Carlyle, son of James Carlyle,
stone-mason, paid rent for it every month for half a century, lacking
three years.

I walked across the street and read the inscription on the marble tablet
inserted in the front of the house above the lower windows. It informs
the stranger that Thomas Carlyle lived here from Eighteen Hundred
Thirty-four to Eighteen Hundred Eighty-one, and that the tablet was
erected by the Carlyle Society of London.

I ascended the stone steps and scraped my boots on the well-worn scraper,
made long, long ago by a blacksmith who is now dust, and who must have
been a very awkward mechanic, for I saw where he had made a misstroke
with his hammer, probably as he discussed theology with a caller. Then I
rang the bell and plied the knocker and waited there on the steps for
Jeannie Welsh to come bid me welcome, just as she did Emerson when he,
too, used the scraper and plied the knocker and stood where I did then.

And my knock was answered--answered by a very sour and peevish woman next
door, who thrust her head out of the window, and exclaimed in a shrill
voice:

"Look 'ere, sir, you might as well go rap on the curb-stone, don't you
know; there's nobody livin' there, sir, don't you know!"

"Yes, madam, that is why I knocked!"

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, if you use your heyes you'll see there's
nobody livin' there, don't you know!"

"I knocked lest offense be given. How can I get in?"

"You might go in through the keyhole, sir, or down the chimney. You seem
to be a little daft, sir, don't you know! But if you must get in, perhaps
it would be as well to go over to Mrs. Brown's and brang the key," and
she slammed down the window.

Across the street Mrs. Brown's sign smiled at me.

Mrs. Brown keeps a little grocery and bakeshop and was very willing to
show me the house. She fumbled in a black bag for the keys, all the time
telling me of three Americans who came last week to see Carlyle's house,
and "as how" they each gave her a shilling. I took the hint.

"Only Americans care now for Mr. Carlyle," plaintively added the old lady
as she fished out the keys; "soon we will all be forgot."

We walked across the street and after several ineffectual attempts the
rusty lock was made to turn. I entered. Cold, bare and bleak was the
sight of those empty rooms. The old lady had a touch of rheumatism, so
she waited for me on the doorstep as I climbed the stairs to the third
floor. The noise-proof back room wher