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FINGAL’S CAVE

(SCOTLAND)

JOHN KEATS

I am puzzled how to give you an Idea of Staffa. It can only be represented by a first-rate drawing. One may compare the surface of the Island to a roof—this roof is supported by grand pillars of basalt standing together as thick as honeycombs. The finest thing is Fingal’s Cave—it is entirely a hollowing out of Basalt Pillars. Suppose now the Giants who rebelled against Jove had taken a whole Mass of black Columns and bound them together like bunches of matches—and then with immense axes had made a cavern in the body of these columns—— Of course the roof and floor must be composed of broken ends of the Columns—such is Fingal’s Cave, except that the Sea has done the work of excavations, and is continually dashing there—so that we walk along the sides of the cave on the pillars which are left as if for convenient stairs. The roof is arched somewhat gothic-wise, and the length of some of the entire side-pillars is fifty feet. About the island you might seat an army of Men each on a pillar. The length of the cave is 120 feet, and from its extremity the view into the sea, through the large Arch at the entrance—the colour of the columns is a sort of black with a lurking gloom of purple therein. For solemnity and grandeur it far surpasses the finest Cathedral. At the extremity of the Cave there is a small perforation into another cave, at which the waters meeting and buffeting each other there is sometimes produced a report as of a cannon heard as far as Iona, which must be twelve Miles. As we approached in the boat, there was such a fine swell of the sea that the pillars appeared rising immediately out of the crystal. But it is impossible to describe it—

Not Aladdin magian

Ever such a work began.

Not the Wizard of the Dee

Ever such a dream could see,

Not St. John in Patmos Isle

In the passion of his toil

When he saw the churches seven

Golden-aisled built up in heaven

Gaz’d at such a rugged wonder.

As I stood its roofing under

Lo! I saw one sleeping there

On the marble cold and bare.

While the surges wash’d his feet

And his garments white did beat

Drench’d about the sombre rocks,

On his neck his well-grown locks

Lifted dry above the Main

Were upon the curl again—

“What is this? and what art thou?”

Whisper’d I, and touch’d his brow;

“What art thou? and what is this?”

Whisper’d I, and strove to kiss

The Spirit’s hand, to wake his eyes;

Up he started in a trice:

“I am Lycidas,” said he

“Fam’d in funeral Minstrelsy—

This was architected thus

By the great Oceanus.

Here his mighty waters play

Hollow Organs all the day,

Here, by turns, his dolphins all,

Finny palmers great and small,

Come to pay devotion due—

Each a mouth of pearls must strew!

Many a mortal of these days

Dares to pass our sacred ways,

Dares to touch, audaciously

This Cathedral of the sea—

I have been the Pontiff-priest,

Where the Waters never rest,

Where a fledgy sea-bird choir

Soars for ever—holy fire

I have hid from Mortal Man.

Proteus is my Sacristan

But the stupid eye of Mortal

Hath pass’d beyond the Rocky portal,

So for ever will I leave

Such a taint and soon unweave

All the magic of the place—

’Tis now free to stupid face—

To cutters and to fashion boats,

To cravats and Petticoats.

The great Sea shall war it down,

For its fame shall not be blown

At every farthing quadrille dance.”

So saying with a Spirit’s glance

He dived—

I am sorry I am so indolent as to write such stuff as this. It can’t be helped. The western coast of Scotland is a most strange place—it is composed of rocks, mountains, mountainous and rocky islands intersected by lochs—you can go but a short distance anywhere from salt water in the highlands.

Letters of John Keats (London and New York, 1891).