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.