The Ambleside houses are of dark-gray stone, and almost all of them
have ivy and flowers about them. One small house, the oldest in the
village, was several hundred years old; and out of all the crevices
between the stones hung harebells and other wild flowers; one side
of it and much of the roof were covered with ivy. This house was
only about ten feet square, and it looked to me like a great rustic
flower pot.

I should like some time to read you a description of this lovely
place, written by Miss Martineau herself. Then you will almost hear
the murmuring sound of the Brathay and the Rotha, and breathe the
perfume of the wild heather, and catch the freshness of the morning
breeze, as she offers you these mountain luxuries in her glowing
words.

Miss Martineau lives a little out of the village. You drive up to
the house through a shrubbery of laurels, and roses, and fuschias,
and other plants,--young trees and flowers,--to the beautiful little
porch, covered with honeysuckles and creeping plants. The back of
the house is turned to the road, and the front looks out over the
loveliest green meadows, to the grand, quiet hills, sometimes clear
and sharp in their outline against the blue sky, and at others
wreathed with mist; and one might sit for hours at the large bay
window in the parlor, watching these changes, and asking no other
enjoyment.

It was also a great pleasure to witness the true and happy life of
my friend. I saw there the highest ideas of duty, usefulness, and
benevolence carried into daily practice. Miss Martineau took us one
morning to see the poet Wordsworth. He lived in a low, old-fashioned