Turning out of Cheyne Walk, we find ourselves in Cheyne Row, which seems still and old-fashioned as some by-street in a cathedral close. Here are small, sound, old red-brick houses of the Queen Anne period, or so-called Queen Anne period. And here, at No. 24, lived Thomas Carlyle, in whom neighbours and neighbourhood might well take pride. A compact dwelling, next to the one with a verandah and substantial porch. Its neighbour on the other side boasts the good old eaves which it has lost--but _en revanche_ it has its “jalousies.” Within, there is a strange air of old fashion, and the furniture as antique. The inhabitants, or vestry perhaps, have honoured him. For close by is a rather imposing square--yclept Carlyle Square--a nice and unusual shape of compliment. They point out his house, and at the photographers’ and print shops, during his life, you could buy photographs of house and owner. Once, and not long before his death, the writer found himself sitting with the philosopher, who in his kindly fashion had allowed himself to be modelled by very inexperienced hands. This “bust”--if it is entitled to the dignity--is beside me now, in the old, broad, felt hat, the grizzled beard below, and the heavy coat up about his ears, for he seemed to feel the cold. That was a pleasant hour, for he talked in his pleasantest vein. There have been occasions when I have smoked a “churchwarden” with him, but these were on rare festivals. Now the old house seems fast going to decay, and is unlet, strange to say, though a tenant is sought. There is over it that curious sense of blight which seemed to settle on the sage himself in his later days, when even the visitor was struck by the chill, forlorn look of the rooms and furniture. The lower end of the “walk” is closed by the Church. There is nothing more picturesque in London than old Chelsea Church, with its grimed old red-brick or brown-brick tower, and its tablets and tombstones fixed outside, high on the walls of the church, up and down, like framed pictures--an unusual adornment; the effect, as may be conceived, is the quaintest. So, too, with the little appendix, or round house, attached to it, with the odd figures, and the Hans Sloane altar-tomb under a sort of shed or canopy. The tower, however, is the attraction, suggesting something Dutch, and rising sad, solemn, and grizzled. Indeed, the view here is quaint and pretty, and recalls a bit of the Scheldt; especially in the time of the old wooden bridge, kept together with clamps and bits of framing, with the high hunchback look we see on the bridges over the Rhine.