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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
166
We
rode
on
cheerfully,
now
with
the
Paris
diligence
before
us,
now
behind.
We
walked
up
the
steep
hills,
a
beautiful
prospect
everywhere,
till
we
even
reached
Dover.
At
first
the
rich,
populous,
wide-spreading,
woody
country
about
London,
then
the
River
Thames,
ships
sailing,
chalk
cliffs,
trees,
little
villages.
Afterwards
Canterbury,
situated
on
a
plain,
rich
and
woody,
but
the
city
and
cathedral
disappointed
me.
Hop
grounds
on
each
side
of
the
road
some
miles
from
Canterbury;
then
we
came
to
a
common,
the
race
ground,
an
elevated
plain,
villages
among
trees
in
the
bed
of
a
valley
at
our
right,
and,
rising
above
this
valley,
green
hills
scattered
over
with
wood,
neat
gentlemen's
houses.
One
white
house,
almost
hid
with
green
trees,
which
we
longed
for,
and
the
parson's
house,
as
neat
a
place
as
could
be,
which
would
just
have
suited
Coleridge.
No
doubt
we
may
have
found
one
for
Tom
Hutchinson
and
Sara,
and
a
good
farm
too.
We
halted
at
a
half-way
house--fruit
carts
under
the
shade
of
trees,
seats
for
guests,
a
tempting
place
to
the
weary
traveller.
Still,
as
we
went
along,
the
country
was
beautiful
and
hilly,
with
cottages
lurking
under
the
hills,
and
their
little
plots
of
hop
ground
like
vineyards.
It
was
a
bad
hop
year.
A
woman
on
the
top
of
the
coach
said
to
me,
"It
is
a
sad
thing
for
the
poor
people,
for
the
hop-gathering
is
the
woman's
harvest;
there
is
employment
about
the
hops
for
women
and
children."
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