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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
211
We
went
on,
looking
before
us,
the
place
losing
nothing
of
its
hold
upon
our
minds,
when
we
discovered
a
woman
sitting
right
in
the
middle
of
the
field,
alone,
wrapped
up
in
a
grey
cloak
or
plaid.
She
sat
motionless
all
the
time
we
looked
at
her,
which
might
be
nearly
half
an
hour.
We
could
not
conceive
why
she
sat
there,
for
there
were
neither
sheep
nor
cattle
in
the
field;
her
appearance
was
very
melancholy.
In
the
meantime
our
road
carried
us
nearer
to
the
cottage,
though
we
were
crossing
over
the
hill
to
the
left,
leaving
the
valley
below
us,
and
we
perceived
that
a
part
of
the
building
was
inhabited,
and
that
what
we
had
supposed
to
be
one
blasted
tree
was
eight
trees,
four
of
which
were
entirely
blasted;
the
others
partly
so,
and
round
about
the
place
was
a
little
potato
and
cabbage
garth,
fenced
with
earth.
No
doubt,
that
woman
had
been
an
inhabitant
of
the
cottage.
However
this
might
be,
there
was
so
much
obscurity
and
uncertainty
about
her,
and
her
figure
agreed
so
well
with
the
desolation
of
the
place,
that
we
were
indebted
to
the
chance
of
her
being
there
for
some
of
the
most
interesting
feelings
that
we
had
ever
had
from
natural
objects
connected
with
man
in
dreary
solitariness.
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