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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
102
When
the
woman
was
gone,
I
could
not
help
thinking
that
we
are
not
half
thankful
enough
that
we
are
placed
in
that
condition
of
life
in
which
we
are.
We
do
not
so
often
bless
God
for
this,
as
we
wish
for
this
£50,
that
£100,
etc.
etc.
We
have
not,
however,
to
reproach
ourselves
with
ever
breathing
a
murmur.
This
woman's
was
but
a
common
case.
The
snow
still
lies
upon
the
ground.
Just
at
the
closing
in
of
the
day,
I
heard
a
cart
pass
the
door,
and
at
the
same
time
the
dismal
sound
of
a
crying
infant.
I
went
to
the
window,
and
had
light
enough
to
see
that
a
man
was
driving
a
cart,
which
seemed
not
to
be
very
full,
and
that
a
woman
with
an
infant
in
her
arms
was
following
close
behind
and
a
dog
close
to
her.
It
was
a
wild
and
melancholy
sight.
Wm.
rubbed
his
tables
after
candles
were
lighted,
and
we
sate
a
long
time
with
the
windows
unclosed,
and
almost
finished
writing
The
Pedlar;
but
poor
Wm.
wore
himself
out,
and
me
out,
with
labour.
We
had
an
affecting
conversation.
Went
to
bed
at
12
o'clock.
Saturday,
13th.--It
snowed
a
little
this
morning.
Still
at
work
at
The
Pedlar,
altering
and
refitting.
We
did
not
walk,
though
it
was
a
very
fine
day.
We
received
a
present
of
eggs
and
milk
from
Janet
Dockeray,
and
just
before
she
went,
the
little
boy
from
the
Hill
brought
us
a
letter
from
Sara
H.,
and
one
from
the
Frenchman
in
London.
I
wrote
to
Sara
after
tea,
and
Wm.
took
out
his
old
newspapers,
and
the
new
ones
came
in
soon
after.
We
sate,
after
I
had
finished
the
letter,
talking;
and
Wm.
read
parts
of
his
Recluse
aloud
to
me....
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