Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)Wordsworth, Dorothy
General
Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
Wordsworth, Dorothy
Authors, English -- 19th century -- Diaries; Wordsworth, Dorothy, 1771-1855 -- Diaries; Wordsworth, William, 1770-1850 -- Family
But soon we came to just such a place as we had wanted to see. The road
was close to the water, and a hill, bare, rocky, or with scattered
copses rose above it. A deep shade hung over the road, where some little
boys were at play; we expected a dwelling-house of some sort; and when
we came nearer, saw three or four thatched huts under the trees, and at
the same moment felt that it was a paradise. We had before seen the lake
only as one wide plain of water; but here the portion of it which we saw
was bounded by a high and steep, heathy and woody island opposite, which
did not appear like an island, but the main shore, and framed out a
little oblong lake apparently not so broad as Rydale-water, with one
small island covered with trees, resembling some of the most beautiful
of the holms of Windermere, and only a narrow river's breadth from the
shore. This was a place where we should have liked to have lived, and
the only one we had seen near Loch Lomond. How delightful to have a
little shed concealed under the branches of the fairy island! the
cottages and the island might have been made for the pleasure of each
other. It was but like a natural garden, the distance was so small; nay,
one could not have forgiven any one living there, not compelled to daily
labour, if he did not connect it with his dwelling by some feeling of
domestic attachment, like what he has for the orchard where his children
play. I thought, what a place for William! he might row himself over
with twenty strokes of the oars, escaping from the business of the
house, and as safe from intruders, with his boat anchored beside him, as
if he had locked himself up in the strong tower of a castle. We were
unwilling to leave this sweet spot; but it was so simple, and therefore
so rememberable, that it seemed almost as if we could have carried it
away with us. It was nothing more than a small lake enclosed by trees at
the ends and by the way-side, and opposite by the island, a steep bank
on which the purple heath was seen under low oak coppice-wood, a group
of houses over-shadowed by trees, and a bending road. There was one
remarkable tree, an old larch with hairy branches, which sent out its
main stem horizontally across the road, an object that seemed to have
been singled out for injury where everything else was lovely and
thriving, tortured into that shape by storms, which one might have
thought could not have reached it in that sheltered place.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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