Doings of Gotham — seven Columbia Spy columns, 1844 — reading text

the majority, throughout, are several steps beyond the preposterous. What can be more sillily and pitiably absurd than palaces of painted white pine, fifteen feet by twenty? — and of such is this boasted “city of villas.” You see nowhere a cottage — everywhere a temple which “might have been Grecian had it not been Dutch” — which might have been tasteful had it not been Gothamite — a square box, with Doric or Corinthian pillars, supporting a frieze of unseasoned timber, roughly planed, and daubed with, at best, a couple of coats of whitey-brown paint. This “pavilion,” has, usually, a flat roof, covered with red zinc, and surrounded by a balustrade; if not surmounted by something nondescript, intended for a cupola, but wavering in character, between a pigeon-house, a sentry-box, and a pig-sty. The steps, at the front-door, are many, and bright yellow, and from their foot a straight alley of tan-bark, arranged between box-hedges, conducts the tenant, in glory, to the front gate — which, with the wall of the whole, is of tall white pine boards, painted sky-blue. If we add to this a fountain, giving out a pint of real water per hour, through the mouth of a leaden cat-fish standing upon the tip-end of his tail, and surrounded by a circle of admiring “conchs,” (as they here call the stonebuses ), we have a quite perfect picture of a Brooklynite “villa.” In point of downright quiet — of absolute atrocity — such sin, I mean, as would consign a man, inevitably, to the regions of Pluto — I really can see little difference between the putting up such a house as this, and blowing up a House of Parliament, or cutting the throat of one's grandfather. * The street-cries, and other nuisances to the same effect, are particularly disagreeable here. Immense charcoal-waggons infest the most frequented thorough-fares, and give forth a din which I can liken to nothing earthly, (unless, perhaps, a gong), from some metallic, triangular contrivance, within the bowels of the “infernal machine.” This is a free country, I have heard, and wish to believe if I can; but I cannot perceive how it would materially interfere with our freedom to put an end to these tintamarres. A man may do what he pleases with his own (and the principle applies as well to a man's waggon, as to a man's snuff-box, or wife,) provided, in so doing, he incommode not his neighbor; this is one of the commonest precepts of common law. But the amount of general annoyances wrought by street-noises is incalculable; and this matter is worthy our very serious attention. It would be difficult to say, for example, how much of time, more valuable than money, is lost, in a large city, to no purpose, for the convenience of the fishwomen, the charcoal-men, and the monkey-exhibitors. How often does it happen that where two individuals are transacting business of vital importance, where fate hangs upon every syllable and upon every moment — how frequently does it occur that all conversation is delayed, for five or even ten minutes at a time, until these devil's-triangles have got out of hearing, or until the leathern throats of the clam-and-cat-fish-venders have been hallooed, and shrieked, and yelled, into a temporary hoarseness and silence! The din of the vehicles, however, is even more thoroughly, and more intolerably a nuisance. Are we never to have done with these unmeaning round stones? — than which a more ingenious contrivance for driving men mad through sheer noise, was undoubtedly never invented. It is difficult to foresee what mode of street-pavement will come, finally, into vogue; but we should have some change, and that forthwith, or we must have new and more plentiful remedies for headache. The twelve-inch cubes of stone (square, with the upper surface roughened) make, perhaps, the most durable, and, in many respects, the best road; they are, however, expensive, and the noise they emit is objectionable, although in a much less degree than the round stones. Of the stereatomic wooden pavement, we hear nothing, now, at all. The people seem to have given it up altogether — but nothing better could be invented. We inserted the blocks, without preparation, and they failed. Therefore, we abandoned the experiment. Had they been Kyanized, the result would have been very different, and the wooden causeways would have been in extensive use throughout the country. In England, where wood is costly, it might not be preferred to stone, but here it must and, finally, will. The Kyanizing, or mineralizing, is a simple process, and cheap. Put a pound of corrosive sublimate (bi-chloride of Mercury) into sixteen gallons of water, and in this mixture immerse a piece of sound wood (either green or seasoned) for forty-eight hours (more or less as the wood is thicker or thinner). At the end of this time the wood cannot be rotted. It has assumed a metallic hardness and texture, is much increased in weight, and will last as long as granite. In the pavement with ordinary wood, although the road be arched, the soft, rotting material yields to heavy pressure, the whole arch sinks, and the fabric is soon destroyed — to say nothing of the speedy decay of the upper surface. The Kyanized wood, would not yield an inch, and therefore would never be displaced; and, never rotting, would last for ages as good as in the beginning. The present retail cost of the bi-chloride of Mercury is, I believe, about ninety cents per pound; but if an extensive demand for the article should arise (as would be the case were we to adopt the Kyanized road) the quicksilver mines of South America, now abandoned, would be again put into operation, and we might get the mineral for thirty or forty cents, if not for less. In point of cheapness, freedom from noise, ease of cleaning, pleasantness to the hoof, and, finally, in point of durability, there is no causeway equal to that of the Kyanized wood. But it will take us, as usual, fully ten years to make this discovery. In the meantime, the present experiments with the unprepared wood, will answer very well for the profit of the street-menders, and for the amusement of common-councils — who will, perhaps, in the next instance, experiment with soft-soap, or sauer-kraut. * Some person, falling from the roof of a house, and receiving severe injury, has been wrapped up, by somebody else, in a wet sheet, and not immediately dying in consequence, but getting well in spite of the sheets, somebody else, again, has written a letter to the “Tribune,” extolling the “Hydropathy,” or water-cure, of that monarch of the charlatans, Priessnitz. Whereupon, all the medical world of Gotham are by the ears. They will remain so, I hope, until you hear from me again. P. LETTER 6 Correspondence of the Spy. NEW-YORK. New-York. June 18, 1844. * In point of natural beauty, as well as of convenience, the harbor of New-York has scarcely its equal in the northern hemisphere; but, as in the case of Brooklyn, the Gothamites have most grievously disfigured it by displays of landscape and architectural taste. More atrocious pagodas, or what not — for it is indeed difficult to find a name for them, — were certainly never imagined than the greater portion of those which affront the eye, in every nook and corner of the bay, and, more particularly, in the vicinity of New Brighton. If these monstrosities appertain to taste, then it is to taste in its dying agonies. * Speaking of harbors; I have been much surprised at observing an attempt, on the part of a Philadelphian paper, to compare Boston, as a port, with New-York; and in instituting the comparison, the journal in question is so bold as to assert that the largest class of ships cannot pass the bar of this harbor at low water. I believe this to be quite a mistake: — is it not? * Foreigners are apt to speak of the great length of Broadway. It is no doubt a long street; but we have many much longer in Philadelphia. If I do not greatly err, Front street offers an unbroken line of houses for four miles, and is, unquestionably, the longest street in America, if not in the world. Grant, the gossiping and twadling author of “Random Recollections of the House of Lords,” “The Great Metropolis,” &c., &c., in mentioning some London thoroughfare of two miles and three-quarters, calls it, with an absolute air, “the most extensive in the world.” The dogmatic bow-wow of this man is the most amusing thing imaginable. I do believe that out of every ten matters which he gives to the public as fact, eight, at least, are downright lies, while the other two may be classed either as “doubtful” or “rigmarole.” * The trial of Polly Bodine will take place at Richmond, on Monday next, and will, no doubt, excite much interest. This woman may, possibly, escape; — for they manage these matters wretchedly in New-York. It is difficult to conceive anything more preposterous than the whole conduct, for example, of the Mary Rogers affair. The police seemed blown about, in all directions, by every varying puff of the most unconsidered newspaper opinion. The truth, as an end, appeared to be lost sight of altogether. The magistracy suffered the murderer to escape, while they amused themselves with playing court, and chopping the technicalities of jurisprudence. Not the least usual error, in such investigations, is the limiting of inquiry to the immediate, with total disregard of the collateral, or circumstantial events. It is malpractice to confine evidence and discussion too vigorously within the limits of the seemingly relevant. Experience has shown, and Philosophy will always show, that a vast portion, perhaps the larger portion of truth, arises from the apparently irrelevant . It is through the spirit of this principle that modern science has resolved to calculate upon the unforseen. The history of human knowledge has so uniformly shown that to collateral, or incidental, or accidental events, we are indebted for the most numerous and most valuable discoveries, that it has, at length, become necessary, in any prospective view of improvements , to make not only large, but the largest allowances for inventions that shall arise by chance — out of the range of expectation. It is, thus, no longer philosophical to base upon what has been, a vision of what is to be. Accident is admitted as a portion of the substructure. We make chance a matter of absolute certainty. We subject the unlooked-for and unimagined to the mathematical formulae of the schools. But what I wish now to observe is, that the small magistracies are too prone to ape the airs and echo the rectangular precepts of the courts. And, moreover, very much of what is rejected as evidence by a court, is the best of evidence to the intellect. For the court, guiding itself by the general principles of evidence, — the recognized and booked principles, — is averse from swerving at particular instances. And this steadfast adherence to principle, with systematic disregard of the conflicting exception, is a sure mode of attaining the maximum of attainable truth, in any long sequence of time. The practice, in mass, is, therefore, philosophical; but it is none the less certain that it engenders, in many extraordinary instances, a vast amount of individual error. I have good reason to believe that it will do public mischief in the coming trial of Polly Bodine. * The literary world of Gotham is not particularly busy. Mr. Willis, I see, has issued a very handsome edition of his poems — the only complete edition — with a portrait. Few men have received more abuse, deserving it less, than the author of “Melanie.” I never read a paper from his pen, in the “New-Mirror,” without regretting his abandonment of Glen-Mary, and the tranquility and leisure he might there have found. In its retirement he might have accomplished much, both for himself and for posterity; but, chained to the oar of a mere weekly paper, professedly addressing the frivolous and the fashionable, what can he now hope for but a gradual