CHAPTER XXIX.
SHELVES A MAN'S INDEX.
In Chelsea, a suburb of London, and on a narrow street, with not even a house in front, but, instead thereof, a long range of brick wall, is the house of Thomas Carlyle.

You go through a narrow hall and turn to the left, and are in the literary workshop where some of the strongest thunderbolts of the world have been forged.

The two front windows have on them scant curtains of reddish calico, hung at the top of the lower sash, so as not to keep the sun from looking down, but to hinder the street from looking in.
The room has a lounge covered with the same material, and of construction such as you would find in the plainest house among the mountains.

It looks as if it had been made by an author not accustomed to saw or hammer, and in the interstices of mental work.

On the wall are a few wood-cuts in plain frames or pinned against the wall; also a photograph of Mr.Carlyle taken one day, as his family told us, when he had a violent toothache and could attend to nothing else, it is his favorite picture, though it gives him a face more than ordinarily severe and troubled.
In long shelves, unpainted and unsheltered by glass or door, is the library of the world-renowned thinker.