Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends Part 15

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 sh.o.r.es 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 d.a.m.ned. 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.

We stopped very little in Ireland, and that you may not have leisure to 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 15 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 pa.s.sing 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 pa.s.sage 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 bl.u.s.tering 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.e 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 Cla.s.ses--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 const.i.tutions 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 bl.u.s.ter 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 sh.e.l.l 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--d.a.m.n him and d.a.m.n 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 Oth.e.l.lo in the Jew, I mean er, er, er, the Jew in Shylock." He got bother'd completely in vague ideas of the Jew in Oth.e.l.lo, Shylock in the Jew, Shylock in Oth.e.l.lo, Oth.e.l.lo in Shylock, the Jew in Oth.e.l.lo, 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.

G.o.d bless you!

JOHN ----.

LX.--TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.

Maybole, July 11 [1818].

My dear Reynolds--I'll not run over the Ground we have pa.s.sed; 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.]