thenceforward a creature of the national will,--“a son of France,” in a more eminent and lofty sense than according to the heraldry of Europe--had extinguished his sensibility to the voice of worldly honour: ‘injuries,’ says Wordsworth-- ----‘injuries Made him more gracious.’ And so utterly had he submitted his own will, or separate interests, to the transcendant voice of his country, which, in the main, he believed to be now speaking authentically for the first time since the foundation of Christendom, that, even against the motions of his own heart, he adopted the hatreds of the young Republic, growing cruel in his purposes towards the ancient oppressors, out of very excess of love for the oppressed; and against the voice of his own order, as well as in stern oblivion of every early friendship, he became the champion of democracy in the struggle everywhere commencing with prejudice, or feudal privileges. 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for London, where he remained, more or less, for upwards of a year; and it was during this time, that he wrote the unpublished letter to the Bishop of Llandaff, respecting the political opinions of his lordship, contained in an appendix to one of his sermons, a portion of which letter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.”