Then a thought came to her: she sat up and looked about, scanning the trees anxiously. "I hope you haven't gone wrong? How far are we from the narrow place the place where I fainted?"

"I don't know how far. But we haven't been out of it more than five or six minutes, and this is certainly the channel."

--

"Nothing is certainly' in the Monnlungs! and five minutes is quite enough time to get lost in I don't recognize anything here we ought to be in, sight of a tree that has a profile, like a face."

"Perhaps you wouldn't know it at night."

"It's unmistakable. No, I am sure we are wrong. Please go back - go back at once to the narrow place."

Where is 'back'?" murmured Winthrop to himself, after he had surveyed the water behind him.

And the question was a necessary one. What he had thought was "certainly the channel" seemed to exist only in front; there was no channel behind, there were only broad tree-filled water spaces, vague and dark. They could see nothing of the thicker foliage of the narrow place."

66

Margaret clasped her hands. "We're lost!"

"No, we're not lost; at least we were not seven minutes ago. It won't take long to go over all the water that is seven minutes from here." He took out one of the torches and inserted it among the roots of a cypress, so that it could hold itself upright. That's our guide; we can always come back to that and start again."

66

Margaret no longer tried to direct; she sat with her face toward him, leaving the guidance to him. He started back in what he thought was the course they had just traversed. But they did not come to the defile of flowers; and suddenly they lost sight of their beacon.

"We shall see it again in a moment," he said. But they did not see it. They floated in and out among the great cypresses, he plunged his paddle down over the side, and struck bottom; they were out of the channel and in the shallows -the great Monnlungs Lake,— East Angels.

τα

ORDSWORTH, WILLIAM, an English poet; born at Cockermouth, Cumberland, April 7, 1770; died at Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, April 23, 1850. His father, who was law agent for Sir James Lowther, afterward Earl of Lonsdale, died when his son was thirteen, his mother having died several years before. In 1787 he was entered at St. John's College, Cambridge, where he took his Bachelor's degree in 1791. Soon afterward he went to France, where he remained about a year, returning to England at the opening of the "Reign of Terror." His friends urged him to enter the Church; but he wished to devote himself to poetry. Raisley Calvert, a young friend of his, dying in 1795, left him a legacy of £900, which enabled him to carry out his wish. In 1798 Wordsworth and his sister, accompanied by Coleridge, went to Germany. Returning after a few months, Wordsworth took up his residence at Grassmere, in the Lake region, and finally, in 1813, at Rydal Mount, his home for the remaining thirtyseven years of his life, which was singularly devoid of external incident. The income derived from his writings was never large; but in 1813 he received, through the influence of his fast friend, the Earl of Lonsdale, the appointment of Distributor of Stamps for Westmoreland, which brought him £500 a year. This position he resigned in 1842, in favor of his son, he himself receiving a pension of £300. Southey, dying in 1843, was succeeded as Poet Laureate by Wordsworth, who was succeeded by Tennyson. The Life of Wordsworth has been written by his nephew, the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth (1851), and by

Frederick Myers in "English Men of Letters" (1882). Many interesting personal details of him are contained in Mr. Crabb Robinson's Diary (1869).

Wordsworth's first volume of Poems appeared in 1793; in 1798 was published the Lyrical Ballads, one of which was Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, all the others being by Wordsworth. From time to time he made excursions in Wales, Scotland, Switzerland, and Italy, of all of which he put forth Memorials in verse. His other poetical works will be more specially mentioned hereinafter. His Poetical Works have been arranged by himself in accordance with their subject matter. His prose writings, which are not numerous, consist mainly of introductions to his several poems, a political tract on the "Convention of Cintra," and an admirable paper signed "Mathetes" in Coleridge's Friend.

The following poem is the best known of his Lyrical Ballads:

WE ARE SEVEN.

A simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl;

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
Her beauty made me glad.