marvel at our speedy return to Port Patrick, I will tell you that it is as
dear living in Ireland as at the Hummums--thrice the expense of
Scotland--it would have cost us L15 before our return; moreover we found
those 48 miles to be Irish ones, which reach to 70 English--so having
walked to Belfast one day, and back to Donaghadee the next, we left
Ireland with a fair breeze. We slept last night at Port Patrick, when I
was gratified by a letter from you. On our walk in Ireland, we had too
much opportunity to see the worse than nakedness, the rags, the dirt and
misery, of the poor common Irish--A Scotch cottage, though in that
sometimes the smoke has no exit but at the door, is a palace to an Irish
one. We could observe that impetuosity in Man and Woman--We had the
pleasure of finding our way through a Peat-bog, three miles long at
least--dreary, flat, dank, black, and spongy--here and there were poor
dirty Creatures, and a few strong men cutting or carting Peat--We heard on
passing into Belfast through a most wretched suburb, that most disgusting
of all noises, worse than the Bagpipes--the laugh of a Monkey--the chatter
of women--the scream of a Macaw--I mean the sound of the Shuttle. What a
tremendous difficulty is the improvement of such people. I cannot conceive
how a mind "_with child_" of philanthrophy could grasp at its
possibility--with me it is absolute despair--
At a miserable house of entertainment, half-way between Donaghadee and
Belfast, were two men sitting at Whisky--one a labourer, and the other I
took to be a drunken weaver--the labourer took me to be a Frenchman, and
the other hinted at bounty-money; saying he was ready to take it--On
calling for the letters at Port Patrick, the man snapped out "what
Regiment?" On our return from Belfast we met a sedan--the Duchess of
Dunghill. It is no laughing matter though. Imagine the worst dog kennel
you ever saw, placed upon two poles from a mouldy fencing--In such a
wretched thing sat a squalid old woman, squat like an ape half-starved,
from a scarcity of biscuit in its passage from Madagascar to the Cape,
with a pipe in her mouth, and looking out with a round-eyed skinny-lidded
inanity; with a sort of horizontal idiotic movement of her head--Squat and
lean she sat, and puffed out the smoke, while two ragged tattered girls
carried her along. What a thing would be a history of her life and
sensations; I shall endeavour when I have thought a little more, to give
you my idea of the difference between the Scotch and Irish--The two
Irishmen I mentioned were speaking of their treatment in England, when the
weaver said--"Ah you were a civil man, but I was a drinker."
Till further notice you must direct to Inverness.
Your most affectionate Brother
JOHN.
LIX.--TO THOMAS KEATS.
Belantree [for Ballantrae,] July 10
Ah! ken ye what I met the day
Out oure the Mountains
A coming down by craggies gray
An mossie fountains--
Ah goud-hair'd Marie yeve I pray
Ane minute's guessing--
For that I met upon the way
Is past expressing.
As I stood where a rocky brig
A torrent crosses
I spied upon a misty rig
A troup o' Horses--
And as they trotted down the glen
I sped to meet them
To see if I might know the Men
To stop and greet them.
First Willie on his sleek mare came
At canting gallop
His long hair rustled like a flame
On board a shallop,
Then came his brother Rab and then
Young Peggy's Mither
And Peggy too--adown the glen
They went togither--
I saw her wrappit in her hood
Frae wind and raining--
Her cheek was flush wi' timid blood
Twixt growth and waning--
She turn'd her dazed head full oft
For there her Brithers
Came riding with her Bridegroom soft
And mony ithers.
Young Tam came up and eyed me quick
With reddened cheek--
Braw Tam was daffed like a chick--
He could na speak--
Ah Marie they are all gane hame
Through blustering weather
An' every heart is full on flame
An' light as feather.
Ah! Marie they are all gone hame
Frae happy wadding,
Whilst I--Ah is it not a shame?
Sad tears am shedding.
My dear Tom--The reason for my writing these lines was that Brown wanted
to impose a Galloway song upon Dilke--but it won't do. The subject I got
from meeting a wedding just as we came down into this place--where I am
afraid we shall be imprisoned a while by the weather. Yesterday we came 27
Miles from Stranraer--entered Ayrshire a little beyond Cairn, and had our
path through a delightful Country. I shall endeavour that you may follow
our steps in this walk--it would be uninteresting in a Book of Travels--it
can not be interesting but by my having gone through it. When we left
Cairn our Road lay half way up the sides of a green mountainous shore,
full of clefts of verdure and eternally varying--sometimes up sometimes
down, and over little Bridges going across green chasms of moss, rock and
trees--winding about everywhere. After two or three Miles of this we
turned suddenly into a magnificent glen finely wooded in Parts--seven
Miles long--with a Mountain stream winding down the Midst--full of
cottages in the most happy situations--the sides of the Hills covered with
sheep--the effect of cattle lowing I never had so finely. At the end we
had a gradual ascent and got among the tops of the Mountains whence in a
little time I descried in the Sea Ailsa Rock 940 feet high--it was 15
Miles distant and seemed close upon us. The effect of Ailsa with the
peculiar perspective of the Sea in connection with the ground we stood on,
and the misty rain then falling gave me a complete Idea of a deluge. Ailsa
struck me very suddenly--really I was a little alarmed.
[Girvan, same day, July 10.]
Thus far had I written before we set out this morning. Now we are at
Girvan 13 Miles north of Belantree. Our Walk has been along a more grand
shore to-day than yesterday--Ailsa beside us all the way.--From the
heights we could see quite at home Cantire and the large Mountains of
Arran, one of the Hebrides. We are in comfortable Quarters. The Rain we
feared held up bravely and it has been "fu fine this day."----To-morrow we
shall be at Ayr.
[Kirkoswald, July 11.]
'Tis now the 11th of July and we have come 8 Miles to Breakfast to
Kirkoswald. I hope the next Kirk will be Kirk Alloway. I have nothing of
consequence to say now concerning our journey--so I will speak as far as I
can judge on the Irish and Scotch--I know nothing of the higher
Classes--yet I have a persuasion that there the Irish are victorious. As
to the profanum vulgus I must incline to the Scotch. They never laugh--but
they are always comparatively neat and clean. Their constitutions are not
so remote and puzzling as the Irish. The Scotchman will never give a
decision on any point--he will never commit himself in a sentence which
may be referred to as a meridian in his notion of things--so that you do
not know him--and yet you may come in nigher neighbourhood to him than to
the Irishman who commits himself in so many places that it dazes your
head. A Scotchman's motive is more easily discovered than an Irishman's. A
Scotchman will go wisely about to deceive you, an Irishman cunningly. An
Irishman would bluster out of any discovery to his disadvantage. A
Scotchman would retire perhaps without much desire for revenge. An
Irishman likes to be thought a gallous fellow. A Scotchman is contented
with himself. It seems to me they are both sensible of the Character they
hold in England and act accordingly to Englishmen. Thus the Scotchman
will become over grave and over decent and the Irishman over-impetuous. I
like a Scotchman best because he is less of a bore--I like the Irishman
best because he ought to be more comfortable.--The Scotchman has made up
his Mind within himself in a sort of snail shell wisdom. The Irishman is
full of strongheaded instinct. The Scotchman is farther in Humanity than
the Irishman--there he will stick perhaps when the Irishman will be
refined beyond him--for the former thinks he cannot be improved--the
latter would grasp at it for ever, place but the good plain before him.
Maybole, [same day, July 11].
Since breakfast we have come only four Miles to dinner, not merely, for we
have examined in the way two Ruins, one of them very fine, called
Crossraguel Abbey--there is a winding Staircase to the top of a little
Watch Tower.
Kingswells, July 13.
I have been writing to Reynolds--therefore any particulars since
Kirkoswald have escaped me--from said Kirk we went to Maybole to
dinner--then we set forward to Burness' town Ayr--the approach to it is
extremely fine--quite outwent my expectations--richly meadowed, wooded,
heathed and rivuleted--with a grand Sea view terminated by the black
Mountains of the isle of Arran. As soon as I saw them so nearly I said to
myself "How is it they did not beckon Burns to some grand attempt at
Epic?"
The bonny Doon is the sweetest river I ever saw--overhung with fine trees
as far as we could see--We stood some time on the Brig across it, over
which Tam o' Shanter fled--we took a pinch of snuff on the Key stone--then
we proceeded to the "auld Kirk Alloway." As we were looking at it a Farmer
pointed the spots where Mungo's Mither hang'd hersel' and "drunken Charlie
brake's neck's bane." Then we proceeded to the Cottage he was born
in--there was a board to that effect by the door side--it had the same
effect as the same sort of memorial at Stratford on Avon. We drank some
Toddy to Burns's Memory with an old Man who knew Burns--damn him and damn
his anecdotes--he was a great bore--it was impossible for a Southron to
understand above 5 words in a hundred.--There was something good in his
description of Burns's melancholy the last time he saw him. I was
determined to write a sonnet in the Cottage--I did--but it was so bad I
cannot venture it here.
Next we walked into Ayr Town and before we went to Tea saw the new Brig
and the Auld Brig and Wallace tower. Yesterday we dined with a Traveller.
We were talking about Kean. He said he had seen him at Glasgow "in Othello
in the Jew, I mean er, er, er, the Jew in Shylock." He got bother'd
completely in vague ideas of the Jew in Othello, Shylock in the Jew,
Shylock in Othello, Othello in Shylock, the Jew in Othello, etc. etc.
etc.--he left himself in a mess at last.--Still satisfied with himself he
went to the Window and gave an abortive whistle of some tune or other--it
might have been Handel. There is no end to these Mistakes--he'll go and
tell people how he has seen "Malvolio in the Countess"--"Twelfth night in
Midsummer night's dream"--Bottom in much ado about Nothing--Viola in
Barrymore--Antony in Cleopatra--Falstaff in the mouse Trap.--
[Glasgow,] July 14.
We enter'd Glasgow last Evening under the most oppressive Stare a body
could feel. When we had crossed the Bridge Brown look'd back and said its
whole population had turned out to wonder at us--we came on till a drunken
Man came up to me--I put him off with my Arm--he returned all up in Arms
saying aloud that, "he had seen all foreigners bu-u-ut he never saw the
like o' me." I was obliged to mention the word Officer and Police before
he would desist.--The City of Glasgow I take to be a very fine one--I was
astonished to hear it was twice the size of Edinburgh. It is built of
Stone and has a much more solid appearance than London. We shall see the
Cathedral this morning--they have devilled it into "High Kirk." I want
very much to know the name of the ship George is gone in--also what port
he will land in--I know nothing about it. I hope you are leading a quiet
Life and gradually improving. Make a long lounge of the whole Summer--by
the time the Leaves fall I shall be near you with plenty of confab--there
are a thousand things I cannot write. Take care of yourself--I mean in not
being vexed or bothered at anything.
God bless you!
JOHN ----.
LX.--TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.
Maybole, July 11 [1818].
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.