the root of the evil, and so cure it "with backward mutters of dissevering power "-that is a difficult thing; for an obstinate Prejudice can seldom be produced but from a gordian complication of feelings, which must take time to unravel, and care to keep unravelled. I could say a good deal about this, but I will leave it, in hopes of better and more worthy dispositions and also content that I am wronging no one, for after all I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not. You appeared to wish to know my moods on this subject— don't think it a bore my dear fellow, it shall be my Amen. I should not have consented to myself these four months tramping in the highlands, but that I thought it would give me more experience, rub off more prejudice, use to more hardship, identify finer scenes, load me with grander mountains, and strengthen more my reach in Poetry, than would stopping at home among books, even though I should reach Homer. By this time I am comparatively a Mountaineer. I have been among

wilds and mountains too much to break out much about their grandeur. I have fed upon oat-cake-not long enough to be very much attached to it.—The first mountains I saw, though not so large as some I have since seen, weighed very solemnly upon me. The effect is wearing away-yet I like them mainly.

[Island of Mull, July 22.]

We have come this Evening with a guide-for without was impossible-into the middle of the Isle of Mull, pursuing our cheap journey to Iona, and perhaps Staffa. We would not follow the common and fashionable mode, from the great Imposition of Expense. We have come over heath and rock, and river and bog, to what in England would be called a horrid place. Yet it belongs to a Shepherd pretty well off perhaps. The family speak not a word but Gaelic, and we have not yet seen their faces for the smoke, which, after visiting every cranny (not excepting my eyes very

much incommoded for writing), finds its way out at the door. I am more comfortable than I could have imagined in such a place, and so is Brown. The people are all very kind-We lost our way a little yesterday; and inquiring at a Cottage, a young woman without a word threw on her cloak and walked a mile in a mizzling rain and splashy way to put us right again.

I could not have had a greater pleasure in these parts than your mention of my sister. She is very much prisoned from me. I am afraid it will be some time before I can take her to many places I wish. I trust we shall see you ere long in Cumberland-At least I hope I shall, before my visit to America, more than once. I intend to pass a whole year there, if I live to the completion of the three next. My sister's welfare, and the hopes of such a stay in America, will make me observe your advice. I shall be prudent and more careful of my health than I have been. I hope you will be about paying your first visit to Town after settling when we come into CumberlandCumberland however will be no distance to me after my present journey. I shall spin to you in a Minute. I begin to get rather a contempt of distances. I hope you will have a nice convenient room for a library. 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.1 I read that fine passage 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 1 Cary's translation. L

to the circumstance, 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-shore 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 grass 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 pass 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 passions 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,1 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

1 No place so named appears on any map: but at the foot of the Cruach-Doire - nan - Cuilean, off the road, is a house named Derrynaculan, and a few miles farther on, at the head of Loch Seridain, an ancient fortified site or Dun, with an inn on the road near by.

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 turfthatch 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,1 whence we should only have to walk half the distance to Oban again and on a better road. All this is well passed and done, with this singular piece of Luck, that there was an interruption in the bad 1 For Loch na Keal.