Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 331, May, 1843

Mr Jones next turned his attention to the arithmetical statements of Sir Peter; and a better specimen of what in the Scotch language is called a stramash, it has never been our good fortune to meet with:—

"We have been told by the worthy knight who introduced this motion, that to pave London with wood would cost twenty-four millions of money. Now, it so happens that, some time since, I directed the city surveyor to obtain for me a return of the number of square yards of paving-stone there are throughout all the streets in this city. I hold that return in my hand; and I find there are 400,000 yards, which, at fifteen shillings per yard, would not make the cost of wood paving come to twenty-four millions of money; no, gentlemen, nor to four millions, nor to three, nor even to one million—why, the cost, gentlemen, dwindles down from Sir Peter's twenty-four millions to £300,000—(hear, hear, and laughter.)

"If I go into Fore Street I find every body admiring the wood pavement. If I go on Cornhill I find the same—and all the great bankers in Lombard Street say, 'What a delightful thing this wood paving is! Sir Peter Laurie must be mad to endeavour to deprive us of it.' I told them not to be alarmed, for they might depend on it the good sense of this court would not allow so great and useful an improvement in street paving to retrograde in the manner sought to be effected by this revolution. I shall content myself with moving the previous question"—(cheers.)

It is probable that Mr Jones, in moving the previous question, contented himself a mighty deal more than he did Sir Peter; and the triumph of the woodites was increased when Mr Pewtress seconded the amendment:—

"If there is any time of the year when the wood pavement is more dangerous than another, probably the most dangerous is when the weather is of the damp, muggy, and foggy character which has been prevailing; and when all pavements are remarkably slippery. The worthy knight has shown great tact in choosing his time for bringing this matter before the public. We have had three or four weeks weather of the most extraordinary description I ever remember; not frosty nor wet, but damp and slippery; so that the granite has been found so inconvenient to horses, that they have not been driven at the common and usual pace. And I am free to confess that, under the peculiar state of the atmosphere to which I have alluded, the wood pavement is more affected than the granite pavement. But in ordinary weather there is very little difference. I am satisfied that, if the danger and inconvenience were as great as the worthy knight has represented, we should have had applications against the pavement; but all the applications we have had on the subject have been in favour of the extension of wood pavement."

The speaker then takes up the ground, that as wood, as a material for paving, is only recently introduced, it is natural that vested interests should be alarmed, and that great misapprehension should exist as to its nature and merits. On this subject he introduces an admirable illustration:—"In the early part of my life I remember attending a lecture—when gas was first introduced—by Mr Winson. The lecture was delivered in Pall-Mall, and the lecturer proposed to demonstrate that the introduction of gas would be destructive of life and property. I attended that lecture, and I never came away from a public lecture more fully convinced of any thing than I did that he had proved his position. He produced a quantity of gas, and placed a receiver on the table. He had with him some live birds, as well as some live mice and rabbits; and, introducing some gas into the receiver, he put one of the animals in it. In a few minutes life was extinct, and in this way he deprived about half a dozen of these animals of their life. 'Now, gentlemen,' said the lecturer, 'I have proved to you that gas is destructive to life; I will now show you that it is destructive to property.' He had a little pasteboard house, and said, 'I will suppose that it is lighted up with gas, and from the carelessness of the servant the stopcock of the burner has been so turned off as to allow an escape of gas, and that it has escaped and filled the house.' Having let the gas into the card house, he introduced a light and blew it up. 'Now,' said he, 'I think I have shown you that it is not only destructive to life and property; but that, if it is introduced into the metropolis, it will be blown up by it.'"

We have now given a short analysis of the speeches of the proposers and seconders on each side in this great debate; and after hearing Mr Frodsham on the opposition, and the Common Sergeant—whose objection, however, to wood was confined to its unsuitableness at some seasons for horsemanship—granting that a strong feeling in its favour existed among the owners and inhabitants of houses where it has been laid down; and on the other side, Sir Chapman Marshall—a strenuous woodite—who challenged Sir Peter Laurie to find fault with the pavement at Whitehall, "which he had no hesitation in saying was the finest piece of paving of any description in London;" Mr King, who gave a home thrust to Sir Peter, which it was impossible to parry—"We have heard a great deal about humanity and post-boys; does the worthy gentleman know, that the Postmaster has only within the last few weeks sent a petition here, begging that you would, with all possible speed, put wood paving round the Post-office?" and various other gentlemen pro and con—a division was taken, when Sir Peter was beaten by an immense majority.

Another meeting, of which no public notice was given, was held shortly after to further Sir Peter's object, by sundry stable-keepers and jobmasters, under the presidency of the same Mr Gray, whose horse had acquired the malicious habit of breaking its knees on the Poultry. As there was no opposition, there was no debate; and as no names of the parties attending were published, it fell dead-born, although advertised two or three times in the newspapers.

On Tuesday, the 4th of April, Sir Peter buckled on his armour once more, and led the embattled cherubim to war, on the modified question, "That wood-paving operations be suspended in the city for a year;" but after a repetition of the arguments on both sides, he was again defeated by the same overwhelming majority as before.

Such is the state of wood paving as a party question among the city authorities at the present date. The squabbles and struggles among the various projectors would form an amusing chapter in the history of street rows—for it is seen that it is a noble prize to strive for. If the experiment succeeds, all London will be paved with wood, and fortunes will be secured by the successful candidates for employment. Every day some fresh claimant starts up and professes to have remedied every defect hitherto discovered in the systems of his predecessors. Still confidence seems unshaken in the system which has hitherto shown the best results; and since the introduction of the very ingenious invention of Mr Whitworth of Manchester, of a cart, which by an adaptation of wheels and pullies, and brooms and buckets, performs the work of thirty-six street-sweepers, the perfection of the work in Regent Street has been seen to such advantage, and the objections of slipperiness so clearly proved to arise, not from the nature of wood, but from the want of cleansing, that even the most timid are beginning to believe that the opposition to the further introduction of it is injudicious. Among these even Sir Peter promises to enrol himself, if the public favour continues as strong towards it for another year as he perceives it to be at the present time.

And now, dismissing these efforts at resisting a change which we may safely take to be at some period or other inevitable, let us cast a cursory glance at some of the results of the general introduction of wood pavement.

In the first place, the facility of cleansing will be greatly increased. A smooth surface, between which and the subsoil is interposed a thick concrete—which grows as hard and impermeable as iron—will not generate mud and filth to one-fiftieth of the extent of either granite roads or Macadam. It is probable that if there were no importations of dirt from the wheels of carriages coming off the stone streets, little scavengering would be needed. Certainly not more than could be supplied by one of Whitworth's machines. And it is equally evident that if wood were kept unpolluted by the liquid mud—into which the surface of the other causeways is converted in the driest weather by water carts—the slipperiness would be effectually cured.

In the second place, the saving of expense in cleansing and repairing would be prodigious. Let us take as our text a document submitted to the Marylebone Vestry in 1840, and acted on by them in the case of Oxford Street; and remember that the expenses of cleansing were calculated at the cost of the manual labour—a cost, we believe, reduced two thirds by the invention of Mr Whitworth. The Report is dated 1837:—

"Or an annual expenditure averaging £3963; so that the future expenses of Oxford Street, maintained as a Macadamized carriage-way, would be about £4000, or 2s. 4d per yard per annum.

"In contrast with this extract from the parochial documents, the results of which must have been greatly increased within the last three years, the Metropolitan Wood-Paving Company, who have already laid down above 4000 yards in Oxford Street, between Wells Street and Charles Street, are understood to be willing to complete the entire street in the best manner for 12s. per square yard, or about £14,000—for which they propose to take bonds bearing interest at the rate of four-and-a-half per cent per annum, whereby the parish will obtain ample time for ultimate payment; and further, to keep the whole in repair, inclusive of the cost of cleansing and watering, for one year gratuitously, and for twelve years following at £1900 per annum, being less than one-half the present outlay for these purposes."

Whether these were the terms finally agreed on we do not know; but we perceive by public tenders that the streets can be paved in the best possible manner for 13s. or 12s. 6d. a yard; and kept in repair for 6d. a yard additional. This is certainly much cheaper than Macadam, and we should think more economical than causeways. And, besides, it has the advantage—which one of the speakers suggested to Sir Peter Laurie—"that in case of an upset, it is far more satisfactory to contest the relative hardness of heads with a block of wood than a mass of granite."

We can only add in conclusion, that advertisements are published by the Commissioners of Sewers for contracts to pave with wood Cheapside, and Bishopsgate Street, and Whitechapel. Oh, Sir Peter!--how are the mighty fallen!

POEMS AND BALLADS OF SCHILLER. NO. VIII

FIRST PERIOD CONTINUED

A FUNERAL FANTASIE 1. Pale, at its ghastly noon, Pauses above the death-still wood—the moon; The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs; The clouds descend in rain; Mourning, the wan stars wane, Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres! Haggard as spectres—vision-like and dumb, Dark with the pomp of Death, and moving slow, Towards that sad lair the pale Procession come Where the Grave closes on the Night below. 2. With dim, deep sunken eye, Crutch'd on his staff, who trembles tottering by? As wrung from out the shatter'd heart, one groan Breaks the deep hush alone! Crush'd by the iron Fate, he seems to gather All life's last strength to stagger to the bier, And hearken——Do those cold lips murmur "Father?" The sharp rain, drizzling through that place of fear, Pierces the bones gnaw'd fleshless by despair, And the heart's horror stirs the silver hair. 3. Fresh bleed the fiery wounds Through all that agonizing heart undone— Still on the voiceless lips "my Father" sounds, And still the childless Father murmurs "Son!" Ice-cold—ice-cold, in that white shroud he lies— Thy sweet and golden dreams all vanish'd there— The sweet and golden name of "Father" dies Into thy curse,—ice-cold—ice-cold—he lies Dead, what thy life's delight and Eden were! 4. Mild, as when, fresh from the arms of Aurora, When the air like Elysium is smiling above, Steep'd in rose-breathing odours, the darling of Flora Wantons over the blooms on his winglets of love.— So gay, o'er the meads, went his footsteps in bliss, The silver wave mirror'd the smile of his face; Delight, like a flame, kindled up at his kiss, And the heart of the maid was the prey of his chase. 5. Boldly he sprang to the strife of the world, As a deer to the mountain-top carelessly springs; As an eagle whose plumes to the sun are unfurl'd, Swept his Hope round the Heaven on its limitless wings. Proud as a war-horse that chafes at the rein, That kingly exults in the storm of the brave; That throws to the wind the wild stream of its mane, Strode he forth by the prince and the slave! 6. Life, like a spring-day, serene and divine, In the star of the morning went by as a trance; His murmurs he drown'd in the gold of the wine, And his sorrows were borne on the wave of the dance. Worlds lay conceal'd in the hopes of his youth, When once he shall ripen to manhood and fame! Fond Father exult!--In the germs of his youth What harvests are destined for Manhood and Fame! 7. Not to be was that Manhood!--The death-bell is knelling The hinge of the death-vault creaks harsh on the ears— How dismal, O Death, is the place of thy dwelling! Not to be was that Manhood!--Flow on bitter tears! Go, beloved, thy path to the sun, Rise, world upon world, with the perfect to rest; Go—quaff the delight which thy spirit has won, And escape from our grief in the halls of the blest. 8. Again (in that thought what a healing is found!) To meet in the Eden to which thou art fled!— Hark, the coffin sinks down with a dull, sullen sound, And the ropes rattle over the sleep of the dead. And we cling to each other!--O Grave, he is thine! The eye tells the woe that is mute to the ears— And we dare to resent what we grudge to resign, Till the heart's sinful murmur is choked in its tears. Pale at its ghastly noon, Pauses above the death-still wood—the moon! The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs; The clouds descend in rain; Mourning, the wan stars wane, Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres. The dull clods swell into the sullen mound; Earth, one look yet upon the prey we gave! The Grave locks up the treasure it has found; Higher and higher swells the sullen mound— Never gives back the Grave!

A GROUP IN TARTARUS

Hark, as hoarse murmurs of a gathering sea— As brooks that howling through black gorges go, Groans sullen, hollow, and eternally, One wailing Woe! Sharp Anguish shrinks the shadows there; And blasphemous Despair Yells its wild curse from jaws that never close; And ghastly eyes for ever Stare on the bridge of the relentless River, Or watch the mournful wave as year on year it flows, And ask each other, with parch'd lips that writhe Into a whisper, "When the end shall be!" The end?—Lo, broken in Time's hand the scythe, And round and round revolves Eternity!

ELYSIUM

Past the despairing wail— And the bright banquets of the Elysian Vale Melt every care away! Delight, that breathes and moves for ever, Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river! Elysian life survey! There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads, His youngest west-winds blithely leads The ever-blooming May. Thorough gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the Hours, In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers, And Truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day, And joy to-day and joy to-morrow, But wafts the airy soul aloft; The very name is lost to Sorrow, And Pain is Rapture tuned more exquisitely soft. Here the Pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb, And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim, The load he shall bear never more; Here the Mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams, Lull'd with harp-strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams, The fields, when the harvest is o'er. Here, He, whose ears drank in the battle-roar, Whose banners stream'd upon the startled wind A thunder-storm,—before whose thunder tread The mountains trembled,—in soft sleep reclined, By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore, Hears the stern clangour of wild spears no more! Here the true Spouse the lost-beloved regains, And on the enamell'd couch of summer-plains Mingles sweet kisses with the west-wind's breath. Here, crown'd at last—Love never knows decay, Living through ages its one BRIDAL DAY, Safe from the stroke of Death!

COUNT EBERHARD, THE GRUMBLER, OF WURTEMBERG

Ha, ha I take heed—ha, ha! take heed,10 Ye knaves both South and North! For many a man both bold in deed And wise in peace, the land to lead, Old Swabia has brought forth. Proud boasts your Edward and your Charles, Your Ludwig, Frederick—are! Yet Eberhard's worth, ye bragging carles! Your Ludwig, Frederick, Edward, Charles— A thunder-storm in war. And Ulrick, too, his noble son, Ha, ha! his might ye know; Old Eberhard's boast, his noble son, Not he the boy, ye rogues, to run, How stout soe'er the foe! The Reutling lads with envy saw Our glories, day by day; The Reutling lads shall give the law— The Reutling lads the sword shall draw— O Lord—how hot were they! Out Ulrick went and beat them not— To Eberhard back he came— A lowering look young Ulrick got— Poor lad, his eyes with tears were hot— He hung his head for shame. "Ho—ho"—thought he—"ye rogues beware, Nor you nor I forget— For by my father's beard I swear Your blood shall wash the blot I bear, And Ulrick pay you yet!" Soon came the hour! with steeds and men The battle-field was gay; Steel closed in steel at Duffingen— And joyous was our stripling then, And joyous the hurra! "The battle lost" our battle-cry; The foe once more advances: As some fierce whirlwind cleaves the sky, We skirr, through blood and slaughter, by, Amidst a night of lances! On, lion-like, grim Ulrick sweeps— Bright shines his hero-glaive— Her chase before him Fury keeps, Far-heard behind him, Anguish weeps, And round him—is the Grave! Woe—woe! it gleams—the sabre-blow— Swift-sheering down it sped— Around, brave hearts the buckler throw— Alas! our boast in dust is low! Count Eberhard's boy is dead! Grief checks the rushing Victor-van— Fierce eyes strange moisture know— On rides old Eberhard, stern and wan, "My son is like another man— March, children, on the Foe!" And fiery lances whirr'd around, Revenge, at least, undying— Above the blood-red clay we bound— Hurrah! the burghers break their ground, Through vale and woodland flying! Back to the camp, behold us throng, Flags stream, and bugles play— Woman and child with choral song, And men, with dance and wine, prolong The warrior's holyday. And our old Count—and what doth he? Before him lies his son, Within his lone tent, lonelily, The old man sits with eyes that see Through one dim tear—his son! So heart and soul, a loyal band, Count Eberhard's band, we are! His front the tower that guards the land, A thunderbolt his red right hand— His eye a guiding star! Then take ye heed—Aha! take heed, Ye knaves both South and North! For many a man, both bold in deed And wise in peace, the land to lead, Old Swabia has brought forth!

TO A MORALIST

Are the sports of our youth so displeasing? Is love but the folly you say? Benumb'd with the Winter, and freezing, You scold at the revels of May. For you once a nymph had her charms, And oh! when the waltz you were wreathing, All Olympus embraced in your arms— All its nectar in Julia's breathing. If Jove at that moment had hurl'd The earth in some other rotation, Along with your Julia whirl'd, You had felt not the shock of creation. Learn this—that Philosophy beats Sure time with the pulse—quick or slow As the blood from the heyday retreats,— But it cannot make gods of us—No! It is well, icy Reason should thaw In the warm blood of Mirth now and then, The Gods for themselves have a law Which they never intended for men. The spirit is bound by the ties Of its jailer, the Flesh—if I can Not reach, as an angel, the skies, Let me feel, on the earth, as a Man.

ROUSSEAU. 11

Oh, Monument of Shame to this our time, Dishonouring record to thy Mother Clime! Hail, Grave of Rousseau! Here thy sorrows cease. Freedom and Peace from earth and earthly strife! Vainly, sad seeker, didst thou search through life To find—(found now)—the Freedom and the Peace. When will the old wounds scar? In the dark age Perish'd the wise. Light came; how fares the sage? There's no abatement of the bigot's rage. Still as the wise man bled, he bleeds again. Sophists prepared for Socrates the bowl— And Christians drove the steel through Rousseau's soul— Rousseau who strove to render Christians—men.