A writer in The Quarterly Review, many years ago (I believe the late Mr. J. G. Lockhart), referring to this period, writes: "Depressed and bewildered, he turned to abstract science, and was beginning to torment his mind with fresh problems, when, after his long voyage through unknown seas in search of Utopia, with sails full set and without compass or rudder, his sister came to his aid, and conducted him back to the quiet harbour from which he started. His visits to her had latterly been short and far between, until his brightening fortunes enabled them to indulge the wish of their hearts to live together, and then she convinced him that he was born to be a poet, and had no call to lose himself in the endless labyrinth of theoretical puzzles. The calm of a home would alone have done much towards sobering his mind. While he roamed restlessly about the world he was drawn in by every eddy, and obeyed the influence of every wind; but when once he had escaped from the turmoil, into the pure and peaceful pleasures of domestic existence, he felt the vanity and vexation of his previous course."
Wordsworth himself, afterwards writing of this same period of his life, says:—
"Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walk
With scoffers, seeking light and gay revenge
From indiscriminate laughter, nor sit down
In reconcilement with an utter waste
Of intellect.
* * * * * * * *
Then it was—
Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good!—