The neighbourhood was a dreary one at that time; as oppressive, sad, and solitary by night, as any about London. There were neither wharves nor houses on the melancholy waste of road near the great blank Prison. A sluggish ditch deposited its mud at the prison walls. Coarse grass and rank weeds straggled over all the marshy land in the vicinity. In one part, carcases of houses, inauspiciously begun and never finished, rotted away. In another, the ground was cumbered with rusty iron monsters of steam-boilers, wheels, cranks, pipes, furnaces, paddles, anchors, diving-bells, windmill-sails, and I know not what strange objects, accumulated by some speculator, and grovelling in the dust, underneath which – having sunk into the soil of their own weight in wet weather – they had the appearance of vainly trying to hide themselves.

But lo! men have become the tools of their tools.

Nothing ever befals any one, but what it is in his power to bear. The same misfortunes happen to others, who, either through ignorance or insensibility, or from an ostentatious magnanimity, have stood firm, and apparently free from grief or perturbation.

Now, is it not shameful that ignorance or vanity should display more fortitude than all our prudence and philosophy?