CHILDHOOD AND EARLY LIFE.
Dorothy Wordsworth was the only daughter and third child of John and
Anne Wordsworth. She was born on Christmas Day, 1771, at Cockermouth, in
Cumberland, being a year and nine months younger than her famous
brother, the poet. John Wordsworth, the father, was an attorney-at-law,
who had attained considerable success in his profession, being the
solicitor of the then Earl of Lonsdale, in an old manor-house belonging
to whose family he resided. Miss Wordsworth's mother was, on the
maternal side, descended from an old and distinguished family, being the
only daughter of William Cookson, of Penrith, who had married Dorothy
Crackenthorp, whose family, we are informed, had, since the early part
of the fourteenth century, resided at Newbiggen Hall, Westmoreland. The
Wordsworths themselves traced their descent from a Yorkshire family of
that name who had settled in the county about the time of the Norman
Conquest.
Dorothy had the misfortune to lose her excellent mother when she was a
little more than six years old. After this great loss her father's
health declined, and she was left an orphan at the early age of twelve.
The sources of information concerning her childhood are very meagre.
We cannot doubt that for the qualities of mind and heart which
distinguished her she was, in common with the other members of her
family--her four brothers, who all won for themselves successful
careers--indebted to her parenthood, and especially to her mother, of
whom the poet says:--
"She was the heart
And hinge of all our learning and our loves."
The beauty and gentleness of disposition by which, in after years,
Dorothy Wordsworth developed into such a perfect woman were not absent
in her early childhood. Although we know so little, we have abundant
testimony that as a child she was fittingly named _Dorothea_--the gift
of God--and that then her life of ministry to her poet-brother began. We
can well imagine how the little dark-eyed brunette, sparkling and
impulsive damsel as she was, and the only girl in the family, became the
darling of the circle. In after years, when her favourite and famous
brother had entered on the career which she helped so much to stimulate
and to perfect, we find in his poems many allusions to her, as well in
her prattling childhood as in her mature years. The sight of a butterfly
calls to the poet's mind the pleasures of the early home, the time when
he and his little playmate "together chased the butterfly." The kindness
of her child heart is told in a few expressive words. He says:--
"A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey;--with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she--God love her!--_feared to brush
The dust from off its wings_."
The sight of a sparrow's nest, many years after, also served to bring to
the poet's remembrance his father's home and his sister's love. The
"bright blue eggs" appeared to him "a vision of delight." In them he saw
another sparrow's nest, in the years gone by daily visited in company
with his little sister.
"Behold, within that leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.
I started, seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
My Father's house, in wet or dry,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together visited.
She looked at it and seemed to fear it,
Dreading, though wishing, to be near it:
Such heart was in her, being then
A little Prattler among men.
The Blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy:
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears,
And love, and thought, and joy."
It is to her early thoughtfulness that the poet alludes in another poem
having reference to the same period. In this poem he represents his
sister and her young play-fellows gathering spring flowers, and thus
records her prudent "Foresight":--
"Here are daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty daffodil
Make your bed or make your bower;
Fill your lap and fill your bosom;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom!
* * * * *
God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured strawberry-flower.
Hither soon as spring is fled
You and Charles and I will walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each within the leafy bower;
And for that promise spare the flower!"
An incident showing the tender sensibility of her nature when a child is
also deserving of special mention. In a note to the "Second Evening
Voluntary," Wordsworth says: "My sister, when she first heard the voice
of the sea from this point (the high ground on the coast of Cumberland
overlooking Whitehaven and the sea beyond it) and beheld the sea spread
before her, burst into tears. Our family then lived at Cockermouth, and
this fact was often mentioned among us as indicating the sensibility for
which she was so remarkable."
The death of their mother was, however, the signal for separation. Her
brother William was sent to school at Hawkshead, in North Lancashire,
and Dorothy went to reside with her maternal grandfather at Penrith.
Subsequently, during her brother's school and college days, we are
informed that she lived chiefly at Halifax with her cousin, occasionally
making lengthened visits at Forncett, to her cousin, Dr. Cookson, Canon
of Windsor. Although they were in this way for some years deprived of
each other's society, except during occasional college vacations, they
were not forgotten by each other, and their early love did not grow
cold. Wordsworth, having gone to Cambridge in 1787, during one of his
early vacations visited his relations at Penrith, when he was for a
short period restored to his sister's society. In his autobiographical
poem, "The Prelude," he has thus recorded the fact:--
"In summer, making quest for works of art,
Or scenes renowned for beauty, I explored
That streamlet whose blue current works its way
Between romantic Dovedale's spiry rocks;
Pried into Yorkshire dales, or hidden tracts
Of my own native region, and was blest
Between these sundry wanderings with a joy
Above all joys, that seemed another morn
Risen on mid noon; blest with the presence
Of that sole Sister ----
Now, after separation desolate,
Restored to me--such absence that she seemed
A gift then first bestowed."
It cannot be doubted that the poetic tendency of Dorothy Wordsworth's
mind, like that of her brother, was fostered by the beauties of the
natural scenery in the midst of which a large portion of her childhood
was cast. The beauty of wood, and lake, and mountain early sank into
their receptive minds, and helped to make them what they became, both to
each other, and to the world. To the influence of Nature in the maturing
of their intellect, the development of both mind and heart, it may be
necessary to refer later.
During the last of his college vacations--that of the year 1790, so
remarkable in French history--Wordsworth made a three months' tour on
the Continent with his friend, Mr. Robert Jones. Writing to his sister,
then budding into womanhood, from the Lake of Constance, a fine
description of the scenery through which they were passing, he says: "I
have thought of you perpetually; and never have my eyes rested upon a
scene of great loveliness but I have almost instantly wished that you
could for a moment be transported to the place where I stood to enjoy
it. I have been more particularly induced to form those wishes, because
the scenes of Switzerland have no resemblance to any I have found in
England; consequently it may probably never be in your power to form an
idea of them." And he concludes by saying: "I must now bid you adieu,
with assuring you that you are perpetually in my thoughts."
Wordsworth took his degree, and left Cambridge in 1791. Being undecided
as to his future occupation, he spent the succeeding twelve months in
France. His life for some time was wandering and uncertain. He has
himself stated that he was once told by an intimate friend of his
mother's that she had said the only one of her five children about
whose future life she was anxious was William; and he, she said, would
be remarkable either for good or for evil.
Wordsworth's experience of the French Revolution was far from being
happy. His expectations were ruthlessly disappointed. With his ardent
spirit he could not be an unconcerned observer of the stirring events
which then agitated that ill-fated country. He had bright hopes of great
results from the Revolution--of signal benefits to mankind. How bitterly
he was disappointed we learn something from "The Prelude." The awful
scenes of the time of blood and terror which followed were so deeply
imaged on his mind, that for years afterwards they haunted his dreams,
and he seemed
"To hear a voice that cried,
To the whole city, sleep no more."
Fortunately for him he was obliged to return home, led, as he afterwards
acknowledged, "by the gracious Providence of heaven."
It was now quite time that Wordsworth should determine upon his future
career; and this important subject seems to have occasioned some anxiety
amongst his friends. His father, having been taken away in the prime of
life, had not been able to make much provision for his children,
especially as a considerable sum which had been due to him from the Earl
of Lonsdale remained unpaid. It had been intended that, after leaving
the University, Wordsworth should enter the Church. To this, however, he
had conscientious objections. On other grounds the profession of the law
was equally distasteful to him. His three brothers had chosen their
pursuits, in which they all lived to distinguish themselves; but the one
who was destined to be the greatest of them all, we find, at the age of
twenty-three, still undetermined as to his future course of life. He
had, indeed, at an early age, begun to write some of his earlier poems,
to which, it is worthy of remark, he was incited and encouraged by his
sister. Among other pieces, his "Evening Walk," addressed to his sister,
had been composed when, at school and during his college vacations, he
had been "far from that dearest friend."
However much Wordsworth's relatives and friends generally may have been
disappointed in his want of decision, Dorothy's confidence in him and
her love to him never wavered. In a letter, written to a dear friend,
dated February, 1792, she says, speaking of her brothers Christopher and
William: "Christopher is steady and sincere in his attachments. William
has both these virtues in an eminent degree, and a sort of violence of
affection--if I may so term it--which demonstrates itself every moment
of the day, when the objects of his affection are present with him, in a
thousand almost imperceptible attentions to their wishes, in a sort of
restless watchfulness which I know not how to describe, a tenderness
that never sleeps, and, at the same time, such a delicacy of manner as I
have observed in few men." Again, writing in June, 1792, to the same
friend, she says: "I have strolled into a neighbouring meadow, where I
am enjoying the melody of birds and the busy sounds of a fine summer's
evening. But, oh! how imperfect is my pleasure whilst I am alone! Why
are you not seated with me? and my dear William, why is he not here
also? I could almost fancy that I see you both near me. I hear _you_
point out a spot, where, if we could erect a little cottage and call it
our own, we should be the happiest of human beings. I see my brother
fired with the idea of leading his sister to such a retreat. Our parlour
is in a moment furnished; our garden is adorned by magic; the roses and
honeysuckles spring at our command; the wood behind the house lifts its
head, and furnishes us with a winter's shelter and a summer's noonday
shade. My dear friend, I trust that ere long you will be, without the
aid of imagination, the companion of my walks, and my dear William may
be of our party.... He is now going upon a tour in the West of England
with a gentleman who was formerly a schoolfellow--a man of fortune, who
is to bear all the expenses of the journey, and only requests the favour
of William's company. He is perfectly at liberty to quit this companion
as soon as anything more advantageous offers. But it is enough to say
that I am likely to have the happiness of introducing you to my beloved
brother. You must forgive me for talking so much of him. My affection
hurries me on, and makes me forget that you cannot be so much interested
in the subject as I am. You do not know him; you do not know how amiable
he is. Perhaps you may reply: 'But I know how blinded you are.' Well, my
dearest, I plead guilty at once; I _must_ be blind; he cannot be so
pleasing as my fondness makes him. I am willing to allow that half the
virtues with which I fancy him endowed are the creation of my love; but
surely I may be excused! He was never afraid of comforting his sister;
he never left her in anger; he always met her with joy; he preferred her
society to every other pleasure--or, rather, when we were so happy as to
be within each other's reach, he had no pleasure when we were compelled
to be divided. Do not, then, expect too much from this brother, of whom
I have delighted so to talk to you. In the first place, you must be with
him more than once before he will be perfectly easy in conversation. In
the second place, his person is not in his favour--at least, I should
think not--but I soon ceased to discover this; nay, I almost thought
that the opinion I had formed was erroneous. He is, however, certainly
rather plain, though otherwise has an extremely thoughtful countenance;
but when he speaks, it is often lighted up by a smile which I think very
pleasing. But enough, he is my brother; why should I describe him? I
shall be launching again into panegyric." Again she says: "William
writes to me regularly, and is a most affectionate brother."
It is gratifying to know that this warm attachment of Miss Wordsworth to
her brother was at all times returned. In the year 1793, when they were
discussing the means of realising their cherished idea of retiring to
their little cottage, Wordsworth writes: "I will write to my uncle, and
tell him I cannot think of going anywhere before I have been with you.
Whatever answer he gives me, I certainly will make a point of once more
mingling my transports with yours. Alas! my dear sister, how soon must
this happiness expire; yet there are moments worth ages." Again he says:
"Oh, my dear, dear sister, with what transport shall I again meet you!
with what rapture shall I again wear out the day in your sight!... I see
you in a moment running, or rather flying, to my arms."
In the early part of 1794, having still no fixed residence, we find
Wordsworth staying at Halifax. Writing in February of that year to a
friend, he says: "My sister is under the same roof with me; indeed, it
was to see her that I came into the country. I have been doing nothing,
and still continue to do nothing. What is to become of me I know not."
About this time the brother and sister together made a tour in the Lake
District. She writes: "After having enjoyed the company of my brother
William at Halifax, we set forward by coach towards Whitehaven, and
thence to Kendal. I walked, with my brother at my side, from Kendal to
Grasmere, eighteen miles, and afterwards from Grasmere to Keswick,
fifteen miles, through the most delightful country that was ever seen.
We are now at a farmhouse about half a mile from Keswick. When I came I
intended to stay only a few days; but the country is so delightful, and,
above all, I have so full an enjoyment of my brother's company, that I
have determined to stay a few weeks longer."
In his uncertainty of mind Wordsworth projected the publishing of a
periodical, and afterwards contributing to the London Newspaper Press.
That the latter scheme was not put into practice was owing to the fact
that just at this time an incident occurred which had no small influence
upon what may be considered the turning point in his life.