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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
255
Left
Dumbarton
at
about
eleven
o'clock.
The
sky
was
cheerless
and
the
air
ungenial,
which
we
regretted,
as
we
were
going
to
Loch
Lomond,
and
wished
to
greet
the
first
of
the
Scottish
lakes
with
our
cheerfullest
and
best
feelings.
Crossed
the
Leven
at
the
end
of
Dumbarton,
and,
when
we
looked
behind,
had
a
pleasing
view
of
the
town,
bridge,
and
rock;
but
when
we
took
in
a
reach
of
the
river
at
the
distance
of
perhaps
half
a
mile,
the
swamp
ground,
being
so
near
a
town,
and
not
in
its
natural
wildness,
but
seemingly
half
cultivated,
with
houses
here
and
there,
gave
us
an
idea
of
extreme
poverty
of
soil,
or
that
the
inhabitants
were
either
indolent
or
miserable.
We
had
to
travel
four
miles
on
the
banks
of
the
"Water
of
Leven"
before
we
should
come
to
Loch
Lomond.
Having
expected
a
grand
river
from
so
grand
a
lake,
we
were
disappointed;
for
it
appeared
to
me
not
to
be
very
much
larger
than
the
Emont,
and
is
not
near
so
beautiful;
but
we
must
not
forget
that
the
day
was
cold
and
gloomy.
Near
Dumbarton
it
is
like
a
river
in
a
flat
country,
or
under
the
influence
of
tides;
but
a
little
higher
up
it
resembles
one
of
our
rivers,
flowing
through
a
vale
of
no
extreme
beauty,
though
prettily
wooded;
the
hills
on
each
side
not
very
high,
sloping
backwards
from
the
bed
of
the
vale,
which
is
neither
very
narrow
nor
very
wide;
the
prospect
terminated
by
Ben
Lomond
and
other
mountains.
The
vale
is
populous,
but
looks
as
if
it
were
not
inhabited
by
cultivators
of
the
earth;
the
houses
are
chiefly
of
stone;
often
in
rows
by
the
river-side;
they
stand
pleasantly,
but
have
a
tradish
look,
as
if
they
might
have
been
off-sets
from
Glasgow.
We
saw
many
bleach-yards,
but
no
other
symptom
of
a
manufactory,
except
something
in
the
houses
that
was
not
rural,
and
a
want
of
independent
comforts.
Perhaps
if
the
river
had
been
glittering
in
the
sun,
and
the
smoke
of
the
cottages
rising
in
distinct
volumes
towards
the
sky,
as
I
have
seen
in
the
vale
or
basin
below
Pillsden
in
Dorsetshire,
when
every
cottage,
hidden
from
the
eye,
pointed
out
its
lurking-place
by
an
upright
wreath
of
white
smoke,
the
whole
scene
might
have
excited
ideas
of
perfect
cheerfulness.
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