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.

1

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.

1

See foot-note to The Devon Maid, pages 264-5, Volume II.

My dear Fanny,

L.

To FANNY KEATS.

Richd. Abbey's Esqre.

Walthamstow.

Dumfries, July 2nd [1818].

I intended to have written to you from Kircudbright, the town I shall be in tomorrow-but I will write now because my Knapsack has worn my coat in the Seams, my coat has gone to the Taylors [sic] 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 3 and bal

lanced 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 whiskey 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.-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' country of whom I suppose you have heard.'

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. 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 Kirkudbright-at which place I will write you a song about myself.2

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 bed so fatigued that when I am asleep you might sew my nose to my great toe and trundle me round the town, like a Hoop, without waking me. Then I get so hungry a Ham goes but a very little way and fowls are like Larks to me-A Batch of Bread I make no more ado with than a sheet of parliament; and I can eat a Bull's head as easily as I used to

1 Here follows the ballad of Meg Merrilies. See Volume II, pages 287-9.

2 For the song in question see Volume II, pages 290-4.

do Bull's eyes. I take a whole string of Pork Sausages down as easily as a Pen'orth of Lady's fingers. Ah dear I must soon be contented with an acre or two of oaten cake a hogshead of Milk and a Cloaths basket of Eggs morning noon and night when I get among the Highlanders. Before we see them we shall pass into Ireland and have a chat with the Paddies, and look at the Giant's Causeway which you must have heard of-I have not time to tell you particularly for I have to send a Journal to Tom of whom you shall hear all particulars or from me when I return. Since I began this we have walked sixty miles to Newton Stewart at which place I put in this Letter-to night we sleep at Glenluce-tomorrow at Portpatrick and the next day we shall cross in the passage boat to Ireland. I hope Miss Abbey has quite recovered. Present my Respects to her and to Mr. and Mrs. Abbey. God bless you.

Your affectionate Brother John

Do write me a Letter directed to Inverness, Scotland.

LI.

To THOMAS KEATS.

Auchencairn,

3 July [1818].

My dear Tom,

We are now in Meg Merrilies' country, and have, this morning, passed 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:-1

Yesterday was passed in Kirkcudbright; the country is very rich, very fine, and with a little of Devon. I am now writing at Newton Stewart, six miles from Wigtown. Our landlady of yesterday said, "very few Southerners passed 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, &c. 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

1 The Meg Merrilies ballad, Volume II, pages 287-9.