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 pa.s.sage 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 circ.u.mstance, 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-sh.o.r.e 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sions 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 pa.s.sed 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 superst.i.tion 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 s.h.a.ggy coa.r.s.e 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 gla.s.s 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 Ma.s.s 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 surpa.s.ses 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 pa.s.sion 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 Ocea.n.u.s.

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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s'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 circ.u.mstance. 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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.sions 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 f.a.n.n.y. 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 f.a.g and tug and a rest and a gla.s.s 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 f.a.g, 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 d.a.m.n'd confounded ugly dream, A Nightmare sure. What Madam was it you?

It cannot be! My old eyes are not true!