Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXIII.—April, 1852.—Vol. IV.

Hounslow Gunpowder Mills are not so much like a special "town," as so many other large manufactories appear, but rather have the appearance of an infant colony – a very infant one, inasmuch as it has very few inhabitants. We never met a single man in all our rambles through the plantations, nor heard the sound of a human voice. It is like a strange new settlement, where there is ample space, plenty of wood and water, but with scarcely any colonists, and only here and there a log-hut or a dark shed among the trees.

These works are distributed over some hundred and fifty acres of land, without reckoning the surface of the Colne, which, sometimes broad, sometimes narrow, sometimes in a line, and sometimes coiling, and escaping by a curve out of sight, intersects the whole place. It is, in fact, a great straggling plantation of firs, over swells and declivities of land, with a branch or neck of a river meeting you unexpectedly at almost every turn. The more we have seen of this dismal settlement "in the bush," the more do we revert to our first impression on entering it. The place is like the strange and squalid plantation of some necromancer in Spenser's "Fairy Queen." Many trees are black and shattered, as if by lightning; others distorted, writhing, and partially stripped of their bark; and all of them have a sort of conscious look that this is a very precarious spot for the regular progress of vegetation. You wander up narrow winding paths, and you descend narrow winding paths; you see the broad arm of a river, with little swampy osier islands upon it, and then you enter another plantation, and come upon a narrow winding neck of river, leading up to a great black slanting structure, which you are told is a "blast-wall;" and behind this is the green embankment of a fortification, and further back you come upon one of the black, ominous-looking powder "houses." You advance along other tortuous paths, you cross small bridges, and again you enter a plantation, more or less sombre, and presently emerge upon an open space, where you see a semicircular road of red gravel, with cart-ruts deeply trenched in it; and then another narrower road down to a branch of the river, where there is another little bridge; and beyond this, on the other side, you see a huge water-wheel revolving between two black barn-like houses. You ascend a slope, by a path of mud and slush, and arriving at another larger open space, you find yourself in front of a sheet of water, and in the distance you observe one enormous wheel – the diabolical queen of all the rest – standing, black and immovable, like an antediluvian skeleton, against the dull, gray sky, with a torrent of water running in a long narrow gully from beneath its lower spokes, as if disgorged before its death. This open space is surrounded by trees, above which, high over all, there rises a huge chimney, or rather tower; and again, over all this there float clouds of black smoke, derived from charred wood, if we may judge of the effect upon our noses and eyes.

At distances from each other, varying from thirty or forty to a hundred and fifty yards, over this settlement are distributed, by systematic arrangement of the intervals, and the obstructive character of the intervening ground and plantations, no less than ninety-seven different buildings. By these means, not only is the danger divided, but the loss, by an explosion, reduced to the one "house" in which the accident occurs. Such, at least, is the intention, though certainly not always affording the desired protection. The houses are also, for the most part, constructed of light materials, where the nature of the operation will admit of it; sometimes extremely strong below, but very light above, like a man in armor with a straw hat; so that if a "puff" comes, there will be a free way upward, and they hope to get rid of the fury with no greater loss than a light roof. In some cases the roofs are of concrete, and bomb-proof; in others, the roofs are floated with water in shallow tanks. There are five steam-engines employed, one being a locomotive; and the extraordinary number of twenty-six water-mills, as motive powers for machinery – obviously much safer than any other that could be obtained from the most guarded and covered-in engines requiring furnaces.

In this silent region, amidst whose ninety-seven work-places no human voice ever breaks upon the ear, and where, indeed, no human form is seen except in the isolated house in which his allotted task is performed, there are secreted upward of two hundred and fifty work-people. They are a peculiar race; not, of course, by nature, in most cases, but by the habit of years. The circumstances of momentary destruction in which they live, added to the most stringent and necessary regulations, have subdued their minds and feelings to the conditions of their hire. There is seldom any need to enforce these regulations. Some terrific explosion here, or in works of a similar kind elsewhere, leaves a fixed mark in their memories, and acts as a constant warning. Here no shadow of a practical joke, or caper of animal spirits ever transpires; no witticisms, no oaths, no chaffing, or slang. A laugh is never heard; a smile seldom seen. Even the work is carried on by the men with as few words as possible, and these uttered in a low tone. Not that any body fancies that mere sound will awaken the spirit of combustion, or cause an explosion to take place, but that their feelings are always kept subdued. If one man wishes to communicate any thing to another, or to ask for any thing from somebody at a short distance, he must go there; he is never permitted to shout or call out. There is a particular reason for this last regulation. Amidst all this silence, whenever a shout does occur, every body knows that some imminent danger is expected the next moment, and all rush away headlong from the direction of the shout. As to running toward it to offer any assistance, as common in all other cases, it is thoroughly understood that none can be afforded. An accident here is immediate and beyond remedy. If the shouting be continued for some time (for a man might be drowning in the river), that might cause one or two of the boldest to return; but this would be a very rare occurrence. It is by no means to be inferred that the men are selfish and insensible to the perils of each other; on the contrary, they have the greatest consideration for each other, as well as for their employers, and think of the danger to the lives of others, and of the property at stake at all times, and more especially in all the more dangerous "houses." The proprietors of the various gunpowder mills all display the same consideration for each other, and whenever any improvement tending to lessen danger is discovered by one, it is immediately communicated to all the others. The wages of the men are good, and the hours very short; no artificial lights are ever used in the works. They all wash themselves – black, white, yellow, and bronze – and leave the mills at half-past three in the afternoon, winter and summer.

After several unsuccessful attempts to effect an entrance into one of the mysterious manufactories – attributable solely to the dangers of utter destruction that momentarily hover over all works of this kind, and not in the least from any want of courtesy in the proprietors – we eventually obtained permission to inspect these mills owned by the Messrs. Curtis, which are among the largest works of the kind in Europe. It was a very wet day, but that circumstance was rather favorable than otherwise, as our obliging companion, Mr. Ashbee, the manager of the works, considerately informed us. After visiting successively the mills where the charcoal, saltpetre, and brimstone, are separately prepared, we plash our way over the wet path to the "incorporation mill" – a sufficiently dangerous place. Having exchanged our boots for India rubber over-shoes, we enter and find the machinery – consisting of two ponderous, upright millstones, rolling round like wagon-wheels, in a small circle. In the bed beneath these huge rolling stones lies, not one, but the three terrible ingredients of powdered charcoal, saltpetre, and sulphur, which are thus incorporated. The bed upon which the stones roll is of iron; from it the stones would inevitably strike sparks – and "there an end of all" – if they came in contact in any part. But between the stones and the iron bed lies the incorporating powder – forty pounds of it giving a bed of intermediate powder, of two or three inches deep; so that the explosive material is absolutely the only protection. So long as the powder lies in this bed with no part of the iron left bare, all is considered to be safe. To keep it within the bed, therefore – while the rolling twist of the stones is continually displacing it, and rubbing it outward and inward – several mechanical contrivances are adopted, which act like guides, and scoops, and scrapers; and thus restore, with regularity, the powder to its proper place, beneath the stones. A water-wheel keeps this mill in action. No workmen remain here; but the time required for the incorporating process being known, the bed of powder is laid down, the mill set in motion, and then shut up and left to itself – as it ought to be, in case of any little oversight or "hitch" on the part of the guides, scoops, or scrapers. The machinery of these mills, as may be readily credited, is always kept in the finest order. "And yet," says Mr. Ashbee, in a whisper; "and yet, five of them – just such mills as these —went off at Faversham, the other day, one after the other. Nobody knew how." This seasonable piece of information naturally increases the peculiar interest we feel in the objects we are now examining, as they proceed with their work.

The next house we visit, Mr. Ashbee assures us, is a very interesting process. To be sure, it is one of the most dangerous; and what makes this worse, is the fact that the process is of that kind which requires the constant presence of the men. They can not set the machinery to work, and leave it for a given time; they must always remain on the spot. It is the "Corning House" sometimes called "Graining," as it is the process which reduces the cakes and hard knobs, into which the gunpowder has been forced by hydraulic pressure, into grains – a very nice, and, it would appear, a sufficiently alarming operation.

Ascending by a rising pathway, we pass over a mound covered with a plantation of firs, and descending to a path by the river side, we arrive at a structure of black timber, some five-and-twenty feet high, set up in the shape of an acute angle. This is a "blast-wall," intended to offer some resistance to a rush of air in case of an explosion near at hand. There is also a similar blast-wall on the opposite side of the river. Passing this structure, we arrive at a green embankment thrown up as in fortified places, and behind and beneath this stands the "Corning House."

It is a low-roofed, black edifice, like the rest, although, if possible, with a still more dismal appearance. We know not what causes the impression, but we could fancy it some place of torture, devoted to the service of the darkest pagan superstitions, or those of the Holy Inquisition. A little black vestibule, or out-house, stands on the side nearest us. The whole structure is planted on the river's edge, to which the platform in front extends. We enter the little vestibule, and here we go through the ceremony of the over-shoes. We are then permitted to advance upon the sacred platform, and we then approach the entrance. If we have received a strange and unaccountable impression of a place of torture, from the external appearance and surrounding circumstances, this is considerably borne out by the interior. The first thing that seems to justify this is a dry, strangulated, shrieking cry which continues at intervals. We discover that it is the cry of a wooden screw in torment, which in some sort reconciles us. But the sound lingers, and the impression too. The flooring is all covered with leather and hides, all perfectly black with the dust of gunpowder, and on this occasion all perfectly dry. We do not much like that: the wet sliding about was more amusing; perhaps, also, a trifle safer.

The first object that seizes upon our attention is a black square frame-work, apparently suspended from the ceiling. Its ugly perpendicular beams, and equally uncouth horizontal limbs would be just the thing to hang the dead bodies of tortured victims in. We can not help following up our first impression. The men here, who stand in silence looking intently at us, all wear black masks. On the left there is reared a structure of black wood reaching to within two or three feet of the roof. It is built up in several stages, descending like broad steps. Each of these broad steps contains a sieve made of closely woven wire, which becomes finer as the steps get lower and lower. In this machine we noticed iron axles for the wheels, but our attention was directed to the rollers, which were of zinc. Thus the friction does not induce sparks, the action being also guarded against external blows. At present the machine is not in motion; and the men at work here observe their usual silence and depressing gravity. We conjecture that the machine, when put in motion, shakes and sifts the gunpowder in a slow and most cautious manner, corresponding to the seriousness of the human workers, and with an almost equal sense of the consequences of iron mistaking for once the nature of copper and brass. "Put on the house!" says Mr. Ashbee, in the calm voice always used here, and nodding at the same time to the head corning-man. A rumbling sound is heard – the wheels begin to turn – the black sieves bestir themselves, moving from side to side; the wheels turn faster – the sieves shake and shuffle faster. We trust there is no mistake. They all get faster still. We do not wish them to put themselves to any inconvenience on our account. The full speed is laid on! The wheels whirl and buzz – iron teeth play into brass teeth – copper winks at iron – the black sieves shake their infernal sides into fury – the whole machine seems bent upon its own destruction – the destruction of us all! Now – one small spark – and in an instant the whole of this house, with all in it, would be instantly swept away! Nobody seems to think of this. And see! – how the gunpowder rashes from side to side of the sieves, and pours down from one stage to the other. We feel sure that all this must be much faster than usual. We do not wish it. Why should pride prevent our requesting that this horror should cease? We hear, also, an extraordinary noise behind us. Turning hastily round, we see the previously immovable black frame-work for the dead whirling round and round in the air with frightful rapidity, while two men with wooden shovels are shoveling up showers of gunpowder, as if to smother and suffocate its madness. Nothing but shame – nothing but shame and an anguish of self-command, prevents our instantly darting out of the house – across the platform – and headlong into the river.

What a house – what a workshop! It is quiet again. We have not sprung into the river. But had we been alone here, under such circumstances for the first time, we should have had no subsequent respect for our own instincts and promptitude of action if we had done any thing else. As it was, the thing is a sensation for life. We find that the whirling frame-work also contains sieves – that the invisible moving power is by a water-wheel under the flooring, which acts by a crank. But we are very much obliged already – we have had enough of "corning."

We take our departure over the platform – have our over-shoes taken off – and finding that there is something more to see, we rally and recover our breath, and are again on the path by the water's edge. A man is coming down the river with a small covered barge, carrying powder from one house to another. We remark that boating must be one of the safest positions, not only as unconducive to explosion, but even in case of its occurring elsewhere. Mr. Ashbee coincides in this opinion, although, he adds, that some time ago, a man coming down the river in a boat – just as that one is now doing – had his right arm blown off. We see that, in truth, o position is safe. One may be "blown off" any where, at any moment. Thus pleasantly conversing as we walk, we arrive at the "Glazing-House."

The process of glazing consists in mixing black-lead with gunpowder in large grains, and glazing, or giving it a fine glossy texture. For this purpose four barrels containing the grains are ranged on an axle. They are made to revolve during four hours, to render them smooth; black-lead is then added, and they revolve four hours more. There is iron in this machinery; but it works upon brass or copper wheels, so that friction generates heat, but not fire. The process continues from eight to twenty-four hours, according to the fineness of polish required; and the revolution of the barrels sometimes causes the heat of the gunpowder within to rise to one hundred and twenty degrees – even to charring the wood of the interior of the barrels by the heat and friction. We inquire what degree of heat they may be in at the present moment? It is rather high, we learn; and the head-glazer politely informs us that we may put our hand and arm into the barrels and feel the heat. He opens it at the top for the purpose. We take his word for it. However, as he inserts one hand and arm by way of example, we feel in some sort called upon, for the honor of "Household Words," to do the same. It is extremely hot, and a most agreeable sensation. The faces of the men here, being all black from the powder, and shining with the addition of the black lead, have the appearance of grim masks of demons in a pantomime, or rather of real demons in a mine. Their eyes look out upon us with a strange intelligence. They know the figure they present. So do we. This, added to their subdued voice, and whispering, and mute gesticulation, and noiseless moving and creeping about, renders the scene quite unique; and a little of it goes a great way.

Our time being now short – our hours, in fact, being "numbered" – we move quickly on to the next house, some hundred yards distant. It is the "Stoving-house." We approach the door. Mr. Ashbee is so good as to say there is no need for us to enter, as the process may be seen from the door-way. We are permitted to stand upon the little platform outside, in our boots, dispensing with the over-shoes. This house is heated by pipes. The powder is spread upon numerous wooden trays, and slid into shelves on stands, or racks. The heat is raised to one hundred and twenty-five degrees. We salute the head stove-man, and depart. But turning round to give a "longing, lingering look behind," we see a large mop protruded from the door-way. Its round head seems to inspect the place where we stood in our boots on the platform. It evidently discovers a few grains of gravel or grit, and descends upon them immediately, to expurgate the evil communication which may corrupt the good manners of the house. A great watering-pot is next advanced, and then a stern head – not unlike an old medallion we have seen of Diogenes – looks round the door-post after us.

The furnace, with its tall chimney, by means of which the stove-pipes of the house we have just visited, are heated, is at a considerable distance, the pipes being carried under-ground to the house.

We next go to look at the "Packing-house," where the powder is placed in barrels, bags, tin cases, paper cases, canisters, &c. On entering this place, a man runs swiftly before each of us, laying down a mat for each foot to step upon as we advance, thus leaving rows of mats in our wake, over which we are required to pass on returning. We considered it a mark of great attention – a kind of Oriental compliment.

The last of our visits is to a "Charge-House." There are several of these, where the powder is kept in store. We approach it by a path through a plantation. It lies deep among the trees – a most lonely, dismal sarcophagus. It is roofed with water – that is, the roof is composed of water-tanks, which are filled by the rain; and in dry weather they are filled by means of a pump arranged for that purpose. The platform at the entrance is of water – that is to say, it is a broad wooden trough two inches deep, full of water, through which we are required to walk. We do so, and with far more satisfaction than some things we have done here to-day. We enter the house alone; the others waiting outside. All silent and dusky as an Egyptian tomb. The tubs of powder, dimly seen in the uncertain light, are ranged along the walls, like mummies – all giving the impression of a secret life within. But a secret life, how different! "Ah! there's the rub." We retire with a mental obeisance, and a respectful air – the influence remaining with us, so that we bow slightly on rejoining our friends outside, who bow in return, looking from us to the open door-way of the "house!"

With thoughtful brows, and not in any very high state of hilarity, after the duties of the day – not to speak of being wet through to the skin, for the second time – we move through the fir groves on our way back. We notice a strange appearance in many trees, some of which are curiously distorted, others with their heads cut off; and, in some places, there are large and upright gaps in a plantation. Mr. Ashbee, after deliberating inwardly a little while, informs us that a very dreadful accident happened here last year. "Was there an explosion?" we inquire. He says there was. "And a serious one?" – "Yes." – "Any lives lost?" – "Yes." – "Two or three?" – "More than that." – "Five or six?" He says more than that. He gradually drops into the narrative, with a subdued tone of voice. There was an explosion last year. Six different houses blew up. It began with a "Separating House," – a place for sizing, or sorting, the different grains through sieves. Then the explosion went to a "Granulating-House," one hundred yards off. How it was carried such distances, except by a general combustion of the air, he can not imagine. Thence, it went to a "Press House," where the powder lies in hard cakes. Thence, it went in two ways – on one side to a "Composition Mixing-House," and, on the other, to a "Glazing-House;" and thence to another "Granulating-House." Each of these buildings were fully one hundred yards from another; each was intercepted by plantations of fir and forest trees as a protection; and the whole took place within forty seconds. There was no tracing how it had occurred.

This, then, accounts for the different gaps – some of them extending fifty or sixty yards – in the plantations and groves? Mr. Ashbee nods a grave assent. He adds, that one large tree was torn up by the roots, and its trunk was found deposited at such a distance, that they never could really ascertain where it came from. It was just found lying there. An iron water-wheel, of thirty feet in circumference, belonging to one of the mills, was blown to a distance of fifty yards through the air, cutting through the heads of all the trees in its way, and finally lodging between the upper boughs of a large tree, where it stuck fast, like a boy's kite. The poor fellows who were killed – (our informant here drops his voice to a whisper, and speaks in short detached fragments; there is nobody near us, but he feels as a man should feel in speaking of such things) – the poor fellows who were killed were horribly mutilated – more than mutilated, some of them – their different members distributed hither and thither, could not be buried with their proper owners, to any certainty. One man escaped out of a house, before it blew up, in time to run at least forty yards. He was seen running, when suddenly he fell. But when he was picked up, he was found to be quite dead. The concussion of the air had killed him. One man coming down the river in a boat was mutilated. Some men who were missing, were never found – blown all to nothing. The place where some of the "houses" had stood, did not retain so much as a piece of timber, or a brick. All had been swept away, leaving nothing but the torn-up ground, a little rubbish, and a black hash of bits of stick, to show the place where they had been erected.

We turn our eyes once more toward the immense gaps in the fir groves, gaps which here and there amount to wide intervals, in which all the trees are reduced to about half their height, having been cut away near the middle. Some trees, near at hand, we observe to have been flayed of their bark all down one side; others have strips of bark hanging dry and black. Several trees are strangely distorted, and the entire trunk of one large fir has been literally twisted like a corkscrew, from top to bottom, requiring an amount of force scarcely to be estimated by any known means of mechanical power. Amid all this quietness, how dreadful a visitation! It is visible on all sides, and fills the scene with a solemn, melancholy weight.

But we will linger here no longer. We take a parting glance around, at the plantations of firs, some of them prematurely old, and shaking their heads, while the air wafts by, as though conscious of their defeated youth, and all its once-bright hopes. The dead leaves lie thick beneath, in various sombre colors of decay, and through the thin bare woods we see the gray light fading into the advancing evening. Here, where the voice of man is never heard, we pause, to listen to the sound of rustling boughs, and the sullen rush and murmur of water-wheels and mill-streams; and, over all, the song of a thrush, even while uttering blithe notes, gives a touching sadness to this isolated scene of human labors – labors, the end of which, is a destruction of numbers of our species, which may, or may not, be necessary to the progress of civilization, and the liberty of mankind.

AN INSANE PHILOSOPHER

A visitor to the Hanwell Insane Asylum, in England, will have his attention directed to one of the inmates who is at once the "pet," the peer, the philosopher, and the poet of that vast community. No one can long enjoy the privilege of his company without perceiving that he has received a first-rate classical education. His mind is remarkably clear-visioned, acute, severe, logical, and accomplished. His manners usually display the refinement, polish, and urbanity of a well-bred gentleman, though at times, it is said, they are tinged with a degree of aristocratic pride, austerity, and hauteur, especially when brought into contact with the ignorant and vulgar. In conversation, though impeded by a slight hesitation of utterance, he displays clearness and breadth of intelligence in all his views, and pours forth freely from the treasures of a well-stored memory abundance of information, anecdote, and fact. His physiognomy and physical structure are well adapted to enshrine a mind of such a calibre. In stature he is tall, rather slender, but firmly knit. The muscular development of the frame denotes considerable strength – a quality which he claims to possess in a pre-eminent degree. He boasts, probably with considerable truth, of having no equal, in this respect, in the asylum. His head, beautifully formed, after a fine intellectual type, is partially bald – the few surviving locks of hair that fringe its sides being nearly gray. The keen, twinkling, gray eye; the prominent classic brow; the boldly-chiseled aquiline nose; the thin cheeks, "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;" the sharp features, together with the small, firmly-compressed mouth, plainly bespeak him a man of reflection, and strong purpose. In age, he appears to have weathered about fifty stormy winters. The term of his residence in this rendezvous of afflicted strangers is somewhere about six years. His real name, his early history, his human kindred, his former social status – in fact, all the antecedents of his life, previous to his admission to the asylum – are utterly unknown. On all these matters he preserves the silence of a sphinx. No remarks, so far as we know, have ever escaped his lips, calculated to afford any certain clew for the elucidation of the mystery that enshrouds him. Surmise and conjecture have of course been busy with their guesses as to his probable extraction; and the organ of wonder has been sorely taxed in an effort to account for the marvelous fact, that a gentleman of such apparent distinction, it may be of noble birth and fortune, should have been lost to his friends for a space of six years, and no earnest inquiries been made to discover his fate. That he is of aristocratic descent, appears to be the general impression among the officers and inmates of the asylum – an impression justified by his elegant manners, his superior attainments, his extensive acquaintance with noble families, and many significant allusions found in his painted chamber, upon the walls of which he has faithfully daguerreotyped the images, the feelings, the recollections, and the cherished sentiments of his inner man. The fictitious name by which he is known at present is that of Mr. Chiswick – a name commemorative of the scene of that sad event which has overshadowed the afternoon, and which threatens to darken the evening, of his earthly existence. But the reader will be anxious to learn under what strange conjunction of circumstances this mysterious being – without father or mother, brothers or sisters, kinsfolk or acquaintances, and without even a local habitation or a name – obtained an introduction to this strange home. We will at once state such facts as we have been able to collect.

On one Sabbath-day, about six years ago, a congregation had gathered together, as was their wont, for the celebration of divine worship, in the small country church of Turnham Green, near Chiswick. The officiating clergyman and the worshiping assembly had jointly gone through the liturgical services without the occurrence of any unusual event. As soon as the robed minister had ascended the sacred desk, and commenced his discourse, however, the eyes of a portion of the audience were attracted toward a gentleman occupying a somewhat conspicuous position in the church, whose strange and restless movements, wild and excited air, and occasional audible exclamations, indicated the presence of either a fanatic or a lunatic. These symptoms continued to increase, until, at length, as if irritated beyond endurance by some sentiment that fell from the lips of the preacher, he gave way to a perfect paroxysm of frenzy, under the influence of which he seized his hat, and flung it at the head of the minister. Of course, the service was suspended until the offender was expelled. It was soon discovered that the unhappy author of this untoward disturbance was suffering under a violent fit of mania. When borne from the church, no person could recognize or identify him. He was a total stranger to all residing in the neighborhood, so that no clew could be obtained that would enable them to restore him to the custody and surveillance of his friends. Under these circumstances, he was taken to the adjoining work-house at Isleworth, where he was detained for some weeks under medical care, during which period the most diligent inquiries were instituted with the view of unraveling the mystery of the stranger's kinship. But without avail. No one claimed him; and even when pressed himself to impart some information on the subject, he either could not or would not divulge the secret. Finding, at length, that all efforts to identify the great Incognito were ineffectual, he was removed to Hanwell, the asylum of the county to which he had thus suddenly become chargeable, and where he has ever since remained.

Mr. Chiswick is treated by the magistrates and officers with great kindness and consideration. His employments are such as befit a gentleman. No menial or laborious tasks are imposed upon him. He is allowed, to a great extent, to consult his predilections, and these are invariably of a tasteful and elegant description. His time is divided chiefly between reading and painting, in which occupations he is devotedly industrious. He is an early riser, and intersperses his more sedentary pursuits with seasons of vigorous exercise. To this practice, in conjunction with strictly temperate habits, he attributes his excellent health and remarkable prowess. To a stranger, no signs of mental aberration are discernible. His aspect is so calm and collected, and his ideas are so lucidly expressed, that, if met with in any other place besides an asylum, no one would suspect that he had ever been smitten with a calamity so terrible. He would simply be regarded as eccentric. So satisfied is he of his own perfect saneness, and of his ability to secure self-maintenance by the productions of his own genius, that confinement begins to be felt by him as intolerably irksome and oppressive. The invisible fetters gall his sensitive soul, and render him impatient of restraint. On our last visit but one, he declared that he had abandoned all thoughts of doing any thing more to his painted room; he aspired to higher things than that. He was striving to cultivate his artistic talents, so that by their exercise he might henceforth minister to his own necessities. Who his connections, and what his antecedents were should never be known – they were things that concerned no one; his aim was to qualify himself, by self-reliant labor, to wrestle once more with the world, and to wring from it the pittance of a humble subsistence. As soon as he felt himself competent to hazard this step, he intended to demand his immediate release; "and, should it then be refused," said he, with the solemn and impressive emphasis of a man thoroughly in earnest, "they will, on the next day, find me a corpse." To the superintendent in the tailoring department, he likewise remarked, a short time since, when giving instructions for a new garment: "This is the last favor I shall ever ask of you. I intend shortly to quit the asylum; for if they do not discharge me of their own accord, in answer to my request, I will discharge myself."

On the occasion of our second visit to the asylum, we were received by Mr. Chiswick with great courtesy, and were favored with a long conversation on a variety of topics. Besides the exercise of his brush and pencil, his genius manifests itself in other ways, some of them being rather amusing and eccentric. Among these, is that of making stockings, and other articles of apparel in a very original manner. His mind, as we have remarked, is well replenished with anecdotes and illustrations suitable to whatever topic may happen to be on hand. On the present occasion, upon offering us a glass of wine, we declined his hospitality, on the true plea that we had fasted since eight o'clock in the morning, and it was then nearly five in the afternoon. Upon this, he produced a piece of sweet bread, saying, "Take that first, and then the wine will not hurt you. You remember the anecdote of the bride? Soon after her marriage, her mother inquired,'How does your husband treat you, my dear?' Oh, he loves me very much, for he gives me two glasses of white wine every morning before I am up.' 'My dear child,' said the mother, with an air of alarm, 'he means to kill you. However, do not refuse the wine, but take a piece of cake to bed with you at night, and when he is gone for the wine in the morning, do you eat the cake, then the wine will not hurt you,' The bride obeyed the mother's advice, and lived to a good old age."

Having sat down by the fire in the ward with a number of the patients, Mr. Chiswick took out his pocket-book to show us a letter which he had received from some kind but unknown friend, who had visited the asylum, and also that he might present to us a piece of poetry, which had just been printed at the asylum press. In looking for these, he accidentally dropped a greater part of the contents of his pocket-book on the floor; and when one of the lunatics hastened to scramble for some of the papers, Mr. Chiswick, quick as thought, pulled off the officious patient's hat, and sent it flying to the other end of the ward, bidding its owner to run after it. We offered to assist in picking up the scattered papers, but he would not allow us to touch them. "You act," we remarked, "on the principle of not allowing others to do for you any thing that you can do yourself." "Exactly so," said he, "and I will tell you a good anecdote about that. There was once a bishop of Gibraltar, who hired a valet; but for some time this valet had nothing to do: the bishop cleaned his own boots, and performed many other menial tasks, which the servant supposed that he had been engaged to do. At length he said – 'Your lordship, I should be glad to be informed what it is expected that I should do. You clean your own boots, brush your own clothes, and do a multitude of other things that I supposed would fall to my lot.' 'Well,' said the bishop, 'I have been accustomed to do this, and I can do it very well; therefore, why should you do it? I act upon the principle of never allowing others to do what I can do myself. Therefore, do you go and study, and I will go on as usual. I have already had opportunities to get knowledge, and you have not; and I think that will be to do to you as I should wish you to do to me.'"

BLEAK HOUSE

BY CHARLES DICKENS

CHAPTER I. – In Chancery

London. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets, as if the water had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes – gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas, in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongy fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and plow-boy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time – as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest, near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation: Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln's Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

ever can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud and mire too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering condition which this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary sinners, holds, this day, in the sight of heaven and earth.

On such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor ought to be sitting here – as here he is – with a foggy glory round his head, softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. On such an afternoon, some score of members of the High Court of Chancery bar ought to be – as here they are – mistily engaged in one of the ten thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another up on slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities, running their goat-hair and horse-hair warded heads against walls of words, and making a pretense of equity with serious faces, as players might. On such an afternoon, the various solicitors in the cause, some two or three of whom have inherited it from their fathers, who made a fortune by it, ought to be – as are they not? – ranged in a line, in a long matted well (but you might look in vain for Truth at the bottom of it), between the registrar's red table and the silk gowns, with bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports, mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them. Well may the court be dim, with wasting candles here and there; well may the fog hang heavy in it, as if it would never get out; well may the stained glass windows lose their color, and admit no light of day into the place; well may the uninitiated from the streets, who peep in through the glass panes in the door, be deterred from entrance by its owlish aspect, and by the drawl languidly echoing to the roof from the padded dais where the Lord High Chancellor looks into the lantern that has no light in it, and where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank! This is the Court of Chancery; which has its decaying houses and its blighted lands in every shire; which has its worn-out lunatic in every mad-house, and its dead in every church-yard; which has its ruined suitor, with his slipshod heels and threadbare dress, borrowing and begging through the round of every man's acquaintance; which gives to moneyed might the means abundantly of wearying out the right; which so exhausts finances, patience, courage, hope; so overthrows the brain and breaks the heart; that there is not an honorable man among its practitioners who would not give – who does not often give – the warning, "Suffer any wrong that can be done you, rather than come here!"

Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor's court this murky afternoon besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in the cause, two or three counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of solicitors before mentioned? There is the registrar below the Judge, in wig and gown; and there are two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy-purses, or whatever they may be, in legal court suits. These are all yawning; for no crumb of amusement ever falls from Jarndyce and Jarndyce (the cause in hand) which was squeezed dry years upon years ago. The short-hand writers, the reporters of the court, and the reporters of the newspapers, invariably decamp with the rest of the regulars when Jarndyce and Jarndyce comes on. Their places are a blank. Standing on a seat at the side of the hall, the better to peer into the curtained sanctuary, is a little mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet, who is always in court, from its sitting to its rising, and always expecting some incomprehensible judgment to be given in her favor. Some say she really is, or was, a party to a suit; but no one knows for certain, because no one cares. She carries some small litter in a reticule which she calls her documents; principally consisting of paper matches and dry lavender. A sallow prisoner has come up, in custody, for the half-dozenth time, to make a personal application "to purge himself of his contempt;" which, being a solitary surviving executor who has fallen into a state of conglomeration about accounts of which it is not pretended that he had ever any knowledge, he is not at all likely ever to do. In the meantime, his prospects in life are ended. Another ruined suitor, who periodically appears from Shropshire, and breaks out into efforts to address the Chancellor at the close of the day's business, and who can by no means be made to understand that the Chancellor is legally ignorant of his existence after making it desolate for a quarter of a century, plants himself in a good place and keeps an eye on the Judge, ready to call out "My lord!" in a voice of sonorous complaint, on the instant of his rising. A few lawyers' clerks and others who know this suitor by sight, linger, on the chance of his furnishing some fun, and enlivening the dismal weather a little.

Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scare-crow of a suit has, in course of time, become so complicated, that no man alive knows what it means. The parties to it understand it least; but it has been observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five minutes, without coming to a total disagreement as to all the premises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause; innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable old people have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, without knowing how or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant, who was promised a new rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be settled, has grown up, possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted away into the other world. Fair wards of court have faded into mothers and grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere bills of mortality; there are not three Jarndyces left upon the earth perhaps, since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery-lane; but Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the Court, perennially hopeless.

Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke. That is the only good that has ever come of it. It has been death to many, but it is a joke in the profession. Every master in Chancery has had a reference out of it. Every Chancellor was "in it," for somebody or other, when he was counsel at the bar. Good things have been said about it by blue-nosed, bulbous-shoed old benchers, in select port-wine committee after dinner in hall. Articled clerks have been in the habit of fleshing their legal wit upon it. The last Lord Chancellor handled it neatly, when, correcting Mr. Blowers the eminent silk gown who said that such a thing might happen when the sky rained potatoes, he observed, "or when we get through Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mr. Blowers;" – a pleasantry that particularly tickled the maces, bags, and purses.

How many people out of the suit, Jarndyce and Jarndyce has stretched forth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt, would be a very wide question. From the master, upon whose impaling files reams of dusty warrants in Jarndyce and Jarndyce have grimly writhed into many shapes; down to the copying clerk in the Six Clerks' Office, who has copied his tens of thousands of Chancery-folio-pages under that eternal heading; no man's nature has been made the better by it. In trickery, evasion, procrastination, spoliation, botheration, under false pretenses of all sorts, there are influences that can never come to good. The very solicitors' boys who have kept the wretched suitors at bay, by protesting time out of mind that Mr. Chizzle, Mizzle, or otherwise, was particularly engaged and had appointments until dinner, may have got an extra moral twist and shuffle into themselves out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The receiver in the cause has acquired a goodly sum of money by it, but has acquired too a distrust of his own mother, and a contempt for his own kind. Chizzle, Mizzle, and otherwise, have lapsed into a habit of vaguely promising themselves that they will look into that outstanding little matter, and see what can be done for Drizzle – who was not well used – when Jarndyce and Jarndyce shall be got out of the office. Shirking and sharking, in all their many varieties, have been sown broadcast by the ill-fated cause; and even those who have contemplated its history from the outermost circle of such evil, have been insensibly tempted into a loose way of letting bad things alone to take their own bad course, and a loose belief that if the world go wrong, it was, in some off-hand manner, never meant to go right.

Thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

"Mr. Tangle," says the Lord High Chancellor, latterly something restless under the eloquence of that learned gentleman.

"Mlud," says Mr. Tangle. Mr. Tangle knows more of Jarndyce and Jarndyce than any body. He is famous for it – supposed never to have read any thing else since he left school.

"Have you nearly concluded your argument?"

"Mlud, no – variety of points – feel it my duty tsubmit – ludship," is the reply that slides out of Mr. Tangle.

"Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I believe?" says the Chancellor, with a slight smile.

Eighteen of Mr. Tangle's learned friends, each armed with a little summary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like eighteen hammers in a piano-forte, make eighteen bows, and drop into their eighteen places of obscurity.

"We will proceed with the hearing on Wednesday fortnight," says the Chancellor. For, the question at issue is only a question of costs, a mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suit, and really will come to a settlement one of these days.

The Chancellor rises; the bar rises; the prisoner is brought forward in a hurry; the man from Shropshire cries, "My lord!" Maces, bags, and purses, indignantly proclaim silence, and frown at the man from Shropshire.

"In reference," proceeds the Chancellor, "still on Jarndyce and Jarndyce, to the young girl – ."

"Begludship's pardon – boy," says Mr. Tangle, prematurely.