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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
231
We
had
been
told
that
the
Cartland
Crags
were
better
worth
going
to
see
than
the
Falls
of
the
Clyde.
I
did
not
think
so;
but
I
have
seen
rocky
dells
resembling
this
before,
with
clear
water
instead
of
that
muddy
stream,
and
never
saw
anything
like
the
Falls
of
the
Clyde.
It
would
be
a
delicious
spot
to
have
near
one's
house;
one
would
linger
out
many
a
day
in
the
cool
shade
of
the
caverns,
and
the
stream
would
soothe
one
by
its
murmuring;
still,
being
an
old
friend,
one
would
not
love
it
the
less
for
its
homely
face.
Even
we,
as
we
passed
along,
could
not
help
stopping
for
a
long
while
to
admire
the
beauty
of
the
lazy
foam,
for
ever
in
motion,
and
never
moved
away,
in
a
still
place
of
the
water,
covering
the
whole
surface
of
it
with
streaks
and
lines
and
ever-varying
circles.
Wild
marjoram
grew
upon
the
rocks
in
great
perfection
and
beauty;
our
guide
gave
me
a
bunch,
and
said
he
should
come
hither
to
collect
a
store
for
tea
for
the
winter,
and
that
it
was
"varra
halesome":
he
drank
none
else.
We
walked
perhaps
half
a
mile
along
the
bed
of
the
river;
but
it
might
seem
to
be
much
further
than
it
was,
owing
to
the
difficulty
of
the
path,
and
the
sharp
and
many
turnings
of
the
glen.
Passed
two
of
Wallace's
Caves.
There
is
scarce
a
noted
glen
in
Scotland
that
has
not
a
cave
for
Wallace
or
some
other
hero.
Before
we
left
the
river
the
rocks
became
less
lofty,
turned
into
a
wood
through
which
was
a
convenient
path
upwards,
met
the
owner
of
the
house
and
the
echo-ground,
and
thanked
him
for
the
pleasure
which
he
had
provided
for
us
and
other
travellers
by
making
such
pretty
pathways.
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