passion as was possible to him, into that "I looked for something that I could not find, new Gospel of brotherhood and freedom Affecting more emotion than I felt." which turned so many young heads and He is bewildered by his own tranquillity filled so many hearts with hope. Not for which he compares to that of a plant himself only, but as the type of his gener-glassed in a greenhouse,"

"That spreads its leaves in unmolested peace, While every bush and tree the country through

Is shaking to its roots."

ation, he sets before us the new revolution, which roused it into passionate excitement, hope, and delight. The Golden Age was coming back, to elevate and change this commonplace world. Genius, goodness, merit, the higher qualities of And strangely amid the blaze and carnage mind and heart, were to be henceforward of the time comes his record of his long the titles of rank, the keys of power, the walks and talks with his friend Beaupius, only real distinctions; and, as a natural the patriot soldier who afterwards consequence, oppression, misery, poverty," Perished fighting in supreme command, crime, and every evil thing, were to disappear from the face of a renovated earth.

Upon the borders of the unhappy Loire."

When the march of events quickens, we find him again in Paris, not so tranquil, ders about looking for traces of the Sepbut yet musing and pondering as he wantember massacre which had happened just a month before, and gazing upon the scene of that terrible tragedy

"As doth a man Upon a volume whose contents he knows Are memorable, but from him locked up, Being written in a tongue be cannot read." His heart is troubled; be cannot understand the meaning of this bloody interpolation in the tale of freedom. His imagination yields to the terror that broods in the air. When he reaches the high and lonely chamber under the roof where his lodging is, he watches all night trying to read by intervals, unable to sleep, thinking he hears a voice cry to the whole city "Sleep no more!" And feeling that the place, "all hushed and silent as it was," had become

"Unfit for the repose of night, Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam." Yet notwithstanding this impression of pain and doubt, his conviction of the justice and inevitable success of the cause was unwavering. "From all doubt," he says,

"Or trepidation of the end of things,

Far was I as the angels are from guilt." So profound was his faith, that when he returned home and found England excited by discussions about the slave-trade, he dismissed the subject with a certain contempt, feeling that if France and the cause of freedom in her propered, all other questions were settled in this one, and every wrong must be redressed. There is nothing in the poet's life so strange as this plunge of his disciplined and law-loy

ing nature into the wild dream of the Rev-Jest and highest of causes lost in excess olution. The anguish it caused him, as the dream gradually dissipated and hope died away, is but lightly touched; but he tells with sorrowful vehemence of his dismay and despair when he found his own country joining in the alliance against patriot France and the cause of freedom, which had survived the Terror and all its

Given to my inmost nature had I known
Down to that very moment."

He cries with sharp pain. He can say no
prayer for success to the arms of England,
nor thanksgiving for her victories. This
is the strange light under which his con-
temporary eyes regarded the action of
England, at a moment upon which we now
look back with so much pride. Words-
worth looks on and sees the expedition
fitted out, the fleets ready to sail, with
tears of indignant passion in his eyes.
"Oh, pity and shame!" he cries. To him
this intervention, so potential as it turned
out to be so splendidly different, as
many people think it, from anything Eng-
land could or would do now was an act
which tore away

and crime, was such an argument as might well have moved the calmnest. He could not accept it without an effort to account for it, and harmonize this extraordinary undercurrent of discord which seemed to have broken into the majestic chorus of the universe by will of the devil, not by will of God. And accordingly he tells us with lofty sadness how, in the downfall of his hopes he was not without that consolation and "creed of reconcilement" which the old prophets had when they were called by their duty to denounce punishment and vengeance, or to see their threats fulfilled. This is the conclusion he comes to while yet his heart is wrung and all his nerves tingling :

"Then was the truth received into my heart

That under transient sorrow earth can bring
If from the afflictions somehow do not grow,
Honour which could not else have been; a
faith

For Christians, and a sanctity,

If new strength be not given, nor old restored,
The fault is ours, not nature's.”

Thus from this great shock and mental tempest came the melancholy yet lofty philosophy which runs through all Wordsworth's works his constant endeavour to prove, if we may use such words, the From the best youth in England their dear reasonableness of sorrow in the theory of

"By violence at one decisive rent

pride, Their joy in England."

Thus strongly does Time change the aspect of affairs, and blind one generation to the hopes and passions of another.

human existence - the necessity for it, and the grandeur of its use, which justified its employment. "Honour, which could not else have been." This is putting the argument in a much stronger way than that It may be said that this stormy and ter- sickening suggestion that "everything is rible chapter in Wordsworth's life was but for the best," with which the commonthe natural outbreak of revolutionary feel-place comforters of this world do their liting so common in human experience, an tle possible to aggravate grief. The episode which, while full of youth's wild-reader will find how persistently Wordsest vagaries, is quite consistent with the worth holds by this thread of belief equally natural conservatism of maturer through all his works. He makes it a years. We think, however, that the effect principle even that sorrow past becomes it produced on the poet's mind and genius lovely, "not sorrow, but delight;" and gives it a more important character. that there is misery There is something in the peculiar tone "That is not pain of his philosophy throughout all his afterTo hear of, for the glory that redounds life which tells of a great shock underTherefrom to humankind, and what we are.' gone, and an immense mental effort made, to justify those ways of God to man which This is his constant theme. He will allow are at once the stumbling-block and the no grief to be dwelt upon for itself - no strong-hold of all thinking souls. Per- pang to be suffered without some compensonal loss would not have driven his dis-sation. "The purposes of wisdom ask no ciplined and self-controlled nature into more," is his verdict after the first tears bitter and painful encounter with this have been shed, and the first sharp pang great problem as it does to some minds; of pity has gone through the heart. His but the vaster question of a nation's well-"Wanderer turns away "and walks being, and the still more poignant misery along the road in happiness," when he sees of beholding what seemed to him the holi- how calmly nature has composed the ruin

and disarray of Margaret's deserted cot-1 tage. Anguish and despair, however bitter, must pass away, and good remains, or ought to remain, in their place. This is the imperative doctrine which he preaches, perhaps all the more earnestly because it is difficult for the mind to hold by it through all the miseries of the world. It was the doctrine with which, in the face of the gigantic calamities of France, he had endeavoured to comfort his own sore and bitterly disappointed heart.

66 un

turbances and convulsions being over, It was at this point, all its early disthat the poet's life, as we have learned to know it- the serene sober existence, 'plain living and high thinking," which he After he returned to England afterwards made into an ideal life among willingly," he says he lived what he the Westmoreland hills began. The himself calls an "undomestic wanderer's choice was a strange one to be made by a life" for some two years. His friends wished him to enter the Church, which he this time had shown a love for wandering young man, just twenty-four, who up to was now of fit age to do; and he himself, and adventure, and who had just come anxious by any means to escape that nethrough a crisis of intense political excitecessity, made some attempts to gain ad- ment. To such a one, the observer would mittance into the feverish field of journal-naturally conclude, active life, society, the ism. But it is clear, that his desultory applause of his fellows, and intercourse and self-governed youth had not qualified with them, would have been the first him for the regular work and restraint things sought; but such was not the deci which any profession would have demand- sion of Wordsworth. His head was full of ed; and both these dangers were speedily the highest theories of life and poetry, and staved off by the death of Raisley Calvert, a young friend with whom he had been travelling, whom he attended through his last illness, and who left to him the sum of £900. This was no great fortune, it is true, but to Wordsworth, who had nothing, it meant independenee, and almost salvation. This bequest," he wrote some years later to Sir George Beaumont," was from a young man with whom, though I call him friend, I had had but little connection; and the act was done entirely from a confidence on his part that I had powers and attainments which might be of use to mankind." This opened at once a new life to the poet, the troublous and uncertain existence of his early years came to an end, and with grateful gladness Wordsworth settled down, as so few people are able to do, to carry out his own theory of life, and shape his career as he pleased. Even at this early period, a pervading consciousness

that he was not as other men are, and |
that it was fit and becoming that extraor-
dinary means should be taken by Provi-
dence and his friends to fit him for his!
mission, is evident in all he says. Thus
he celebrates the memory of his young
benefactor with a sense that poor Calvert's
life has been well expended in this final
effort, and that he has acquired by it a
title to immortality. "This care
thine," he says,

"That I, if frugal and severe, might stray
Where'er I liked, and finally array

was

he was already his own judge and standard,
There is a certain mist of ardour and
holding lightly the opinions of others.
friendliness in youth which conceals the
harsher features of character; but already
it is apparent that Wordsworth considered
most things primarily as educating influ-
ences for himself, and means of perfecting
his individual being. For this, in a great
degree, the French Revolution had been;
and for this- with all tenderness, with
all grateful affection acknowledged, but
still for this-poor Calvert died. What
could men do for the man whom already
God had so marked out for special care
and training? The world was profoundly
interested in everything that could be
done to increase his powers and develop
them, but the world was incapable of
helping much in that great work. Na-
ture, his nurse and instructress of old,
and the silence and quiet in which alone
great seeds of thought can germinate, and
which he needed most.
great projects ripen

these were the aids

And here, too, another personage comes into the tale. The brothers of Wordsworth were all by this time afloat on the world; one in business as a solicitor in London, one at sea in that noble East India Company's service, which then opened a career to sailors; and one entering upon that highly successful career of fellowships and prosperities which ended in the mastership of Trinity College, Cam

bridge. The only other member of the Wordsworth wrote at a later period, with family, Dorothy, the sole sister, had been fond enthusiasm. "It was the first home brought up in the home of an uncle. Her I had." Here the two young poets-for character was a peculiar one. She was such they were, though one was voiceless impetuous, impulsive and irregular the lived and mused, and observed everykind of creature who flourishes best in thing that passed around them. They the indulgent atmosphere of a natural took long walks on the breezy downs, and home. She had been separated from her gazed with brilliant young eyes, which brother since their childhood, and now at noted every ripple and change of colour the first moment when their reunion was over the sea. They gardened, no doubt, possible seems to have rushed to him with- full of novel delight in the space of ground all the impetuosity of her nature. With which, for the moment, they called their out taking his sister into consideration, no own, and read with industry "if readjust estimate can be formed of Words- ing can ever deserve the name of indusworth. He was, as it were, henceforward try," Wordsworth says, with his perennial the spokesman to the world of two souls. indifference to books. Their own youthIt was not that she visibly or consciously ful vigour and freshness of feeling, and aided and stimulated him, but that she unbounded hope, no doubt kept them was hima second pair of eyes to see, a from any oppressive sense of the monotsecond and more delicate intuition to dis- ony of their existence; and so completely cern, a second heart to enter into all that sympathetic and congenial were the pair, came before their mutual observation. that their own society seems to have sufThis union was so close, that in many in- ficed them for two long years, during stances it becomes difficult to discern which there is no record of their career. which is the brother and which the sister. In this period Wordsworth wrote his one She was part not only of his life, but of drama, "The Borderers," a performance his imagination. He saw by her, felt scarcely worthy of him, which did not see through her; at her touch the strings of the light for fifty years, and which even the instrument began to thrill, the great now, we believe, is known to the great melodies awoke. Her journals are Words- majority of his readers only by name. worth in prose, just as his poems are Dor- And up to this time we are not aware othy in verse. The one soul kindled at that he had done anything which could, the other. The brother and sister met by any but the most extraordinary inwith all the enthusiasm of youthful affec- sight, be considered as affording promise tion, strengthened and concentrated by of the splendid future before him. He their long separation, and the delightful had published a volume of "Descriptive sense that here at last was the possibility Sketches of Lake and Alpine Scenery," of making for themselves a home. He not much above the average of university had the income arising from his £900; she composition, a few years before; but it had £100, a legacy which some kind soul would have required the eye of a true had left her; and with this, in their in- seer- one possessed with the very gift of nocent frugality and courage, they faced divination to discern the author of the world like a new pair of babes in the "The Excursion' in those smooth and wood. Their aspirations in one way were softly-flowing lines. infinite, but in another, modest as any cot- Such a seer, however, there was, entager's. Daily bread sufficed them, and lightened by the kindred gift of genius, as the pleasure to be derived from nature, well as by that ardent youthful enthusiasm who is cheap, and gives herself lavishly which so often makes a right guess, without thought or hope of reward. The though on perfectly fallacious grounds. house in which they settled would seem to The name of this first critic who knew have been the first rural cottage which how to appreciate Wordsworth, and forestruck their fancy. It was not even in saw his future glory, was Samuel Taylor their native district, which had so many Coleridge. Seldom, if ever," he had said attractions to them both, but in the tamer | some time before, after reading the "Descenery of Dorsetshire, if anything can scriptive Sketches," "was the emergence be called tame which is near the sea. of an original poetic genius above "The place was very retired, with little or no society, and a post only once aweek." It was called Racedown Lodge, near Crewkerne. "I think Racedown is the place dearest to my recollections upon the whole surface of the island," Miss

66

the literary horizon more evidently announced.". We are not told how the two poets were brought to personal knowledge of each other; but in the summer of 1797, Coleridge appeared at Racedown, and their friendship seems to have at once be

66 one

"Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs."

come most warm and close. They plunged lived. This house was much larger than into sudden acquaintance, sudden love. their previous one, and the country deThere is something very whimsical in lighted them by its beauty; but Miss Wordsworth's record of the first principal inducement was Coleridge's soevening they spent together. "The first ciety," says Miss Wordsworth. They rething," she says, "that was read after he mained here for nearly a year, which came, was William's new poem, the Ru- Wordsworth himself describes as a very ined Cottage' "" (afterwards embodied in pleasant and productive time of my life." the first book of "The Excursion "), "with De Quincey gives a curious sketch of the which he was much delighted; and after feelings of poor little Mrs. Coleridge (for tea he repeated to us two acts and a half the poet was already married), who could. of his tragedy Osorio.' The next even- neither walk nor talk, when the bright ing William read his tragedy, The apparition of Dorothy Wordsworth, not Borderers.' This was an appalling pretty, like the wedded Sara, but brilliant, commencement; but notwithstanding the hasty, sensitive, and sympathetic, burst temptation to smile over such a porten- upon her the sharer of all the long tous way of occupying the placid nothing- rambles, and all the desultory wonderful ness of an evening "after tea," there is conversations which were Greek and Hesomething in the sublime mutual confi- brew to herself. With these little vexadence of the two poets, their intense tions, however, we have nothing to do; youthful gravity, and superiority to all but wonderful were the wanderings by that is ridiculous in the situation, and hill and dale, and sweet that summer, their absorption in the grand pursuit "under whose indulgent shade," which was opening before them, which turns the reader's smile into sympathy. Great as their fame is now, and much as they have accomplished, no doubt there glimmered before them, in the golden mist of these early days, many an impossible feat and triumph greater than any reality. They exhausted themselves in eager theories, exchanging plans and fancies as they walked with their young heads reaching the skies over the combs and uplands. Half spectator, half inspirer, the deepeyed rapid girl between them heard and saw, and felt and enhanced every passing thought and scheme; and, with an enthusiasm which borders on extravagance, they all worshipped and applauded each other. "He is a wonderful man," writes Miss Wordsworth of Coleridge. "His conversation teems with soul, mind, and spirit." Coleridge, on his part, describes "Wordsworth and his exquisite sister" with equal fervour. 66 Ispeak with heartfelt sincerity, and I think unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I feel a little man by his side," he writes; and adds of Dorothy, "In every motion her innocent soul outbeams so brightly, that who saw her would say guilt was a thing impossible with her. Her information is various, her eye watchful in observation of nature, and her taste a perfect electrometer."

This rapid mutual conquest of each other made by the three friends advanced so quickly, that in a month after the beginuing of the acquaintance the Wordsworths removed from Racedown to Somersetshire, to a house called Alfoxden, near Nether-Stowey, in which village Coleridge

The three made all manner of expedi-
tions about the beautiful country, and all
day long strayed, as we have said, with
their heads in the clouds, weaving these
visionary gossamer-webs of poetry, all
jewelled and glorious with the dews of
their youth, about every bush and brae:
"Thou in bewitching words, with happy heart,
Didst chant the vision of that ancient man,
The bright-eyed mariner, and rueful woes
Didst utter of the Ladye Christabel.
And I, associate with such labours, steeped
In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours,
Murmuring of him who, joyous hap was
found,

After the perils of his moonlight ride,
Near the loud waterfall; or her who sate
In misery near the miserable Thorn."

The communion of spirits even went farther than this. The "Ancient Mariner," for instance, was intended to have been a . composition by the hands of both poets, and was destined to pay the expense of one of their little excursions. Words worth suggested (he himself tells us) the incident of the albatross, and of the navigation of the ship by the dead sailors, and furnished even an actual line or two to the poem; but "our respective manners," he says, "proved so widely different, that it would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog." This idea, however, of mutual publication, was the origin