Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
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