The result of all this was, that one fin_Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine

Beaumantle might have been seen walking to and fro in his own park, with

a troubled step, bearing in his hand a letter--most elaborately

penned--carefully written out--sealed--but not directed. It was an

explicit declaration of his love, a solemn offer of his hand; it was

only not quite determined to whom it should be sent. As the letter

contained very little that referred to the lady, and consisted almost

entirely of an account, not at all disparaging, of himself and his own

good qualities, it was easy for him to proceed thus far upon his

delicate negotiation, although the main question--to whom the letter was

to be addressed--was not yet decided. This letter had indeed been a

_labour of love_. It was as little written for Miss Sherwood as for Miss

Danvers. It was composed for the occasion whenever that might arise; and

for these ten years past it had been lying in his desk, receiving from

time to time fresh touches and emendations. The necessity of making use

of this epistle, which had now attained a state of painful perfection,

we venture to say had some share in impelling him into matrimony. To

some one it must be sent, or how could it appear to any advantage in

those "Memoirs of Sir Frederic Beaumantle," which, some future day, were

to console the world for his decease, and the prospect of which (for he

saw them already in beautiful hot-pressed quarto) almost consoled

himself for the necessity of dying? The _intended_ love-letter!--this

would have an air of ridicule, while the real declaration of Sir

Frederic Beaumantle, which would not only adorn the Memoirs above

mentioned, but would ultimately form a part of the "History of the

County of Huntingdon." We hope ourselves, by the way, to have the honour

of editing those Memoirs, should we be so unfortunate as to survive Sir

Frederic.

But we must leave our baronet with his letter in his hand, gazing

profoundly and anxiously on the blank left for the superscription, and

must follow the perplexities of Reginald Darcy.

That good understanding which apparently existed between Emily and

Captain Garland seemed rather to increase than to diminish after the

little adventure we recorded in the last chapter. It appeared that Miss

Sherwood had taken Darcy at his word, and resolved not to think any the

more kindly of him for his conduct on that occasion. The captain was

plainly in the ascendant. It even appeared, from certain arrangements

that were in stealthy preparation, that the happiness of the gallant

lover would not long be delayed. Messages of a very suspicious purport

had passed between the Park and the vicarage. The clerk of the parish

had been seen several times at Lipscombe. There was something in the

wind, as the sagacious housekeeper observed; surely her young _missus_

was not going to be married on the sly to the captain! The same thought,

however, occurred to Darcy. Was it to escape the suit of Sir Frederic

Beaumantle, which had been in some measure countenanced by her father,

that she had recourse to this stratagem?--hardly worthy of her, and

quite unnecessary, as she possessed sufficient influence with her father

to obtain his consent to any proposal she herself was likely to approve.

Had not the state of his own feelings made him too interested a party to

act as counsellor or mediator, he would at once have questioned Emily on

the subject. As it was, his lips were closed. She herself, too, seemed

resolved to make no communication to him. The captain, a man of frank

and open nature, was far more disposed to reveal his secret: he was once

on the point of speaking to Darcy about his "approaching marriage;" but

Emily, laying her finger on her lip, suddenly imposed silence on him.

One morning, as Darcy entered the breakfast-room, it was evident that

something unusual was about to take place. The carriage, at this early

hour, was drawn up to the door, and the two young ladies, both dressed

in bridal white, were stepping into it. Before it drove off Miss

Sherwood beckoned to Darcy.

"I have not invited you," she said, "to the ceremony, because Captain

Garland has wished it to be as private as possible. But we shall expect

your company at breakfast, for which you must even have the patience to

wait till we return." Without giving any opportunity for reply, she drew

up the glass, and the carriage rolled off.

However Darcy might have hitherto borne himself up by a gloomy sense of

duty, by pride, and a bitter--oh, what bitter resignation!--when the

blow came, it utterly prostrated him. "She is gone!--lost!--Fool that I

have been!--What was this man more than I?" Stung with such reflections

as these, which were uttered in such broken sentences, he rapidly

retreated to the library, where he knew he should be undisturbed. He

threw himself into a chair, and planting his elbows on the table,

pressed his doubled fists, with convulsive agony, to his brows. All his

fortitude had forsaken him: he wept outright.

From this posture he was at length aroused by a gentle pressure on his

shoulder, and a voice calling him by his name. He raised his head: it

was Emily Sherwood, enquiring of him, quite calmly, why he was not at

the breakfast-table. There she stood, radiant with beauty, and in all

her bridal attire, except that she had thrown of her bonnet, and her

beautiful hair was allowed to be free and unconfined. Her hand was still

upon his shoulder.

"You are married, Emily," he said, as well as that horrible stifling

sensation in the breast would let him speak; "you are married, and I

must be for evermore a banished man. I leave you, Emily, and this roof,

for ever. I pronounce my own sentence of exile, for I _love_ you,

Emily!--and ever shall--passionately--tenderly--love you. Surely I may

say this now--now that it is a mere cry of anguish, and a misery

exclusively my own. Never, never--I feel that this is no idle

raving--shall I love another--never will this affection leave me--I

shall never have a home--never care for another--or myself--I am

alone--a wanderer--miserable. Farewell! I go--I know not exactly

where--but I leave this place."

He was preparing to quit the room, when Emily, placing herself before

him, prevented him. "And why," said she, "if you honoured me with this

affection, why was I not to know of it till now?"

"Can the heiress of Lipscombe Park ask that question?"

"Ungenerous! unjust!" said Emily. "Tell me, if one who can himself feel

and act nobly, denies to another the capability of a like disinterested

conduct--denies it rashly, pertinaciously, without cause given for such

a judgment--is he not ungenerous and unjust?"

"To whom have I acted thus? To whom have I been ungenerous or unjust?"

"To me, Reginald--to me! I am wealthy, and for this reason alone you

have denied to me, it seems, the possession of every worthy sentiment.

She has gold, you have said, let her gold content her, and you withheld

your love. She will make much boast, and create a burdensome obligation,

if she bestows her superfluous wealth upon another: you resolved not to

give her the opportunity, and you withheld your love. She has gold--she

has no heart--no old affections that have grown from childhood--no

estimate of character: she has wealth--let her gratify its vanity and

its caprice; and so you withheld your love. Yes, she has gold--let her

have more of it--let her wed with gold--with any gilded fool--she has no

need of love! This is what you have thought, what your conduct has

implied, and it was ungenerous and unjust."

"No, by heaven! I never thought unworthily of you," exclaimed Darcy.

"Had you been the wealthy cousin, Reginald, of wealth so ample, that an

addition to it could scarcely bring an additional pleasure, would you

have left your old friend Emily to look out for some opulent alliance?"

"Oh, no! no!"

"Then, why should I?"

"I may have erred," said Darcy. "I may have thought too meanly of

myself, or nourished a misplaced pride, but I never had a disparaging

thought of you. It seemed that I was right--that I was fulfilling a

severe--oh, how severe a duty! Even now I know not that I was wrong--I

know only that I am miserable. But," added he in a calmer voice, "I, at

all events, am the only sufferer. You, at least, are happy."

"Not, I think, if marriage is to make me so. I am not married,

Reginald," she said, amidst a confusion of smiles and blushes. "Captain

Garland was married this morning to Miss Julia Danvers, to whom he has

been long engaged, but a silly selfish stepmother"----

"Not married!" cried Darcy, interrupting all further explanation.--"Not

married! Then you are free--then you are"----But the old train of

thought rushed back upon his mind--the old objections were as strong as

ever--Miss Sherwood was still the daughter of his guardian, and the

heiress of Lipscombe Park. Instead of completing the sentence, he

paused, and muttered something about "her father."

Emily saw the cloud that had come over him. Dropping playfully, and most

gracefully, upon one knee, she took his hand, and looking up archly in

his face, said, "You love me, coz--you have said it. Coz, will you marry

me?--for I love you."

"Generous, generous girl!" and he clasped her to his bosom.

"Let us go in," said Emily, in a quite altered and tremulous voice, "let

us join them in the other room." And as she put her arm in his, the

little pressure said distinctly and triumphantly--"He is mine!--he is

mine!"

* * * * *

We must take a parting glance into old Mr Sherwood's room. He is seated

in his gouty chair; his daughter stands by his side. Apparently Emily's

reasonings have almost prevailed; she has almost persuaded the old

gentleman that Darcy is the very son-in-law whom, above all others, he

ought to desire. For how could Emily leave her dear father, and how

could he domicile himself with any other husband she could choose, half

so well as with his own ward, and his old favourite, Reginald?

"But Sir Frederic Beaumantle," the old gentleman replied, "what is to be

said to him? and what a fine property he has!"

As he was speaking, the door opened, and the party from the breakfast

table, consisting of Captain Garland, and his bride, and Reginald,

entered the room.

"Oh, as for Sir Frederic Beaumantle," said she who was formerly Miss

Danvers, and now Mrs Garland, "I claim him as mine." And forthwith she

displayed the famous declaration of the baronet--addressed to herself!

Their mirth had scarcely subsided, when the writer of the letter himself

made his appearance. He had called early, for he had concluded, after

much deliberation, that it was not consistent with the ardour and

impetuosity of love, to wait till the formal hour of visiting, in order

to receive the answer of Miss Danvers.

That answer the lady at once gave by presenting Captain Garland to him

in the character of her husband. At the same time, she returned his

epistle, and, explaining that circumstances had compelled the captain

and herself to marry in a private and secret manner, apologized for the

mistake into which the concealment of their engagement had led him.

"A mistake indeed--a mistake altogether!" exclaimed the baronet,

catching at a straw as he fell--"a mistake into which this absurd

fashion of envelopes has led us. The letter was never intended, madam,

to be enclosed to you. It was designed for the hands"----

And he turned to Miss Sherwood, who, on her part, took the arm of

Reginald with a significance of manner which proved to him that, for the

present at least, his declaration of love might return into his own

desk, there to receive still further emendations.

"No wonder, Sir Frederic," said Mr Sherwood, compassionating the

baronet's situation--"no wonder your proposal is not wanted. These young

ladies have taken their affairs into their own hands. It is _Leap-Year_.

One of them, at least, (looking to his daughter,) has made good use of

its privilege. The initiative, Sir Frederic, is taken from us."

The baronet had nothing left but to make his politest bow and retire.

"Reginald, my dear boy," continued the old gentleman, "give me your

hand. Emily is right. I don't know how I should part with her. I will

only make this bargain with you, Reginald--that you marry us both. You

must not turn me out of doors."

Reginald returned the pressure of his hand, but he could say nothing. Mr

Sherwood, however, saw his answer in eyes that were filling

involuntarily with tears.

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF THE BLOCKS.

THE PAVING QUESTION.

The subject of greatest metropolitan interest which has occurred for

many years, is the introduction of wood paving. As the main battle has

been fought in London, and nothing but a confused report of the great

object in dispute may have penetrated beyond the sound of Bow bells, we

think it will not be amiss to put on record, in the imperishable brass

and marble of our pages, an account of the mighty struggle--of the

doughty champions who couched the lance and drew the sword in the

opposing ranks--and, finally, to what side victory seems to incline on

this beautiful 1st of May in the year 1843.

Come, then, to our aid, oh ye heavenly Muses! who enabled Homer to sing

in such persuasive words the fates of Troy and of its wooden horse; for

surely a subject which is so deeply connected both with wood and horses,

is not beneath your notice; but perhaps, as poetry is gone out of

fashion at the present time, you will depute one of your humbler

sisters, rejoicing in the name of Prose, to give us a few hints in the

composition of our great history. The name of the first pavier, we fear,

is unknown, unless we could identify him with Triptolemus, who was a

great improver of Rhodes; but it is the fate of all the greatest

benefactors of their kind to be neglected, and in time forgotten. The

first regularly defined paths were probably footways--the first

carriages broad-wheeled. No record remains of what materials were used

for filling up the ruts; so it is likely, in those simple times when

enclosure acts were unknown, that the cart was seldom taken in the same

track. As houses were built, and something in the shape of streets began

to be established, the access to them must have been more attended to. A

mere smoothing of the inequalities of the surface over which the oxen

had to be driven, that brought the grain home on the enormous _plaustra_

of the husbandman, was the first idea of a street, whose very name is

derived from _stratum_, levelled. As experience advanced, steps would be

taken to prevent the softness of the road from interrupting the draught.

A narrow rim of stone, just wide enough to sustain the wheel, would, in

all probability, be the next improvement; and only when the gentle

operations of the farm were exchanged for war, and the charger had to be

hurried to the fight, with all the equipments necessary for an army,

great roads were laid open, and covered with hard materials to sustain

the wear and tear of men and animals. Roads were found to be no less

necessary to retain a conquest than to make it; and the first true proof

of the greatness of Rome was found in the long lines of military ways,

by which she maintained her hold upon the provinces. You may depend on

it, that no expense was spared in keeping the glorious street that led

up her Triumphs to the Capitol in excellent repair. All the nations of

the _Orbis Antiquus_ ought to have trembled when they saw the beginning

of the Appian road. It led to Britain and Persia, to Carthage and the

White Sea. The Britons, however, in ancient days, seem to have been

about the stupidest and least enterprising of all the savages hitherto

discovered. After an intercourse of four hundred years with the most

polished people in the world, they continued so miserably benighted,

that they had not even acquired masonic knowledge enough to repair a

wall. The rampart raised by their Roman protectors between them and the

Picts and Scots, became in some places dilapidated. The unfortunate

natives had no idea how to mend the breach, and had to send once more

for their auxiliaries. If such their state in regard to masonry, we

cannot suppose that their skill in road-making was very great; and yet

we are told that, even on Cæsar's invasion, the Britons careered about

in war-chariots, which implies both good roads and some mechanical

skill; but we think it a little too much in historians to ask us to

believe BOTH these views of the condition of our predecessors in the

tight little island; for it is quite clear that a people who had arrived

at the art of coach-making, could not be so very ignorant as not to know

how to build a wall. If it were not for the letters of Cicero, we should

not believe a syllable about the war-chariots that carried amazement

into the hearts of the Romans, even in Kent or Surrey. But we here

boldly declare, that if twenty Ciceros were to make their affidavits to

the fact of a set of outer barbarians, like Galgacus and his troops,

"sweeping their fiery lines on rattling wheels" up and down the

Grampians--where, at a later period, a celebrated shepherd fed his

flocks--we should not believe a word of their declaration. Tacitus, in

the same manner, we should prosecute for perjury.

The Saxons were a superior race, and when the eightsome-reel of the

heptarchy became the _pas-seul_ of the kingdom of England, we doubt not

that Watling Street was kept in passable condition, and that Alfred,

amidst his other noble institutions, invented a highway rate. The

fortresses and vassal towns of the barons, after the Conquest, must have

covered the country with tolerable cross-roads; and even the petty wars

of those steel-clad marauders must have had a good effect in opening new

communications. For how could Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, or Sir

Hildebrand Bras-de-Fer, carry off the booty of their discomfited rival

to their own granaries without loaded tumbrils, and roads fit to pass

over?

Nor would it have been wise in rich abbots and fat monks to leave their

monasteries and abbeys inaccessible to pious pilgrims, who came to

admire thigh-bones of martyred virgins and skulls of beatified saints,

and paid very handsomely for the exhibition. Finally, trade began, and

paviers flourished. The first persons of that illustrious profession

appear, from the sound of the name, to have been French, unless we take

the derivation of a cockney friend of ours, who maintains that the

origin of the word is not the French _pavé_, but the indigenous English

pathway. However that may be, we are pretty sure that paving was known

as one of the fine arts in the reign of Queen Elizabeth; for, not to

mention the anecdote of Raleigh and his cloak--which could only happen

where puddles formed the exception and not the rule--we read of Essex's

horse stumbling on a paving-stone in his mad ride to his house in the

Strand. We also prove, from Shakspeare's line--

"The very stones would rise in mutiny"--

the fact of stones forming the main body of the streets in his time; for

it is absurd to suppose that he was so rigid an observer of the unities

as to pay the slightest respect to the state of paving in the time of

Julius Cæsar at Rome.

Gradually London took the lead in improving its ways. It was no longer

necessary for the fair and young to be carried through the mud upon

costly pillions, on the backs of high-stepping Flanders mares. Beauty

rolled over the stones in four-wheeled carriages, and it did not need

more than half-a-dozen running footmen--the stoutest that could be

found--to put their shoulders occasionally to the wheel, and help the

eight black horses to drag the ponderous vehicle through the heavier

parts of the road. Science came to the aid of beauty in these

distressing circumstances. Springs were invented that yielded to every

jolt; and, with the aid of cushions, rendered a visit to Highgate not

much more fatiguing than we now find the journey to Edinburgh. Luxury

went on--wealth flowed in--paviers were encouraged--coach-makers grew

great men--and London, which our ancestors had left mud, was now stone.

Year after year the granite quarries of Aberdeen poured themselves out

on the streets of the great city, and a million and a half of people

drove, and rode, and bustled, and bargained, and cheated, and throve, in

the midst of a din that would have silenced the artillery of Trafalgar,

and a mud which, if turned into bricks, would have built the tower of

Babel. The citizens were now in possession of the "fumum et opes

strepitumque Romæ;" but some of the more quietly disposed, though

submitting patiently to the "fumum," and by no means displeased with the

"opes," thought the "strepitumque" could be dispensed with, and plans of

all kinds were proposed for obviating the noise and other inconveniences

of granite blocks. Some proposed straw, rushes, sawdust; ingenuity was

at a stand-still; and London appeared to be condemned to a perpetual

atmosphere of smoke and sound. It is pleasant to look back on

difficulties, when overcome--the best illustration of which is

Columbus's egg; for, after convincing the sceptic, there can be no

manner of doubt that he swallowed the yelk and white, leaving the shell

to the pugnacious disputant. In the same way we look with a pleasing

kind of pity on the quandaries of those whom we shall call--with no

belief whatever in the pre-Adamite theory--the pre-Macadamites.

A man of talent and enterprise, Mr Macadam, proposed a means of getting

quit of one of the objections to the granite causeways. By breaking them

up into small pieces, and spreading them in sufficient quantity, he

proved that a continuous hard surface would be formed, by which the

uneasy jerks from stone to stone would be avoided, and the expense, if

not diminished, at all events not materially increased. When the

proposition was fairly brought before the public, it met the fate of all

innovations. Timid people--the very persons, by the by, who had been the

loudest in their exclamations against the ancient causeways--became

alarmed the moment they saw a chance of getting quit of them. As we

never know the value of a thing till we have lost it, their attachment

to stone and noise became more intense in proportion as the certainty of

being deprived of them became greater. It was proved to the satisfaction

of all rational men, if Mr Macadam's experiment succeeded, and a level

surface were furnished to the streets, that, besides noise, many other

disadvantages of the rougher mode of paving would be avoided. Among

these the most prominent was slipperiness; and it was impossible to be

denied, that at many seasons of the year, not only in frost, when every

terrestrial pathway must be unsafe; but in the dry months of summer, the

smooth surfaces of the blocks of granite, polished and rounded by so

many wheels, were each like a convex mass of ice, and caused unnumbered

falls to the less adroit of the equestrian portion of the king's

subjects. One of the most zealous advocates of the improvement was the

present Sir Peter Laurie, not then elevated to a seat among the Equites,

but imbued probably with a foreknowledge of his knighthood, and

therefore anxious for the safety of his horse. Sir Peter was determined,

in all senses of the word, to _leave no stone unturned_; and a very

small mind, when directed to one object with all its force, has more

effect than a large mind unactuated by the same zeal--as a needle takes

a sharper point than a sword. Thanks, therefore, are due, in a great

measure, to the activity and eloquence of the worthy alderman for the

introduction of Macadam's system of road-making into the city.

Many evils were certainly got rid of by this alteration--the jolting

motion from stone to stone--the slipperiness and unevenness of the

road--and the chance, in case of an accident, of contesting the hardness

of your skull with a mass of stone, which seemed as if it were made on

purpose for knocking out people's brains. For some time contentment sat

smiling over the city. But, as "man never is, but always to be, blest,"

perfect happiness appeared not to be secured even by Macadam. Ruts began

to be formed--rain fell, and mud was generated at a prodigious rate;

repairs were needed, and the road for a while was rough and almost

impassable. Then it was found out that the change had only led to a

different _kind_ of noise, instead of destroying it altogether; and the

perpetual grinding of wheels, sawing their way through the loose stones

at the top, or ploughing through the wet foundation, was hardly an

improvement on the music arising from the jolts and jerks along the

causeway. Men's minds got confused in the immensity of the uproar, and

deafness became epidemic. In winter, the surface of Macadam formed a

series of little lakes, resembling on a small scale those of Canada; in

summer, it formed a Sahara of dust, prodigiously like the great desert.

Acres of the finest alluvial clay floated past the shops in autumn; in

spring, clouds of the finest sand were wafted among the goods, and

penetrated to every drawer and wareroom. And high over all, throughout

all the main highways of commerce--the Strand--Fleet Street--Oxford

Street--Holborn--raged a storm of sound, that made conversation a matter

of extreme difficulty without such stentorian an effort as no ordinary

lungs could make. As the inhabitants of Abdera went about sighing from

morning to night, "Love! love!" so the persecuted dwellers in the great

thoroughfares wished incessantly for cleanliness! smoothness! silence!

"Abra was present when they named her name," and, after a few gropings

after truth--a few experiments that ended in nothing--a voice was heard

in the city, that streets could be paved with wood. This was by no means

a discovery in itself; for in many parts of the country ingenious

individuals had laid down wooden floors upon their farm-yards; and, in

other lands, it was a very common practice to use no other material for

their public streets. But, in London, it was new; and all that was

wanted, was science to use the material (at first sight so little

calculated to bear the wear and tear of an enormous traffic) in the most

eligible manner. The first who commenced an actual piece of paving was a

Mr Skead--a perfectly simple and inartificial system, which it was soon

seen was doomed to be superseded. His blocks were nothing but pieces of

wood of a hexagon shape--with no cohesion, and no foundation--so that

they trusted each to its own resources to resist the pressure of a

wheel, or the blow of a horse's hoof; and, as might have been foreseen,

they became very uneven after a short use, and had no recommendation

except their cheapness and their exemption from noise. The fibre was

vertical, and at first no grooves were introduced; they, of course,

became rounded by wearing away at the edge, and as slippery as the

ancient granite. The Metropolitan Company took warning from the defects

of their predecessor, and adopted the patent of a scientific French

gentleman of the name of De Lisle. The combination of the blocks is as

elaborate as the structure of a ship of war, and yet perfectly easy,

being founded on correct mechanical principles, and attaining the great

objects required--viz. smoothness, durability, and quiet. The blocks,

which are shaped at such an angle that they give the most perfect mutual

support, are joined to each other by oaken dowels, and laid on a hard

concrete foundation, presenting a level surface, over which the impact

is so equally divided, that the whole mass resists the pressure on each

particular block; and yet, from being formed in panels of about a yard

square, they are laid down or lifted up with far greater ease than the

causeway. Attention was immediately attracted to this invention, and all

efforts have hitherto been vain to improve on it. Various projectors

have appeared--some with concrete foundations, some with the blocks

attached to each other, not by oak dowels, but by being alternately

concave and convex at the side; but this system has the incurable defect

of wearing off at the edges, where the fibre of the wood, of course, is

weakest, and presents a succession of bald-pated surfaces, extremely

slippery, and incapable of being permanently grooved. A specimen of this

will be often referred to in the course of this account, being that

which has attained such an unenviable degree of notoriety in the

Poultry. Other inventors have shown ingenuity and perseverance; but the

great representative of wooden paving we take to be the Metropolitan

Company, and we proceed to a narrative of the attacks it has sustained,

and the struggles it has gone through.

So long ago as July 1839, the inventor explained to a large public

meeting of noblemen and men of science, presided over by the Duke of

Sussex, the principle of his discovery. It consisted in a division of

the cube, or, as he called it, the stereotomy of the cube. After

observing, that "although the cube was the most regular of all solid

bodies, and the most learned men amongst the Greeks and other nations

had occupied themselves to ascertain and measure its proportions, he

said it had never hitherto been regarded as a body, to be anatomized or

explored in its internal parts. Some years ago, it had occurred to a

French mathematician that the cube was divisible into six pyramidical

forms; and it therefore had struck him, the inventor, that the natural

formation of that figure was by a combination of those forms. Having

detailed to his audience a number of experiments, and shown how the

results thereby obtained accorded with mathematical principles, he

proceeded to explain the various purposes to which diagonal portions of

the cube might be applied. By cutting the body in half, and then

dividing the half in a diagonal direction, he obtained a figure--namely,

a quarter of the cube--in which, he observed, the whole strength or

power of resistance of the entire body resided; and he showed the

application of these sections of the cube to the purposes of paving by

wood." Such is the first meagre report of the broaching of a scientific

system of paving; and, with the patronage of such men of rank and

eminence as took an interest in the subject, the progress was sure and

rapid.

In December 1839, about 1100 square yards were laid down in Whitehall,

and a triumph was never more complete; for since that period it has

continued as smooth and level as when first it displaced the Macadam; it

has never required repair, and has been a small basis of peace and

quietness, amidst a desert of confusion and turmoil. Since that time,

about sixty thousand yards in various parts of London, being about

three-fourths of all the pavement hitherto introduced, attest the public

appreciation of the Metropolitan Company's system. It may be interesting

to those who watch the progress of great changes, to particularize the

operations (amounting in the aggregate to forty thousand yards) that

were carried out upon this system in 1842:--

St Giles's, Holborn

Foundling Estate

Hammersmith Bridge

St Andrew's, Holborn

Jermyn Street

Old Bailey

Piccadilly

Newgate Street, eastern end

Southampton Street

Lombard Street

Oxford Street

Regent Street;

besides several noblemen's court-yards, such as the Dukes of Somerset

and Sutherland's, and a great number of stables, for which it is found

peculiarly adapted.

The other projectors have specimens principally in the Strand; that near

the Golden Cross, being by Mr Skead; that near Coutts's Bank, Mr

Saunders; at St Giles's Church, in Holborn, Mr Rankin; and in the city,

at Gracechurch Street, Cornhill, and the Poultry, Mr Cary. The Poultry

is a short space lying between Cheapside and the Mansion-house,

consisting altogether of only 378 square yards. It lies in a hollow, as

if on purpose to receive the river of mud which rolls its majestic

course from the causeway on each side. The traffic on it, though not

fast, is perpetual, and the system from the first was faulty. In

addition to these drawbacks, its cleansing was totally neglected; and on

all these accounts, it offered an excellent point of attack to any

person who determined to signalize himself by preaching a crusade

against wood. Preachers, thank heaven! are seldom wanted; and on this

occasion the part of Peter the Hermit was undertaken by Peter the

Knight; for our old acquaintance, the opponent of causeways, the sworn

enemy to granite, the favourer of Macadam, had worn the chain of office;

had had his ears tickled for a whole year by the magic word, my lord,

was as much of a knight as Sir Amadis de Gaul, and much more of an

alderman; had been a great dispenser of justice, and sometimes a

dispenser with law; had made himself a name, before which that of the

Curtises and Waithmans grew pale; and, above all, was at that very

moment in want of a grievance. Sir Peter Laurie gave notice of a motion

on the subject of the Poultry. People began to think something had gone

wrong with the chickens, or that Sir Robert had laid a high duty on

foreign eggs. The alarm spread into Norfolk, and affected the price of

turkeys. Bantams fell in value, and barn-door fowls were a drug. In the

midst of all these fears, it began to be whispered about, that if any

chickens were concerned in the motion, it was Cary's chickens; and that

the attack, though nominally on the hen-roost, was in reality on the

wood. It was now the depth of winter; snowy showers were succeeded by

biting frosts; the very smoothness of the surface of the wooden pavement

was against it; for as no steps were taken to prevent slipperiness, by

cleansing or sanding the street--or better still, perhaps, by roughing

the horses' shoes, many tumbles took place on this doomed little portion

of the road; and some of the city police, having probably, in the

present high state of English morals, little else to do, were employed

to count the falls. Armed with a list of these accidents, which grew in

exact proportion to the number of people who saw them--(for instance, if

three people separately reported, "a grey horse down in the Poultry," it

did duty for three grey horses)--Sir Peter opened the business of the

day, at a meeting of the Commissioners of Sewers for the City of London,

on the 14th of February 1843. Mr Alderman Gibbs was in the chair. Sir

Peter, on this occasion, transcended his usual efforts; he was inspired

with the genius of his subject, and was as great a specimen of slip-slop

as the streets themselves. He requested a petition to be read, signed by

a Mr Gray, and a considerable number of other jobmasters and livery

stable-keepers, against wood pavement; and, as it formed the text on

which he spoke, we quote it entire:--

"To the Commissioners of Sewers--

"The humble memorial of your memorialists, humbly

showeth,--That in consequence of the introduction of wood

pavements into the City of London, in lieu of granite, a very

great number of accidents have occurred; and in drawing a

comparison between the two from observations made, it is found

where one accident happened on the granite pavement, that ten

at least took place upon the wood. Your memorialists therefore

pray, that, in consequence of the wood pavement being so

extremely dangerous to travel over, you would be pleased to

take the matter into your serious consideration, and cause it

to be removed; by doing which you will, in the first place, be

removing a great and dangerous nuisance; and, secondly, you

will be setting a beneficial and humane example to other

metropolitan districts."

Mr Gray, in addition to the memorial, begged fully to corroborate its

statements, and said that he had himself twice been thrown out by the

falling of his horse on the wood, and had broken his shafts both times.

As he did not allude to his legs and arms, we conclude they escaped

uninjured; and the only effect created by his observation, seemed to be

a belief that his horse was probably addicted to falling, and preferred

the wood to the rough and hard angles of the granite. Immediately after

the reading of the stablemen's memorial, a petition was introduced in

favour of wood pavement from Cornhill, signed by all the inhabitants of

that wealthy and flourishing district, and, on the principles of fair

play, we transcribe it as a pendant to the other:--

"Your petitioners, the undersigned inhabitants of the ward of Cornhill

and Birchen Lane, beg again to bring before you their earnest request,

that that part of Cornhill which is still paved with granite, and also

Birchen Lane, may now be paved with wood.

"Your petitioners are well aware that many complaints have been received

of the wood paving in the Poultry; but they beg to submit to you that no

reports which have been, or which may be made, of the accidents which

have occurred on that small spot, should be considered as in any way

illustrative of the merits of the general question. From its minuteness,

and its slope at both extremities, it is constantly covered with

slippery mud from the granite at each end; and that, together with the

sudden transition from one sort of paving to another, causes the horses

continually to stumble on that spot. Your petitioners therefore submit

that no place could have been selected for experiment so ill adapted to

show a fair result. Since your petitioners laid their former petition

before you, they have ascertained, by careful examination and enquiry,

that in places where wood paving has been laid down continuously to a

moderate extent--viz. in Regent Street, Jermyn Street, Holborn, Oxford

Street, the Strand, Coventry Street, and Lombard Street--it has fully

effected all that was expected from it; it has freed the streets from

the distracting nuisance of incessant noise, has diminished mud,

increased the value of property, and given full satisfaction to the

inhabitants. Your petitioners, therefore, beg to urge upon you most

strongly a compliance with their request, which they feel assured would

be a further extension of a great public good."

In addition to the petition, Mr Fernie, who presented it, stated "that

the inhabitants (whom he represented) had satisfied themselves of the

advantages of wood paving before they wished its adoption at their own

doors. That enquiries had been made of the inhabitants of streets in the

enjoyment of wood paving, and they all approved of it; and said, that

nothing would induce them to return to the old system of stone; that

they were satisfied the number of accidents had not been greater on the

wood than they had been on the granite; and that they were of a much

less serious character and extent."

Sir Peter on this applied a red silk handkerchief to his nose; wound

three blasts on that wild horn, as if to inspire him for the charge; and

rushed into the middle of the fight. His first blow was aimed at Mr

Prosser, the secretary of the Metropolitan Company, who had stated that

in Russia, where wooden pavements were common, a sprinkling of pitch and

strong sand had prevented the possibility of slipping. Orlando Furioso

was a peaceful Quaker compared to the infuriate Laurie. "The admission

of Mr Prosser," he said, "proves that, without pitch and sand, wood

pavements are impassable;" and fearful was it to see the prodigious

vigour with which the Prosser with two _s_'s, was pressed and assaulted

by the Proser with only one. Wonder took possession of the assemblage,

at the catalogue of woes the impassioned orator had collected as the

results of this most dangerous and murderous contrivance. An old woman

had been run over by an omnibus--all owing to wood; a boy had been

killed by a cab--all owing to wood; and it seemed never to have occurred

to the speaker, in his anti-silvan fury, that boy's legs are

occasionally broken by unruly cabs, and poles of omnibuses run into the

backs of unsuspecting elderly gentlemen on the roads which continue

under the protecting influence of granite or Macadam. He had seen horses

fall on the wooden pavements in all directions; he had seen a troop of

dragoons, in the midst of the frost, dismount and lead their un-roughed

horses across Regent Street; the Recorder had gone round by the squares

to avoid the wooden districts; one lady had ordered her coachman to

stick constantly to stone; and another, when she required to go to

Regent Street, dismissed her carriage and walked. The thanks he had

received for his defence of granite were innumberable; an omnibus would

not hold the compliments that had been paid him for his efforts against

wood; and, as Lord Shaftesbury had expressed his obligations to him on

the subject, he did not doubt that if the matter came before the House

of Lords, he would bestow the degree of attention on it which his

lordship bestowed on all matters of importance. Working himself us as he

drew near his peroration, he broke out into a blaze of eloquence which

put the Lord Mayor into some fear on account of the Thames, of which he

is official conservator. "The thing cannot last!" he exclaimed; "and if

you don't, in less than two years from this time, say I am a true

prophet, put me on seven years' allowance." What the meaning of this

latter expression may be, we cannot divine. It seems to us no very

severe punishment to be forced to receive the allowance of seven years

instead of one, the only explanation we can think of is, that it

contains some delicate allusion to the dietary of gentlemen who are

supposed to be visiting one of the colonies in New Holland, but in

reality employ themselves in aquatic amusements in Portsmouth and

Plymouth harbour "for the space of seven long years"--and are not

supposed to fare in so sumptuous a manner as the aldermen of the city of

London.

"The poor horses," he proceeded, "that are continually tumbling down on

the wood pavement, cannot send their representatives, but I will

represent them here whenever I have the opportunity"--(a horse laugh, as

if from the orator's constituents, was excited by this sally.) "But,

gentlemen, besides the danger of this atrocious system, we ought to pay

a little attention to the expense. I maintain you have no right to make

the inhabitants of those streets to which there is no idea of extending

the wood paving, pay for the ease and comfort, as it is called, of

persons residing in the larger thoroughfares, such as Newgate Street and

Cheapside. But the promoters say, 'Oh I but we will have the whole town

paved with it'--(hear, hear.) What would this cost? A friend of mine has

made some calculations on this point, and he finds that, to pave the

whole town with wood, an outlay of twenty-four millions of money must be

incurred!"

It was generally supposed in the meeting that the friend here alluded to

was either Mr Joseph Hume or the ingenious gentleman who furnished Lord

Stanley with the statistics of the wheat-growing districts of Tamboff.

It was afterwards discovered to be a Mr Cocker Munchausen.

Twenty-four millions of money! and all to be laid out on wood! The

thought was so immense that it nearly choked the worthy orator, and he

could not proceed for some time. When at last, by a great effort, he

recovered the thread of his discourse, he became pathetic about the fate

of one of the penny-post boys, (a relation--"we guess"--of the deceased

H. Walker, Esq. of the Twopenny Post,)--who had broken his leg on the

wooden pavement. The authorities had ordered the lads to avoid the wood

in future. For all these reasons, Sir Peter concluded his speech with a

motion, "That the wood pavement in the Poultry is dangerous and

inconvenient to the public, and ought to be taken up and replaced with

granite pavement."

"As in a theatre the eyes of men,

After some well-graced actor leaves the stage,

Are idly bent on him who enters next

Thinking his prattle to be tedious,

Even so, or with more scorn, men's eyes

Were turned on----Mr Deputy Godson!"

The benevolent reader may have observed that the second fiddle is

generally a little louder and more sharp set than the first. On this

occasion that instrument was played upon by the worthy deputy, to the

amazement of all the connoisseurs in that species of music in which he

and his leader are known to excel. From his speech it was gathered that

he represented a district which has been immortalized by the genius of

the author of Tom Thumb; and in the present unfortunate aspect of human

affairs, when a comet is brandishing its tail in the heavens, and

O'Connell seems to have been deprived of his upon earth--when poverty,

distress, rebellion, and wooden pavements, are threatening the very

existence of _Great_ Britain, it is consolotary to reflect that under

the guardianship of Deputy Godson _Little_ Britain is safe; for he is

resolved to form a cordon of granite round it, and keep it free from the

contamination of Norway pines or Scottish fir. "I have been urged by my

constituents," he says, "to ask for wood pavement in Little Britain; but

I am adverse to it, as I think wood paving is calculated to produce the

greatest injury to the public.

"I have seen twenty horses down on the wood pavement

together--(laughter.) I am here to state what I have seen. I have seen

horses down on the wood pavement, twenty at a time--(renewed laughter.)

I say, and with great deference, that we are in the habit of conferring

favours when we ought to withhold them. I think gentlemen ought to pause

before they burden the consolidated rate with those matters, and make

the poor inhabitants of the City pay for the fancies of the wealthy

members of Cornhill and the Poultry. We ought to deal even-handed

justice, and not introduce into the City, and that at a great expense, a

pavement that is dirty, stinking, and everything that is

bad."--(laughter.)

In Pope's Homer's Iliad, it is very distressing to the philanthropic

mind to reflect on the feelings that must agitate the bosom of Mr Deputy

Thersites when Ajax passes by. In the British Parliament it is a

melancholy sight to see the countenance of some unfortunate orator when

Sir Robert Peel rises to reply, with a smile of awful import on his

lips, and a subdued cannibal expression of satisfaction in his eyes.

Even so must it have been a harrowing spectacle to observe the effects

of the answer of Mr R.L. Jones, who rose for the purpose of moving the

previous question. He said, "I thought the worthy alderman who

introduced this question would have attempted to support himself by

bringing some petitions from citizens against wood paving--(hear.) He

has not done so, and I may observe, that from not one of the wards where

wood pavement has been laid down has there been a petition to take any

of the wood pavement up. What the mover of these resolutions has done,

has been to travel from one end of the town to the other, to prove to

you that wood paving is bad in principle. Has that been

established?--(Cries of 'no, no.') I venture to say they have not

established any thing of the kind. All that has been done is this--it

has been shown that wood pavement, which is comparatively a recent

introduction, has not yet been brought to perfection--(hear, hear.) Now,

every one knows that complaints have always been made against every new

principle, till it has been brought to perfection. Look, for instance,

at the steam-engine. How vastly different it now is, with the

improvements which science has effected, from what it was when it was

first introduced to the notice of the world! Wherever wood pavement has

been laid down, it has been approved of. All who have enjoyed the

advantage of its extension, acknowledge the comfort derived from it. Sir

Peter Laurie asserts that he is continually receiving thanks for his

agitation about wood paving, and that an omnibus would not hold the

compliments he receives at the West End. Now, I can only say, that I

find the contrary to be the case; and every body who meets me exclaims,

'Good God! what can Sir Peter Laurie be thinking about, to try and get

the wood paving taken up, and stone paving substituted?' So far from

thanking Sir Peter, every body is astonished at him. The wood pavement

has not been laid down nearly three years, and I say here, in the face

of the Commission, that there have not been ten blocks taken up; but had

granite been put down, I will venture to say that it would, during the

same period, have been taken up six or seven times. Your books will

prove it, that the portion of granite pavement in the Poultry was taken

up six or seven times during a period of three years. When the wood

paving becomes a little slippery, go to your granite heaps which belong

to this commission, or to your fine sifted cinder heaps, and let that be

strewed over the surface; that contains no earthy particles, and will,

when it becomes imbedded in the wood, form such a surface that there

cannot be any possibility be any slipperiness--(hear, hear!) Do we not

pursue this course in frosty weather even with our own stone paving?

There used to be, before this plan was adopted, not a day pass but you

would in frosty weather see two, three, four, and even five or six

horses down together on the stone paving--('Oh! oh!' from Mr Deputy

Godson.) My friend may cry 'oh! oh!' but I mean to say that this

assertion is not so incongruous as the statement of my friend, that he

saw twenty horses down at once on the wood pavement in Newgate Street,

(laughter.) I may exclaim with my worthy friend the deputy on my left,

who lives in Newgate Street, 'When the devil did it happen? I never

heard of it.' I stand forward in support of wood paving as a great

public principle, because I believe it to be most useful and

advantageous to the public; which is proved by the fact, that the public

at large are in favour of it. If we had given notice that this court

would be open to hear the opinions of the citizens of London on the

subject of wood paving, I am convinced that the number of petitions in

its favour would have been so great, that the doors would not have been

sufficiently wide to have received them."

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:--

"The cost of the last five years having been, £16,881

The present expense for 1837, about 2,000

The required outlay 4,000

And the cleansing for 1837 900

------

Gives a total for six years of £23,781

"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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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!

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.

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!

[10] Of the two opening lines we subjoin the original--to the

vivacity and spirit of which it is, perhaps, impossible to do

justice in translation:--

"Ihr--Ihr dort aussen in der Welt,

Die Nasen einges pannt!"

Eberhard, Count of Wurtemberg, reigned from 1344 to 1392.

Schiller was a Swabian, and this poem seems a patriotic

effusion to exalt one of the heroes of his country, of whose

fame (to judge by the lines we have just quoted) the rest of

the Germans might be less reverentially aware.

* * * * *

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.

[11] Schiller lived to reverse, in the third period of his

intellectual career, many of the opinions expressed in the

first. The sentiment conveyed in these lines on Rousseau is

natural enough to the author of "The Robbers," but certainly

not to the poet of "Wallenstein" and the "Lay of the Bell." We

confess we doubt the maturity of any mind that can find either

a saint or a martyr in Jean Jacques.

* * * * *

FORTUNE AND WISDOM.

In a quarrel with her lover

To Wisdom Fortune flew;

"I'll all my hoards discover--

Be but my friend--to you.

Like a mother I presented

To one each fairest gift,

Who still is discontented,

And murmurs at my thrift.

Come, let's be friends. What say you?

Give up that weary plough,

My treasures shall repay you,

For both I have enow!"

"Nay, see thy Friend betake him

To death from grief for thee--

_He_ dies if thou forsake him--

Thy gifts are nought to _me_!"

* * * * *

THE INFANTICIDE.

Hark where the bells toll, chiming, dull and steady,

The clock's slow hand hath reach'd the appointed time.

Well, be it so--prepare! my soul is ready,

Companions of the grave--the rest for crime!

Now take, O world! my last farewell--receiving

My parting kisses--in these tears they dwell!

Sweet are thy poisons while we taste believing,

Now we are quits--heart-poisoner, fare-thee-well!

Farewell, ye suns that once to joy invited,

Changed for the mould beneath the funeral shade

Farewell, farewell, thou rosy Time delighted,

Luring to soft desire the careless maid.

Pale gossamers of gold, farewell, sweet-dreaming

Fancies--the children that an Eden bore!

Blossoms that died while dawn itself was gleaming,

Opening in happy sunlight never more.

Swanlike the robe which Innocence bestowing,

Deck'd with the virgin favours, rosy fair,

In the gay time when many a young rose glowing,

Blush'd through the loose train of the amber hair.

Woe, woe! as white the robe that decks me now--

The shroud-like robe Hell's destined victim wears;

Still shall the fillet bind this burning brow--

_That_ sable braid the Doomsman's hand prepares!

Weep, ye _who never fell_--for whom, unerring,

The soul's white lilies keep their virgin hue,

Ye who when thoughts so danger-sweet are stirring,

Take the stern strength that Nature gives the few

Woe, for too human was this fond heart's feeling--

Feeling!--my sin's avenger[12] doom'd to be;

Woe--for the false man's arm around me stealing,

Stole the lull'd Virtue, charm'd to sleep, from me.

Ah, he perhaps shall, round another sighing,

(Forgot the serpents stinging at my breast,)

Gaily, when I in the dumb grave am lying,

Pour the warm wish, or speed the wanton jest,

Or play, perchance, with his new maiden's tresses,

Answer the kiss her lip enamour'd brings,

When the dread block the head he cradled presses,

And high the blood his kiss once fever'd springs.

Thee, Francis, Francis,[13] league on league, shall follow

The death-dirge of the Lucy once so dear;

From yonder steeple, dismal, dull, and hollow,

Shall knell the warning horror on thy ear.

On thy fresh leman's lips when Love is dawning,

And the lisp'd music glides from that sweet well--

Lo, in that breast a red wound shall be yawning,

And, in the midst of rapture, warn of hell!

Betrayer, what! thy soul relentless closing

To grief--the woman-shame no art can heal--

To that small life beneath my heart reposing!

Man, man, the wild beast for its young can feel!

Proud flew the sails--receding from the land,

I watch'd them waning from the wistful eye,

Round the gay maids on Seine's voluptuous strand,

Breathes the false incense of his fatal sigh.

And there the Babe! there, on the mother's bosom,

Lull'd in its sweet and golden rest it lay,

Fresh in life's morning as a rosy blossom,

It smiled, poor harmless one, my tears away.

Deathlike yet lovely, every feature speaking

In such dear calm and beauty to my sadness,

And cradled still the mother's heart, in breaking,

The soft'ning love and the despairing madness.

"Woman, where is my father?"--freezing through me,

Lisp'd the mute Innocence with thunder-sound;

"Woman, where is thy husband?"--called unto me,

In every look, word, whisper, busying round!

For thee, poor child, there is no father's kiss.

He fondleth _other_ children on his knee.

How thou wilt curse our momentary bliss,

When Bastard on thy name shall branded be!

10.

Thy mother--oh, a hell her heart concealeth,

Lone-sitting, lone in social Nature's All!

Thirsting for that glad fount thy love revealeth,

While still thy look the glad fount turns to gall.

In every infant cry my soul is heark'ning,

The haunting happiness for ever o'er,

And all the bitterness of death is dark'ning

The heavenly looks that smiled mine eyes before.

11.

Hell, if my sight those looks a moment misses--

Hell, when my sight upon those looks is turn'd--

The avenging furies madden in _thy_ kisses,

That slept in _his_ what time my lips they burn'd.

Out from their graves his oaths spoke back in thunder!

The perjury stalk'd like murder in the sun--

For ever--God!--sense, reason, soul, sunk under--

The deed was done!

12.

Francis, O Francis! league on league, shall chase thee

The shadows hurrying grimly on thy flight--

Still with their icy arms they shall embrace thee,

And mutter thunder in thy dream's delight!

Down from the soft stars, in their tranquil glory,

Shall look thy dead child with a ghastly stare;

That shape shall haunt thee in its cerements gory,

And scourge thee back from heaven--its home is there!

13.

Lifeless--how lifeless!--see, oh see, before me

It lies cold--stiff!--O God!--and with that blood

I feel, as swoops the dizzy darkness o'er me,

Mine own life mingled--ebbing in the flood--

Hark, at the door they knock--more loud within me--

More awful still--its sound the dread heart gave!

Gladly I welcome the cold arms that win me--

Fire, quench thy tortures in the icy grave!

14.

Francis--a God that pardons dwells in heaven--

Francis, the sinner--yes--she pardons thee--

So let my wrongs unto the earth be given:

Flame seize the wood!--it burns--it kindles--see!

There--there his letters cast--behold are ashes--

His vows--the conquering fire consumes them here:

His kisses--see--see all--all are only ashes--

All, all--the all that once on earth were dear!

15.

Trust not the roses which your youth enjoyeth,

Sisters, to man's faith, changeful as the moon!

Beauty to me brought guilt--its bloom destroyeth:

Lo, in the judgment court I curse the boon:

Tears in the headsman's gaze--what tears?--tis spoken!

Quick, bind mine eyes--all soon shall be forgot--

Doomsman--the lily hast thou never broken?

Pale doomsman--tremble not!

[12] "Und Empfindung soll mein Richtschwert seyn." A line of

great vigour in the original, but which, if literally

translated, would seem extravagant in English.

[13] Joseph, in the original.

[The poem we have just concluded was greatly admired at the time of its

first publication, and it so far excels in art most of the earlier

efforts by the author, that it attains one of the highest secrets in

true pathos. It produces interest for the _criminal_ while creating

terror for the _crime_. This, indeed, is a triumph in art never achieved

but by the highest genius. The inferior writer, when venturing upon the

grandest stage of passion, (which unquestionably exists in the

delineation of great guilt as of heroic virtue,) falls into the error

either of gilding the crime in order to produce sympathy for the

criminal, or, in the spirit of a spurious morality, of involving both

crime and criminal in a common odium. It is to discrimination between

the doer and the deed, that we owe the sublimest revelations of the

human heart: in this discrimination lies the key to the emotions

produced by the Oedipus and Macbeth. In the brief poem before us a

whole drama is comprehended. Marvellous is the completeness of the

pictures it presents--its mastery over emotions the most opposite--its

fidelity to nature in its exposition of the disordered and despairing

mind in which tenderness becomes cruelty, and remorse for error tortures

itself into scarce conscious crime.

But the art employed, though admirable of its kind, still falls short of

the perfection which, in his later works, Schiller aspired to achieve,

viz. the point at which _Pain_ ceases. The tears which Tragic Pathos,

when purest and most elevated, calls forth, ought not to be tears of

pain. In the ideal world, as Schiller has inculcated, even sorrow should

have its charm--all that harrows, all that revolts, belongs but to that

inferior school in which Schiller's fiery youth formed itself for nobler

grades--the school "of Storm and Pressure"--(Stürm und Dräng--as the

Germans have expressively described it.) If the reader will compare

Schiller's poem of the 'Infanticide,' with the passages which represent

a similar crime in the Medea, (and the author of 'Wallenstein' deserves

comparison even with Euripides,) he will see the distinction between the

art that seeks an _elevated_ emotion, and the art which is satisfied

with creating an _intense_ one. In Euripides, the detail--the

reality--all that can degrade terror into pain--are loftily dismissed.

The Titan grandeur of the Sorceress removes us from too close an

approach to the crime of the unnatural Mother--the emotion of pity

changes into awe--just at the pitch before the coarse sympathy of actual

pain can be effected. And it is the avoidance of reality--it is the

all-purifying Presence of the Ideal, which make the vast distinction in

our emotions between following, with shocked and displeasing pity, the

crushed, broken-hearted, mortal criminal to the scaffold, and

gazing--with an awe which has pleasure of its own--upon the Mighty

Murderess--soaring out of the reach of Humanity, upon her Dragon Car!]

* * * * *

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.

A HYMN.

Blessed through love are the Gods above--

Through love like the Gods may man be;

Heavenlier through love is the heaven above,

Through love like a heaven earth can be!

Once, as the poet sung,

In Pyrrha's time, 'tis known,

From rocks Creation sprung,

And Men leapt up from stone;

Rock and stone, in night

The souls of men were seal'd,

Heaven's diviner light

Not as yet reveal'd;

As yet the Loves around them

Had never shone--nor bound them

With their rosy rings;

As yet their bosoms knew not

Soft song--and music grew not

Out of the silver strings.

No gladsome garlands cheerily

Were love-y-woven then;

And o'er Elysium drearily

The May-time flew for men;[14]

The morning rose ungreeted

From ocean's joyless breast;

Unhail'd the evening fleeted

To ocean's joyless breast--

Wild through the tangled shade,

By clouded moons they stray'd,

The iron race of Men!

Sources of mystic tears,

Yearnings for starry spheres,

No God awaken'd then!

Lo, mildly from the dark-blue water,

Comes forth the Heaven's divinest Daughter,

Borne by the Nymphs fair-floating o'er

To the intoxicated shore!

Like the light-scattering wings of morning

Soars universal May, adorning

As from the glory of that birth

Air and the ocean, heaven and earth!

Day's eye looks laughing, where the grim

Midnight lay coil'd in forests dim;

And gay narcissuses are sweet

Wherever glide those holy feet--

Now, pours the bird that haunts the eve

The earliest song of love,

Now in the heart--their fountain--heave

The waves that murmur love.

O blest Pygmalion--blest art thou--

It melts, it glows, thy marble now!

O Love, the God, thy world is won!

Embrace thy children, Mighty One.

Blessed through love are the Gods above--

Through love like the Gods may man be;

Heavenlier through love is the heaven above,

Through love like a heaven earth can be.

Where the nectar-bright streams,

Like the dawn's happy dreams,

Eternally one holiday,

The life of the Gods glides away.

Throned on his seat sublime,

Looks He whose years know not time;

At his nod, if his anger awaken,

At the wave of his hair all Olympus is shaken.

Yet He from the throne of his birth,

Bow'd down to the sons of the earth,

Through dim Arcadian glades to wander sighing,

Lull'd into dreams of bliss--

Lull'd by his Leda's kiss

Lo, at his feet the harmless thunders lying!

The Sun's majestic coursers go

Along the Light's transparent plain,

Curb'd by the Day-god's golden rein;

The nations perish at his bended bow;

Steeds that majestic go,

Death from the bended bow,

Gladly he leaves above--

For Melody and Love!

Low bend the dwellers of the sky,

When sweeps the stately Juno by;

Proud in her car, the Uncontroll'd

Curbs the bright birds that breast the air,

As flames the sovereign crown of gold

Amidst the ambrosial waves of hair--

Ev'n thou, fair Queen of Heaven's high throne,

Hast Love's subduing sweetness known;

From all her state, the Great One bends

To charm the Olympian's bright embraces,

The Heart-Enthraller only lends

The rapture-cestus of the Graces!

Blessed through love are the Gods above--

Through love like a God may man be;

Heavenlier through love is the heaven above,

Through love like a heaven earth can be!

Love can sun the Realms of Night--

Orcus owns the magic might--

Peaceful where She sits beside,

Smiles the swart King on his Bride;

Hell feels the smile in sudden light--

Love can sun the Realms of Night.

Heavenly o'er the startled Hell,

Holy, where the Accursed dwell,

O Thracian, went thy silver song!

Grim Minos, with unconscious tears,

Melts into mercy as he hears--

The serpents in Megara's hair,

Kiss, as they wreathe enamour'd there;

All harmless rests the madding thong;--

From the torn breast the Vulture mute

Flies, scared before the charmèd lute--

Lull'd into sighing from their roar

The dark waves woo the listening shore--

Listening the Thracian's silver song!--

Love was the Thracian's silver song!

Blessed through love are the Gods above--

Through love like a God may man be;

Heavenlier through love is the heaven above--

Through love like a heaven earth can be!

Through Nature blossom-strewing,

_One_ footstep we are viewing,

One flash from golden pinions!--

If from Heaven's starry sea,

If from the moonlit sky;

If from the Sun's dominions,

Look'd not Love's laughing eye;

Then Sun and Moon and Stars would be

Alike, without one smile for me!

But, oh, wherever Nature lives

Below, around, above--

Her happy eye the mirror gives

To thy glad beauty, Love!

Love sighs through brooklets silver-clear,

Love bids their murmur woo the vale;

Listen, O list! Love's soul ye hear

In his own earnest nightingale.

No sound from Nature ever stirs,

But Love's sweet voice is heard with hers!

Bold Wisdom, with her sunlit eye,

Retreats when love comes whispering by--

For Wisdom's weak to love!

To victor stern or monarch proud,

Imperial Wisdom never bow'd

The knee she bows to Love!

Who through the steep and starry sky,

Goes onward to the gods on high,

Before thee, hero-brave?

Who halves for thee the land of Heaven;

Who shows thy heart, Elysium, given

Through the flame-rended Grave?

Below, if we were blind to Love,

Say, should we soar o'er Death, above?

Would the weak soul, did Love forsake her,

E'er gain the wing to seek the Maker?

Love, only Love, can guide the creature

Up to the Father-fount of Nature;

What were the soul did Love forsake her?

Love guides the Mortal to the Maker!

Blessed through love are the Gods above--

Through love like a God may man be:

Heavenlier through love is the heaven above,

Through love like a heaven earth can be!

[14] "The World was sad, the garden was a wild,

And Man, the Hermit, sigh'd--till Woman smiled."

CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

FANTASIE TO LAURA.

What, Laura, say, the vortex that can draw

Body to body in its strong control;

Beloved Laura, what the charmèd law

That to the soul attracting plucks the soul?

It is the charm that rolls the stars on high,

For ever round the sun's majestic blaze--

When, gay as children round their parent, fly

Their circling dances in delighted maze.

Still, every star that glides its gladsome course,

Thirstily drinks the luminous golden rain;

Drinks the fresh vigour from the fiery source,

As limbs imbibe life's motion from the brain;

With sunny motes, the sunny motes united

Harmonious lustre both receive and give,

Love spheres with spheres still interchange delighted,

Only through love the starry systems live.

Take love from Nature's universe of wonder,

Each jarring each, rushes the mighty All.

See, back to Chaos shock'd, Creation thunder;

Weep, starry Newton--weep the giant fall!

Take from the spiritual scheme that Power away,

And the still'd body shrinks to Death's abode.

Never--love _not_--would blooms revive for May,

And, love extinct, all life were dead to God.

And what the charm that at my Laura's kiss,

Pours the diviner brightness to the cheek;

Makes the heart bound more swiftly to its bliss,

And bids the rushing blood the magnet seek--

Out from their bounds swell nerve, and pulse, and sense,

The veins in tumult would their shores o'erflow;

Body to body rapt--and charmèd thence,

Soul drawn to soul with intermingled glow.

Mighty alike to sway the flow and ebb

Of the inanimate Matter, or to move

The nerves that weave the Arachnèan web

Of Sentient Life--rules all-pervading Love!

Ev'n in the Moral World, embrace and meet

Emotions--Gladness clasps the extreme of Care;

And Sorrow, at the worst, upon the sweet

Breast of young Hope, is thaw'd from its despair.

Of sister-kin to melancholy Woe,

Voluptuous Pleasure comes, and with the birth

Of her gay children, (golden Wishes,) lo,

Night flies, and sunshine settles on the earth![15]

The same great Law of Sympathy is given

To Evil as to Good, and if we swell

The dark account that life incurs with Heaven,

'Tis that our Vices are thy Wooers, Hell!

In turn those Vices are embraced by Shame

And fell Remorse, the twin Eumenides.

Danger still clings in fond embrace to Fame,

Mounts on her wing, and flies where'er she flees.

Destruction marries its dark self to Pride,

Envy to Fortune: when Desire most charms,

'Tis that her brother Death is by her side,

For him she opens those voluptuous arms.

The very Future to the Past but flies

Upon the wings of Love--as I to thee;

O, long swift Saturn, with unceasing sighs,

Hath sought his distant bride, Eternity!

When--so I heard the oracle declare--

When Saturn once shall clasp that bride sublime,

Wide-blazing worlds shall light his nuptials there--

'Tis thus Eternity shall wed with Time.

In _those_ shall be _our_ nuptials! ours to share

_That_ bridenight, waken'd by no jealous sun;

Since Time, Creation, Nature, but declare

Love--in our love rejoice, Beloved One!

[15] Literally, "the eye beams its sun-splendour," or, "beams

like a sun." For the construction that the Translator has put

upon the original (which is extremely obscure) in the preceding

lines of the stanza, he is indebted to Mr Carlyle. The general

meaning of the Poet is, that Love rules all things in the

inanimate or animate creation; that, even in the moral world,

opposite emotions or principles meet and embrace each other.

The idea is pushed into an extravagance natural to the youth,

and redeemed by the passion, of the Author. But the connecting

links are so slender, nay, so frequently omitted, in the

original, that a certain degree of paraphrase in many of the

stanzas is absolutely necessary to supply them, and render the

general sense and spirit of the poem intelligible to the

English reader.

* * * * *

TO THE SPRING.

Welcome, gentle Stripling,

Nature's darling, thou--

With thy basket full of blossoms,

A happy welcome now!

Aha!--and thou returnest,

Heartily we greet thee--

The loving and the fair one,

Merrily we meet thee!

Think'st thou of my Maiden

In thy heart of glee?

I love her yet the Maiden--

And the Maiden yet loves me!

For the Maiden, many a blossom

I begg'd--and not in vain;

I came again, a-begging,

And thou--thou giv'st again:

Welcome, gentle stripling,

Nature's darling thou--

With thy basket full of blossoms,

A happy welcome, now!

* * * * *

NATURAL HISTORY OF SALMON AND SEA-TROUT.

[_On the Growth of Grilse and Salmon_. By Mr Andrew Young,

Invershin, Sutherlandshire. (Transactions of the Royal Society

of Edinburgh. Vol. XV. Part III.) Edinburgh, 1843.]

[_On the Growth and Migrations of the Sea-Trout of the Solway_.

By Mr John Shaw, Drumlanrig. (Ibid.) Edinburgh, 1843.]

The salmon is undoubtedly the finest and most magnificent of our

fresh-water fishes, or rather of those _anadromous_ kinds which, in

accordance with the succession of the seasons, seek alternately the

briny sea and the "rivers of water." It is also the most important, both

in a commercial and culinary point of view as well as the most highly

prized by the angler as an object of exciting recreation.

Notwithstanding these and other long-continued claims upon our

consideration, a knowledge of its natural history and habits has

developed itself so slowly, that little or nothing was precisely

ascertained till very recently regarding either its early state or its

eventual changes. The salmon-trout, in certain districts of almost equal

value with the true salmon, was also but obscurely known to naturalists,

most of whom, in truth, are too apt to satisfy themselves rather by the

extension than the increase of knowledge. They hand down to posterity,

in their barren technicalities, a great deal of what is neither new nor

true, even in relation to subjects which lie within the sphere of

ordinary observation,--to birds and beasts, which almost dwell among us,

and give utterance, by articulate or intelligible sounds, to a vast

variety of instinctive, and as it were explanatory emotions:--what

marvel, then, that they should so often fail to inform us of what we

desire to know regarding the silent, because voiceless, inhabitants of

the world of waters?

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 331, May, 1843 · 第 5 / 7 章

The result of all this was, that one fine morning Sir Frederic