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 glasses five for the Quarter and twelve for the hour-he is a mahogany-faced old Jackass who knew Burns-He ought to have been kicked for having spoken to him. He calls himself "a curious old Bitch"-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 Bitches-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 God's spies.-What were his addresses to Jean in the latter part of his life? I should not speak so to youyet 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 substitute 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 scrap 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 Cumberland-well, if you'll let me know where at Inverness, I will call on my return and pass 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. JOHN KEATS.

Your affectionate friend

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 surpass 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.1

Not 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-damn 'em they have been at me ever since I left the Swan and two necks.2

1 Here follows a sketch.

2 The Swan and Two Necks, Lad Lane, London, seems to have been the coach office for Liverpool and the North-West; compare Lamb's Letters (ed. Ainger), vol. i. p. 241.

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 Buttocks 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- 9

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,

Last Evening we came round the End of Loch Fyne to Inverary-the Duke of Argyle's Castle is very modern magnificent and more so from the place it is in-the woods seem old enough to remember two or three changes in the Crags about them—the Lake was beautiful and there was a Band at a distance by the Castle. I must say I enjoyed two or three common tunes-but nothing could stifle the horrors of a solo on the Bag-pipe-I thought the Beast would never have done.-Yet was I doomed to hear another.-On entering Inverary we saw a Play Bill. Brown was knocked up from new shoesso I went to the Barn alone where I saw the Stranger accompanied by a Bag-pipe. There they went on about interesting creaters and human nater till the Curtain fell and then came the Bag-pipe. When Mrs. Haller fainted down went the Curtain and out came the Bag-pipe— at the heartrending, shoemending reconciliation the Piper blew amain. I never read or saw this play before; not the Bag-pipe nor the wretched players themselves were