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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
263
Coleridge
was
not
well,
so
he
did
not
stir
out,
but
William
and
I
walked
through
the
village
to
the
shore
of
the
lake.
When
I
came
close
to
the
houses,
I
could
not
but
regret
a
want
of
loveliness
correspondent
with
the
beauty
of
the
situation
and
the
appearance
of
the
village
at
a
little
distance;
not
a
single
ornamented
garden.
We
saw
potatoes
and
cabbages,
but
never
a
honeysuckle.
Yet
there
were
wild
gardens,
as
beautiful
as
any
that
ever
man
cultivated,
overgrowing
the
roofs
of
some
of
the
cottages,
flowers
and
creeping
plants.
How
elegant
were
the
wreaths
of
the
bramble
that
had
"built
its
own
bower"
upon
the
riggins
in
several
parts
of
the
village;
therefore
we
had
chiefly
to
regret
the
want
of
gardens,
as
they
are
symptoms
of
leisure
and
comfort,
or
at
least
of
no
painful
industry.
Here
we
first
saw
houses
without
windows,
the
smoke
coming
out
of
the
open
window-places;
the
chimneys
were
like
stools
with
four
legs
a
hole
being
left
in
the
roof
for
the
smoke,
and
over
that
a
slate
placed
upon
four
sticks--sometimes
the
whole
leaned
as
if
it
were
going
to
fall.
The
fields
close
to
Luss
lie
flat
to
the
lake,
and
a
river,
as
large
as
our
stream
near
the
church
at
Grasmere,
flows
by
the
end
of
the
village,
being
the
same
which
comes
down
the
glen
behind
the
inn;
it
is
very
much
like
our
stream--beds
of
blue
pebbles
upon
the
shores.
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