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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
280
We
went
a
considerable
way
further,
and
landed
at
Rob
Roy's
Caves,
which
are
in
fact
no
caves,
but
some
fine
rocks
on
the
brink
of
the
lake,
in
the
crevices
of
which
a
man
might
hide
himself
cunningly
enough;
the
water
is
very
deep
below
them,
and
the
hills
above
steep
and
covered
with
wood.
The
little
Highland
woman,
who
was
in
size
about
a
match
for
our
guide
at
Lanerk,
accompanied
us
hither.
There
was
something
very
gracious
in
the
manners
of
this
woman;
she
could
scarcely
speak
five
English
words,
yet
she
gave
me,
whenever
I
spoke
to
her,
as
many
intelligible
smiles
as
I
had
needed
English
words
to
answer
me,
and
helped
me
over
the
rocks
in
the
most
obliging
manner.
She
had
left
the
boat
out
of
good-will
to
us,
or
for
her
own
amusement.
She
had
never
seen
these
caves
before;
but
no
doubt
had
heard
of
them,
the
tales
of
Rob
Roy's
exploits
being
told
familiarly
round
the
"ingles"
hereabouts,
for
this
neighbourhood
was
his
home.
We
landed
at
Inversneyde,
the
ferry-house
by
the
waterfall,
and
were
not
sorry
to
part
with
our
boatman,
who
was
a
coarse
hard-featured
man,
and,
speaking
of
the
French,
uttered
the
basest
and
most
cowardly
sentiments.
His
helper,
a
youth
fresh
from
the
Isle
of
Skye,
was
innocent
of
this
fault,
and
though
but
a
bad
rower,
was
a
far
better
companion;
he
could
not
speak
a
word
of
English,
and
sang
a
plaintive
Gaelic
air
in
a
low
tone
while
he
plied
his
oar.
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