who chose passed the sacred threshold; the auctioneer’s hammer was heard on the terrace; and the hospitable parlor and kitchen were crowded with people swallowing tea in the intervals of their business.  One farmer rode six-and-thirty miles that morning to carry home something that had belonged to Wordsworth; and, in default of anything better, he took a patched old table-cover.  There was a bed of anemones under the windows, at one end of the house; and a bed of anemones is a treasure in our climate.  It was in full bloom in the morning; and before sunset, every blossom was gone, and the bed was trampled into ruin.  It was dreary work!  The two sons live at a distance; and the house is let to tenants of another name.

I perceive that I have not noticed the poet’s laureateship.  The truth is, the office never seemed to belong to him; and we forgot it, when not specially reminded of it.  We did not like to think of him in court-dress, going through the ceremonies of levee or ball, in his old age.  His white hair and dim eyes were better at home among the mountains.

There stand the mountains, from age to age; and there run the rivers, with their full and never-pausing tide, while those who came to live and grow wise beside them are all gone!  One after another, they have lain down to their everlasting rest in the valleys where their step and their voices were as familiar as the points of the scenery.  The region has changed much since they came as to a retreat.  It was they who caused the change, for the most part; and it was not for them to complain of it; but the consequence is, that with them has passed away a peculiar phase of life in England.  It is one which can neither be continued nor repeated.  The Lake District is no longer a retreat; and any other retreat must have different characteristics, and be illumined by some different order of lights.  The case being so, I have felt no scruple in asking the attention of my readers to a long story, and to full details of some of the latest Lights of the Lake District.

PINK AND BLUE.

Everybody knows that a departing guest has the most to say.  The touch of the door-knob sends to his lips a thousand things which must be told.  Is it strange, then, that old people, knowing they have “made out their visit,” and feeling themselves brimful of wisdom and experience, should wish to speak from the fulness of their hearts to those whom they must so shortly leave?

Nobody thinks it strange.  The world expects it, and, as a general thing, bears it patiently.  Knowing how universal is this spirit of forbearance, I should, perhaps, have forever held my peace, lest I might abuse good-nature, had it not been for some circumstances which will be related a little farther on.