(_By Our Own Lord Bacon_)
Snow is a deposit fair in itself, but a shrewd thing in a city.
Where ways be crowded and traffic insisteth, let there be alacrity
and stirring on the part of the city servants, lest the public have
occasion of murmuring. Of streets which need purifying, there be three
kinds: as Broadway, which is treacle; Fifth Avenue, syrup; and uptown,
which is soup and all manner of beastliness. So also of snow there
be three sorts, the dry and powdery; the wet and slushy, liquefying
soon; the granular and sleety, whereof the latter adhereth long and
occasioneth sudden prostrations, unwholesome to human dignity but
opportunity of sport to the vulgar. When men are checked in their
desires to pass to and fro without let or stoppage, then must the
prince be wary to reason with the commuters, who being ever great
self-lovers, _sui amantes sine rivali_, are like to be disproportionate
in outcry. And for the most part, the subway will be still current,
but small praise accrueth thereto from citizens, sudden cattle in
protest but tardy to acknowledge favour. This is not handsome. Of the
surface cars I will not speak; let them be, for the occasion, as though
they existed not. For though there be some talk about revival of the
service when the Broadway slot be picked and scalded by hand, yet is
this but vaunting and idle boast. There is no impediment in the streets
but may be wrought out by resolute labour. Of block parties, flame
throwers, tractors, steam-ploughs and other ingenuities, I like them
not. These be but toys. Let men toil with wit and will, by pick and
shovel and horse-cart. This is best for the public.
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