and red-tiled roof; on the other stands the ancient church hoary with age; while just beyond the rectory is a quaint old manor house, or grange, formerly moated and now half buried in trees—and this is Somersby. A spot worthy of being the birthplace of a great poet, "a haunt of ancient peace."
MILES FROM ANYWHERE Approaching the rectory we knocked at the door, or it may be we rang a bell, I am not now sure which, and begged permission to be allowed to sketch or photograph the house, which was freely granted. Emboldened by the readiness to accede to our request we further gave a broad hint of what a great pleasure it would give us just to take a glance within as being the birthplace and early home of so famous a man; this favour was also most courteously granted. It must be well for the present dwellers in the now historic rectory that Somersby is miles from anywhere, and that anywhere in the shape of the nearest town is not a tourist-haunted one, or else they would have small respite from callers asking—I had almost written demanding—to see the place. To such an extent did Carlyle, even in his lifetime, find this tourist trespass that we are told "the genial author of Sartor Resartus actually paid a labourer in the parish £5 per annum to take admiring visitors to another farm and pretend that it was Craigenputtock!"
Entering Somersby rectory we were shown the quaint Gothic dining-room, designed and built by the poet's father, that somewhat resembled the interior of a tiny church. A charming chamber, in spite of its ecclesiastical look, for it had the stamp of individuality about it. The oak mantelpiece here
