There were two huge fireplaces, one in the
middle of the north wall and the other at the eastern end. In the
latter had been erected a rude brick forge, and beside the forge hung
a great black bellows, smoky with usage. On a wooden block lay the
anvil, and around it rested and rusted several hammers, large and
small. At the western end was a glorious window filled with ancient
stained glass, which, as I have said, might have adorned a cathedral.
Extensive as the collection of books was, the great size of this
chamber made it necessary that only the outside wall should be covered
with book cases, and even these were divided by tall windows. The
opposite wall was blank, with the exception of a picture here and
there, and these pictures offered a further insult to the room, for
they were cheap prints, mostly coloured lithographs that had appeared
in Christmas numbers of London weekly journals, encased in
poverty-stricken frames, hanging from nails ruthlessly driven in above
them. The floor was covered with a litter of papers, in some places
knee-deep, and in the corner farthest from the forge still stood the
bed on which the ancient miser had died.
'Looks like a stable, doesn't it?' commented the earl, when I had
finished my inspection.
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