Only a sister's part--yes, that was all;
And yet her life was bright, and full, and free.
She did not feel, "I give up all for him";
She only knew, "'Tis mine his friend to be."
The author of "Mornings in Spring" refers to Sir Philip and Mary
Sidney as affording the most pleasing example of devotion between a
brother and sister on record. He was probably correct in his estimate,
for at the time when he wrote, the story of Dorothy Wordsworth was
unknown. The opinion cannot, however, any longer be held. For among
the fair cluster who in life's firmament hallow the sphere of
sisterhood is one who must long claim the honoured place--Dorothy
Wordsworth; look where we will, in her life she is the same, always
loving, helpful, stimulating, inspiring, and faithful. The childhood's
playmate feeds the brother's love, and becomes, even then, his
"blessing." The very thought of the absent sister is like a "flash of
light" cheering the loneliness of college chambers. The young woman
stimulates the youthful poet, and calls back faith to the soul and
hope to the despairing life, praises where others blame, with the
prophetic eye of love divines the dormant power, and foresees the
honoured future. Then follows the life-long companionship, involving
for many years devoted service, both intellectual and household. For
Dorothy Wordsworth was often the provider of subjects for her
brother's poems, with diligent labour copied those poems, at the same
time, by her reading and study, making herself his intellectual
companion, and presiding over the household. And through all not the
least part of her service lay in her complete self-effacement. With
her intellectual endowment and rare literary skill she possessed the
ability to have made herself no mean place in literature. All were
surrendered in thought for the brother. Faithful Dorothy! Well might
her brother love her with an almost unexampled love, this brightest
example of sisterly devotion!
William and Dorothy Wordsworth were children of John Wordsworth, a
solicitor practising in the quiet town of Cockermouth and agent of the
then Earl of Lonsdale. Dorothy, who was the only daughter, was about a
year and nine months younger than William, and was born on Christmas
Day, 1771.
Circumstances sad in themselves not unfrequently tend to the
development of latent character in a child; and to the surroundings of
their earliest years and the influences then beginning to work we must
look for the first germs from which was to spring the future harvest.
The loss of their mother when Dorothy was about six years old was the
first of a succession of troubles which struck the lives of this
brother and sister. This mother had been the centre of their home, the
pivot round which their young lives turned. As Wordsworth afterwards
said:--
She was the heart
And hinge of all our learning and our loves.
The little Dorothy was an impetuous, warm-hearted child, tender and
loving, with the need of a home for the affections of her deep nature.
With the loss of her mother she seems to have turned with an abandon
of love to the brother next in age to herself. He was her playmate.
The old garden with the terrace walk on the banks of the Derwent was
the scene of many childish rambles and confidences. In later years,
the poet in a few exquisite lines recalls the ministry of those early
years. The flit of the butterfly brings to mind the time of many a
childish gambol, the chief remembrance of which was the thought how
she
Feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.
There, also, was the Sparrow's Dwelling:
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.
Not long, however, after the death of their mother, William was sent
to school at Hawkshead, and Dorothy for a time lived with the father
of her late mother at Penrith.
The death of their father, when Dorothy was about twelve years old,
caused the entire break up of their early home, and from thence for
some years their personal intercourse was only renewed at intervals.
The father had not died in circumstances by any means affluent; but,
through the kindness of prudent guardians, Wordsworth was enabled to
finish his education at Cambridge. Dorothy meanwhile was passing her
teens amid circumstances and scenes not the most congenial. Their
absence from each other only stimulated their growing love. A visit to
her during a vacation was to the brother blest
With a joy
Above all joys, that seemed another morn
Risen at mid noon; blessed with the presence
Of that sole sister
Now, after separation desolate,
Restored to me--such absence that she seemed
A gift then first bestowed.
Even now Dorothy was cherishing the design that she might become her
brother's life companion. She looked forward to a time when they might
be restored to each other--living loving life in a cottage, her
brother great, she his servant and helper. This was the great hope
that sustained her amidst present heart-yearning.
The history of Wordsworth about this time is now well known. College
days over, an uncertainty of aim and purpose was the reason of his not
fixing upon some occupation. His twelve months' residence in France
during the period of the great Revolution did not assist in the
solution of the problem of the young man's life, but only further
entangled it. The outcome of the national struggle was bitterly
disappointing to the enthusiastic English youth who had watched its
progress with such keen interest. A change of rule was to be the dawn
of hope to the nations. But when, instead of peace came strife and
outrage, instead of prosperity misery, instead of freedom tyranny,
instead of the fruition of hope the gloom of despair--then Wordsworth
bowed his head in bitterness, ready almost to doubt the Almighty
government of the world.
But the angel of his life came to his aid. Although their happiness
was delayed, and Wordsworth's purposes remained unformed a year or two
longer, the watchful love of his sister came as a soothing balm, and
her dominant influence as a healing virtue. Friends blamed, but the
sister confided, and encouraged her brother's desire to become a poet.
Writing to a friend she says:
"William ... has 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." And again, "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 other
pleasure when we were compelled to be divided."
What prevented now the carrying out of their long-formed project of
living together was, unfortunately, their want of means. Without a
profession for the brother, they appear to have been almost without
income. But Providence gave what fortune withheld. The legacy of £900
bequeathed to Wordsworth by a friend whom he had nursed, and who
recognised his genius, at length removed the cause which had kept the
brother and sister apart. With scanty means, but overflowing love,
they faced the world and conquered fate. The late Bishop of Lincoln,
alluding to this period, says of Dorothy: "She was endowed with tender
sensibility, with an exquisite perception of beauty, with a retentive
recollection of what she saw, with a felicitous tact in discerning,
and admirable skill in delineating natural objects with graphic
accuracy and vivid gracefulness. She weaned him from contemporary
politics, and won him to beauty and truth."
Wordsworth himself, the most reliable informant as to what his sister
did for him and was to him, says:
Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walk
With scoffers, seeking light and gay revenge
From indiscriminate laughter, nor sit down
In reconcilement with an utter waste
Of intellect....
Then it was--
Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good--
That the beloved sister in whose sight
Those days were passed, now speaking in a voice
Of sudden admonition--like a brook
That did but cross a lonely road, now
Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn,
Companion never lost through many a league--
Maintained for me a saving intercourse
With my true self; for, though bedimmed and changed
Much, as it seemed, I was no further changed
Than as a clouded, and a waning moon;
She whispered still that brightness would return.
She, in the midst of all, preserved me still
A poet; made me seek beneath that name,
And that alone, my office upon earth.
The first home of William and Dorothy Wordsworth was at Racedown. Here
their real life began for which their previous course had been a
fitting preparation. Since the "home extinct" of their childhood they
had both been more or less lonely; and now their dream was realised
and their heart-yearning satisfied. It was not a life of idleness or
self-indulgence. A singular similarity of taste and aim, added to the
unusually strong natural affections, made existence for them a charm.
Dorothy's strength of character is shown in the potent influence for
good upon a nature like that of her brother. And she was as constant
as faithful, as humble as powerful. Through a long life she never
wavered; as year by year passed, her skill and judgment gaining
maturity, her devotion appears in greater beauty.
It was while at Racedown that the friendship of Coleridge was made, a
friendship close and lasting. For the sake of his companionship the
Wordsworths soon went to reside at Alfoxden, in the neighbourhood of
Nether Stowey. This proved to be a happy and fruitful period. The
three poets (for Dorothy was essentially a poet) were almost
inseparable, their rambles together by hill and combe and stream being
followed by high discourse and mutual work in the dim lamp-light. Here
the Lyrical ballads were written.
Alfoxden did not, however, prove to be the poet's permanent home.
After a residence there of about a little over a year, and a short
period abroad, Wordsworth and his sister fixed upon the centre of
England's lakeland as the scene of their future life. In the loved
vale of Grasmere, on December 21, 1799, they took up their abode in
the now famous Dove Cottage, a home of memories without peer.[5]
[5] Dove Cottage is now National property. For some years it
was among the most treasured possessions of the present
writer, who, at the solicitation of the Rev. Stopford Brooke
and others, recently conveyed it for the purpose of a
Wordsworth Memorial. It is now vested in Trustees on behalf
of the public in a similar way to Shakespeare's birthplace
at Stratford-on-Avon.
How the poet and his sister came to love their retreat among the
mountains is well known. The few following years were among the most
fruitful of his life. His best and most important work was there done.
The humble cottage and "garden orchard" are not only immortalised in
his verse, but were the scene of his loftiest labours. And Dorothy,
meanwhile, not only inspired his ardour, fed both thought and pen, but
laboured with her hands in the kitchen and at the desk. The following
extract from the recently published _Recluse_ (written at this time)
not only shows Wordsworth's satisfaction with his choice of residence,
but his sustained feeling of his exceeding indebtedness to his
sister:--
Can the choice mislead,
That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth.
With all its unappropriated good,
My own; and not mine only, for with me
Entrenched, say rather peacefully embowered,
Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,
A younger orphan of a home extinct,
The only daughter of my parents dwells.
Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir;
Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame
No longer breathe, but all be satisfied.
Oh, if such a silence be not thanks to God
For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then
Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'er
Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind
Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts,
But either she whom now I have, who now
Divides with me this loved abode, was there,
Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned,
Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang;
The thought of her was like a flash of light,
Or an unseen companionship--a breath
Of fragrance independent of the wind.
In all my goings, in the new and old,
Of all my meditations, and in this
Favourite of all, in this the most of all.
Probably warmer and more loving praise was never bestowed or more
happily expressed than is contained in these lines, unless, indeed, it
be in the following, in which the poet, again alluding to his sister,
speaks of the beneficent character of their intercourse:--
She who dwells with me, whom I have loved
With such communion, that no place on earth
Can ever be a solitude to me....
Once more, recounting in the "Prelude" the master influences which had
entered into his life, prominent place is given to that exerted by his
sister:--
Child of my parents! Sister of my soul!
Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere
Poured out for all the early tenderness
Which I from thee imbibed; and 'tis most true
That later seasons owed to thee no less;
For, spite of thy sweet influence, and the touch
Of kindred hands that opened out the springs
Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite
Of all that, unassisted, I had marked
In life, or nature, of those charms minute,
That win their way into the heart by stealth,
Still, to the very going out of youth,
I, too, exclusively esteemed _that_ love,
And sought _that_ beauty, which, as Milton sings,
Hath terror in it; but thou didst soften down
This over sternness; but for thee, dear friend!
My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood
In her original self too confident,
Retained too long a countenance severe;
A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds
Familiar, and a favourite of the stars:
But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers,
Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze,
And teach the little birds to build their nests
And warble in its chambers. At a time
When Nature, destined to remain so long
Foremost in my affections, had fallen back
Into a second place, pleased to become
A handmaid to a nobler than herself,
When every day brought with it some new sense
Of exquisite regard for common things,
And all the earth was budding with these gifts
Of more refined humanity, thy breath,
Dear sister, was a kind of gentler spring
That went before my steps.
The marriage of Wordsworth, in 1802, did not occasion any waning of
sympathy or cessation of intercourse between him and his sister. The
circle was then only widened, not broken. Dorothy continued to be an
honoured inmate of her brother's home, the sharer of his labours, and
companion of his walks and excursions; in speech as well as in silence
together garnering scenes of beauty and flowers of thought both for
their own future lives and the world's weal. Thus the years passed
with them calmly; each in its varying experiences of intense
life--life haloed by the inward eye which glorifies the daily task,
and finds in all Nature a fitting shrine--worth a decade of common
days. It was a time of rare friendships also. It was by no means true
of the Wordsworths that they withdrew themselves from the world in a
selfish seclusion. Necessarily they were sensitive, and shunned the
world's loud ways. If this had not been so we should never have had
some of the finest poems in the language. To the humble cottage at
Grasmere came, however, for treasured intercourse with the great
master, many of the most gifted and cultured men of the time. But not
for these only did Wordsworth live and write. He loved, and moved in
and out among the sturdy and independent dalesmen among whom he had
chosen to pass his life. There he found food for thought and pen, and
perhaps never became grander in song or higher as a teacher than in
delineating human life and nature as found in lowly homes.
As has been suggested, Miss Wordsworth might have earned for herself a
place in literature had she not so entirely lived only for and in her
brother. She was one of the most graceful and accomplished of letter
writers; and the fragments from her journals, from time to time given
to the world, written chiefly in the Alfoxden days and the early years
at Grasmere, contain passages of rare beauty. To instance a few lines
only. Alluding to a favourite birch tree, she says: "It was yielding
to a gust of wind with all its tender twigs; the sun shone upon it,
and it glanced in the wind like a flying sunshiny shower. It was a
tree in shape, with stem and branches; but it was like a spirit of
water." Recording one of her early visits with her brother to the
Continent, she says: "Left London between five and six o'clock of the
morning, outside the Dover coach. A beautiful morning. The city, St.
Paul's, with the river--multitude of boats--made a beautiful sight as
we crossed Westminster Bridge; the houses not overhung by their clouds
of smoke, and were spread out endlessly, yet the sun shone so
brightly, with such a pure light, that there was something like the
purity of one of Nature's own grand spectacles.... Arrived at Calais
at four in the morning. Delightful walks in the evening; seeing far
off in the west the coast of England, like a cloud, crested with Dover
Castle, the evening star and the glory of the sky; the reflections in
the water were more beautiful than the sky itself; purple waves
brighter than precious stones for ever melting away upon the sands."
Deeply interesting as Miss Wordsworth's journals are, passages like
these make us wish she had written more.
After between eight and nine years' residence in Grasmere, Miss
Wordsworth accompanied her brother and his family on their removal to
Rydal Mount. Here they lived for the remainder of their lives, and
grew old together.
During many of their later years the life of the household was
saddened and that of Miss Wordsworth darkened by the heavy affliction
that came upon her. The exact date or occasion is somewhat doubtful,
as well as to the extent to which Miss Wordsworth was afflicted. It
was probably owing to her indefatigable exertions as a pedestrian in
her intense love of Nature, and to want of sufficient care, that her
splendid physical powers gave way. In 1832 she had an illness which
resulted in brain fever, from the effects of which she never
recovered. A few years later she became permanently invalided, and a
long evening of life was passed more or less under a cloud. The
present writer has the best of reasons for believing that the gravity
of her mental condition during this period has been somewhat
exaggerated. That the physical prostration became complete, and her
keen mental powers sadly impaired, there is, unhappily, no doubt. But
her affection of mind was chiefly shown by loss of memory; and her
condition, even at the worst, was alleviated by many bright and lucid
intervals. Her poem on "The Floating Island," written so late as 1842,
is an abundant evidence of this.
In her suffering Miss Wordsworth was exemplary. To Wordsworth himself
his sister's illness was a source of great sorrow. Remembering what
she had been to him, we cannot wonder that, as Lady Richardson said of
him: "There is always something touching in his way of speaking of his
sister. The tones of his voice become very gentle and soothing."
Notwithstanding her long and sad affliction, Miss Wordsworth survived
her brother five years. On account of her own condition, she was
unable to be with him during his illness, and on being informed of his
death, which took place on April 23, 1850, when she fully realised
that "William" was no more, she exclaimed that life had nothing left
worth living for. A friend who was present said, in reference to her:
"She is drawn about as usual in her chair. She was heard to say, as
she passed the door where the body lay, "O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory?""
Miss Wordsworth's last years were tenderly cared for by those who had
so long loved both her and her more famous brother. She died on
January 25, 1855, in her eighty-third year. She is buried by her
brother's side in Grasmere Churchyard.