leges. Nay, he went so far upon the line of this new crusade against the evils of the world, that he even accepted-with a conscientious defiance of his own inevitable homage to the erring spirit of loyalty embarked upon that cause a commission in the Republican armies preparing to move against La Vendee; and finally in that cause, as commander-in-chief, he laid down his life."

RETURNS TO ENGLAND.

BEFORE this last event occurred, however, in the autumn of 1792, Wordsworth had left France for London, where he remained, more or less, for upwards of a year; and it was during this time, that he wrote the unpublished letter to the Bishop of Llandaff, respecting the political opinions of his lordship, contained in an appendix to one of his sermons, a portion of which letter has already been quoted. And although Wordsworth still cleaves to his democratic ideas, and announces them fearlessly to the bishop, he by no means sympathises, as will be seen, with the mad actors in the Revolution. On the contrary, he is pained to agony when he hears of the atrocities committed in the name of liberty; and when, in the year 1794, crossing the sands of

Morecomb Bay, during one of his visits to Cumberland, he asked of a horseman who was passing, "What news?" and received for answer, that" Robespierre had perished," "a passion seized him, a transport of almost epileptic fervour prompted him, as he stood alone upon the perilous waste of sands, to shout aloud anthems of thanksgiving, for this great vindication of Eternal justice."

Wordsworth was shocked, however, when England, after the death of the king, on January 21st, 1793, declared war with France, and now resolved to withdraw his mind, as much as possible, from the disappointed hopes which politics had brought him as their harvest, and devote himself to poetry. Accordingly, he left London, and once more commenced his ramblings, and poetic labours. He passed a part of the summer of 1793 in the Isle of Wight, hoping to find repose there; but the booming of terrible cannon, every evening, at Portsmouth, and the consciousness that a fleet was equipping in that port against France, made him sad, and full of misgivings as to the result of the enterprise. He soon left the beautiful island, therefore, and wandered, on foot, all

over the vast plain of Salisbury-visiting the old and melancholy temple of the ancient Druids and passing thence by Bristol and Tintern to North Wales. It was during this tour, on Salisbury Plain, that he commenced his poem entitled "Guilt and Sorrow;" a production of considerable vigour and ability.

Having now, in 1793, completed his twentythird year, his friends again urged him to receive holy orders; but, feeling that he was not inwardly prepared for this important step, he again refused. The principle manifested in this refusal, is all the more worthy and memorable, because the poet had, at this time, no hearthstone, no place that he could call his. His time was employed, therefore, in travelling about, from place to place, and from friend to friend; now to good Robert Jones, in Wales,the man whom De Quincy conjectures to have had no brains, and for which I owe the said De Quincy a grudge, notwithstanding that I think more highly of him than any other man now living in these realms, and now to Mr. Rawson's, of Millhouse, Halifax, who had married Wordsworth's cousin, Miss Threlkeld, the lady who brought up Dorothy Wordsworth.

the dearly beloved sister of the poet. In 1794, Wordsworth writes to his friend Mathews" that his sister is under the same roof with him; but that he is doing nothing, and knows not what will become of him." All his path lay dark and gloomy before him. He was recommended to study the law, but he absolutely refused; and the Fates seemed to be sporting with him. His love for Dorothy grew in him every day, and it was in the year I am now speaking of, that she, having accompanied him by coach. from Halifax to Kendal, walked with him from the latter place to Grasmere eighteen miles, and from thence to Keswick-fifteen miles further, where they put up at a farm-house, called Windybrow, and became thenceforth all-in-all to each other.

But the grand question for Wordsworth now to solve was, how he should earn his daily bread. His poetry brought no grist to the mill; and he had no friends to fall back on. In this condition, he wrote to his friend Mathews, who was connected with the London Press, to get him employment upon one of the daily or weekly papers, but without success.