‘That is one of his clay pipes,’ said the matron.  ’He had them all sent through to him from Glasgow.  And that is the pen with which he wrote Frederick.’

It was a worn, stubby old quill, much the worse for its monstrous task.  It at least of all quill pens might rest content with having done its work in the world.  Some charred paper beside it caught Frank’s eye.

‘Oh look, Maude,’ he cried.  ’This is a little bit of the burned French Revolution.’

’Oh, I remember.  He lent the only copy to a friend, and it was burned by mistake.’

’What a blow!  What a frightful blow!  And to think that his first comment to his wife was, “Well, Mill, poor fellow, is very much cut up about this.”  There is Carlyle at his best.  And here is actually a shred of the old manuscript.  How beautifully he wrote in those days!’

‘Read this, sir,’ said the matron.

It was part of a letter from Carlyle to his publisher about his ruined work.  ‘Do not pity me,’ said he; ’forward me rather as a runner that is tripped but will not lie there, but run and run again.’

‘See what positive misfortune can do for a man,’ said Frank.  ’It raised him to a hero.  And yet he could not stand the test of a crowing cock.  How infinitely complex is the human soul—­how illimitably great and how pitiably small!  Now, if ever I have a study of my own, this is what I want engraved upon the wall.  This alone is well worth our pilgrimage to Chelsea.’

It was a short exclamation which had caught his eye.

‘Rest!  Rest!  Shall I not have all eternity to rest in!’ That serene plaster face down yonder gave force to the brave words.  Frank copied them down onto the back of one of Maude’s cards.

And now they had finished the rooms, but the matron, catching a glow from these enthusiastic pilgrims, had yet other things to show them.  There was the back garden.  Here was the green pottery seat upon which the unphilosophic philosopher had smoked his pipe—­a singularly cold and uncomfortable perch.  And here was where Mrs. Carlyle had tried to build a tent and to imagine herself in the country.  And here was the famous walnut tree—­or at least the stumpy bole thereof.  And here was where the dog Nero was buried, best known of small white mongrels.

And last of all there was the subterranean and gloomy kitchen, in which there had lived that long succession of serving-maids of whom we gain shadowy glimpses in the Letters and in the Journal.  Poor souls, dwellers in the gloom, working so hard for others, so bitterly reviled when by chance some weakness of humanity comes to break, for an instant, the routine of their constant labour, so limited in their hopes and in their pleasures, they are of all folk upon this planet those for whom a man’s heart may most justly soften.  So said Frank as he gazed around him in the dark-cornered room.  ’And never one word of sympathy for them, or of anything save scorn in all his letters.  His pen upholding human dignity, but where was the dignity of these poor girls for whom he has usually one bitter line of biography in his notes to his wife’s letters?  It’s the worst thing I have against him.’