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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
257
Before
we
came
to
Loch
Lomond
the
vale
widened,
and
became
less
populous.
We
climbed
over
a
wall
into
a
large
field
to
have
a
better
front
view
of
the
lake
than
from
the
road.
This
view
is
very
much
like
that
from
Mr.
Clarkson's
windows:
the
mountain
in
front
resembles
Hallan;
indeed,
is
almost
the
same;
but
Ben
Lomond
is
not
seen
standing
in
such
majestic
company
as
Helvellyn,
and
the
meadows
are
less
beautiful
than
Ulswater.
The
reach
of
the
lake
is
very
magnificent;
you
see
it,
as
Ulswater
is
seen
beyond
the
promontory
of
Old
Church,
winding
away
behind
a
large
woody
island
that
looks
like
a
promontory.
The
outlet
of
the
lake--we
had
a
distinct
view
of
it
in
the
field--is
very
insignificant.
The
bulk
of
the
river
is
frittered
away
by
small
alder
bushes,
as
I
recollect;
I
do
not
remember
that
it
was
reedy,
but
the
ground
had
a
swampy
appearance;
and
here
the
vale
spreads
out
wide
and
shapeless,
as
if
the
river
were
born
to
no
inheritance,
had
no
sheltering
cradle,
no
hills
of
its
own.
As
we
have
seen,
this
does
not
continue
long;
it
flows
through
a
distinct,
though
not
a
magnificent
vale.
But,
having
lost
the
pastoral
character
which
it
had
in
the
youthful
days
of
Smollett--if
the
description
in
his
ode
to
his
native
stream
be
a
faithful
one--it
is
less
interesting
than
it
was
then.
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