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,[77] 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 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 turf-thatch 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.