ng can possibly happen." Yet Carlyle happened;
and he was an event for the whole world, which now makes pilgrimages to
his birthplace. And I think that when his memory travelled back to
Ecclefechan, he would not have changed it for a garden of palaces and
flowers and fountains. Even the wee bairns playing in the road where
Carlyle played, knew why we stopped our car. They pointed out the
Carlyle house, gazing at us in solemn pity because we were poor
tourist-bodies, who couldna bide the rest of our lives in the best
village in a' the wurlld.

For my part, I pitied them, because their feet were bare, whereas the
poorest children in my native Carlisle have wonderfully nice shoes,
bound in brass. But all the Scot--and perhaps the crofter--rose in Sir
S. when I mourned over the little dusty feet. "Do you think they go
barefoot because they've no shoes?" he asked. "You're wrong. You don't
know your own country-folk yet. They've as good shoes as those Carlisle
kids, and better, maybe. It's because they don't like the feel of the
shoes when they play, and they're saving them for Sundays. I did the
same myself. Not a pair of shoes did I have on my feet, except on the
Sabbath day, till I was turned eleven."

It seemed to me that suddenly he had quite a Scotch burr in his voice,
and I did like him for it!

An apple-cheeked old body opened the door. On it was a brass plate which
would have told us, if we hadn't known already, that in this house
Thomas Carlyle was born. Remembering what he grew to be and to mean in
the big world, the three tiny rooms and the few simple relics were a
thousand times more pathetic than if we'd been led through apartment
after apartment of a palace, seeing christening cups and things under
glass cases. They did not seem sad to me, only a little dour in a
wholesome way, as porridge is dour compared to plum-cake. But the
cemetery which we went to after we had seen the house made me want to
cry. I didn't like to think that, coming back here to sleep after all
those many years, Carlyle had not his wife to rest beside him. Lying
with his ain folk behind grim iron railings couldn't have consoled him
for her absence. This is the only graveyard I ever saw except the one
where my father is buried; and somehow, it doesn't seem respectful to
the dead to go and criticise their graves, unless you are their friends,
bringing them flowers--pansies for thoughts and rosemary for
remembrance. It's like walking into p