She lies now by her brother's
side in the crowded little churchyard, and doubtless the "sweet bells
jangled" are in tune again. A lovely group of children filled the
Wordsworth home, some of whom died in childhood; but one daughter and
two sons lived, as loving companions for their parents, until near the
end of the poet's life, when the daughter Dora preceded him a little
into the silent land. Wordsworth was utterly inconsolable for her loss;
and used to spend the long winter evenings in tears, week after week,
and month after month. Mrs. Wordsworth was much braver than he, and bore
her own burdens calmly, while trying to cheer his exaggerated gloom. He
was old and broken at this time, and never recovered from the shock of
his daughter's death. Mrs. Wordsworth survived him for several years,
being over ninety at the time of her death, and having long been deaf
and blind. But she was very cheerful and active to the last, and not
unwilling to live on, even with her darkened vision. The devotion of the
old poet to his wife was very touching, and she who had idolized him in
life was never weary of recounting his virtues when he was gone.

The character of Wordsworth is getting to be understood as we recede
from the prejudices of the time in which he lived, and begins to assume
something like a consistent whole, compared to the contradictions which
at one time seemed to be inherent in it. He says of his own childhood:--

"I was of a stiff, moody, and violent temper; so much so that I
remember going once into the attic of my grandfather's house at
Penrith, upon some indignity having been put upon me, with an
intention of destroying myself with one of the foils which I knew
were kept there. I took the foil in my hand, but my heart failed."

De Quincey says of his boyhood:--

"I do not conceive that Wordsworth could have been an amiable boy;
he was austere and unsocial, I have reason to think, in his habits;
not generous; and above all, not self-denying. Throughout his
later life, with all the benefits of a French discipline, in the
lesser charities of social intercourse he has always exhibited a
marked impatience of those particular courtesies of life. . . .
Freedom,--unlimited, careless, insolent freedom,--unoccupied
possession of his own arms,--absolute control over his own legs and
motions,--these have always been so essential to his comfort that