirk; and I would sooner be a wild hog, than be the
occasion of a poor Creature's penance before those execrable elders.
It is not so far to the Giant's Causeway as we supposed--We thought it 70,
and hear it is only 48 miles--So we shall leave one of our knapsacks here
at Donaghadee, take our immediate wants, and be back in a week, when we
shall proceed to the County of Ayr. In the Packet yesterday we heard some
ballads from two old men--One was a Romance which seemed very poor--then
there was "The Battle of the Boyne," then "Robin Huid," as they call
him--"Before the King you shall go, go, go; before the King you shall go."
[Stranraer,] July 9th.