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308
Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
307
I
went
to
bed
some
time
before
the
family.
The
door
was
shut
between
us,
and
they
had
a
bright
fire,
which
I
could
not
see;
but
the
light
it
sent
up
among
the
varnished
rafters
and
beams,
which
crossed
each
other
in
almost
as
intricate
and
fantastic
a
manner
as
I
have
seen
the
under-boughs
of
a
large
beech-tree
withered
by
the
depth
of
the
shade
above,
produced
the
most
beautiful
effect
that
can
be
conceived.
It
was
like
what
I
should
suppose
an
underground
cave
or
temple
to
be,
with
a
dripping
or
moist
roof,
and
the
moonlight
entering
in
upon
it
by
some
means
or
other,
and
yet
the
colours
were
more
like
melted
gems.
I
lay
looking
up
till
the
light
of
the
fire
faded
away,
and
the
man
and
his
wife
and
child
had
crept
into
their
bed
at
the
other
end
of
the
room.
I
did
not
sleep
much,
but
passed
a
comfortable
night,
for
my
bed,
though
hard,
was
warm
and
clean:
the
unusualness
of
my
situation
prevented
me
from
sleeping.
I
could
hear
the
waves
beat
against
the
shore
of
the
lake;
a
little
"syke"
close
to
the
door
made
a
much
louder
noise;
and
when
I
sate
up
in
my
bed
I
could
see
the
lake
through
an
open
window-place
at
the
bed's
head.
Add
to
this,
it
rained
all
night.
I
was
less
occupied
by
remembrance
of
the
Trossachs,
beautiful
as
they
were,
than
the
vision
of
the
Highland
hut,
which
I
could
not
get
out
of
my
head.
I
thought
of
the
Fairyland
of
Spenser,
and
what
I
had
read
in
romance
at
other
times,
and
then,
what
a
feast
would
it
be
for
a
London
pantomime-maker,
could
he
but
transplant
it
to
Drury
Lane,
with
all
its
beautiful
colours!
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