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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
298
We
had
been
through
many
solitary
places
since
we
came
into
Scotland,
but
this
place
differed
as
much
from
any
we
had
seen
before,
as
if
there
had
been
nothing
in
common
between
them;
no
thought
of
dreariness
or
desolation
found
entrance
here;
yet
nothing
was
to
be
seen
but
water,
wood,
rocks,
and
heather,
and
bare
mountains
above.
We
saw
the
mountains
by
glimpses
as
the
clouds
passed
by
them,
and
were
not
disposed
to
regret,
with
our
boatman,
that
it
was
not
a
fine
day,
for
the
near
objects
were
not
concealed
from
us,
but
softened
by
being
seen
through
the
mists.
The
lake
is
not
very
wide
here,
but
appeared
to
be
much
narrower
than
it
really
is,
owing
to
the
many
promontories,
which
are
pushed
so
far
into
it
that
they
are
much
more
like
islands
than
promontories.
We
had
a
longing
desire
to
row
to
the
outlet
and
look
up
into
the
narrow
passage
through
which
the
river
went;
but
the
point
where
we
were
to
land
was
on
the
other
side,
so
we
bent
our
course
right
across,
and
just
as
we
came
in
sight
of
two
huts,
which
have
been
built
by
Lady
Perth
as
a
shelter
for
those
who
visit
the
Trossachs,
Coleridge
hailed
us
with
a
shout
of
triumph
from
the
door
of
one
of
them,
exulting
in
the
glory
of
Scotland.
The
huts
stand
at
a
small
distance
from
each
other,
on
a
high
and
perpendicular
rock,
that
rises
from
the
bed
of
the
lake.
A
road,
which
has
a
very
wild
appearance,
has
been
cut
through
the
rock;
yet
even
here,
among
these
bold
precipices,
the
feeling
of
excessive
beautifulness
overcomes
every
other.
While
we
were
upon
the
lake,
on
every
side
of
us
were
bays
within
bays,
often
more
like
tiny
lakes
or
pools
than
bays,
and
these
not
in
long
succession
only,
but
all
round,
some
almost
on
the
broad
breast
of
the
water,
the
promontories
shot
out
so
far.
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