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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
192
We
were
glad
to
leave
Dumfries,
which
is
no
agreeable
place
to
them
who
do
not
love
the
bustle
of
a
town
that
seems
to
be
rising
up
to
wealth.
We
could
think
of
little
else
but
poor
Burns,
and
his
moving
about
on
that
unpoetic
ground.
In
our
road
to
Brownhill,
the
next
stage,
we
passed
Ellisland
at
a
little
distance
on
our
right,
his
farmhouse.
We
might
there
have
had
more
pleasure
in
looking
round,
if
we
had
been
nearer
to
the
spot;
but
there
is
no
thought
surviving
in
connexion
with
Burns's
daily
life
that
is
not
heart-depressing.
Travelled
through
the
vale
of
Nith,
here
little
like
a
vale,
it
is
so
broad,
with
irregular
hills
rising
up
on
each
side,
in
outline
resembling
the
old-fashioned
valances
of
a
bed.
There
is
a
great
deal
of
arable
land;
the
corn
ripe;
trees
here
and
there--plantations,
clumps,
coppices,
and
a
newness
in
everything.
So
much
of
the
gorse
and
broom
rooted
out
that
you
wonder
why
it
is
not
all
gone,
and
yet
there
seems
to
be
almost
as
much
gorse
and
broom
as
corn;
and
they
grow
one
among
another
you
know
not
how.
Crossed
the
Nith;
the
vale
becomes
narrow,
and
very
pleasant;
corn
fields,
green
hills,
clay
cottages;
the
river's
bed
rocky,
with
woody
banks.
Left
the
Nith
about
a
mile
and
a
half,
and
reached
Brownhill,
a
lonely
inn,
where
we
slept.
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