Part 16 (1/2)

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 sh.e.l.l 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 gla.s.ses five for the Quarter and twelve for the hour--he is a mahogany-faced old Jacka.s.s who knew Burns--He ought to have been kicked for having spoken to him. He calls himself ”a curious old b.i.t.c.h”--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 b.i.t.c.hes--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 G.o.d'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 subst.i.tute 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 sc.r.a.p 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 c.u.mberland--well, if you'll let me know where at Inverness, I will call on my return and pa.s.s 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 surpa.s.s 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--d.a.m.n '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 b.u.t.tocks 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.]