Part 2

The present efficient condition of fire-engines, as may easily be supposed, has only been the result of many years of skilful experiment and practical experience. Our ancestors (notwithstanding their wisdom) were by no means furnished with such means of extinguishing fire, although, from the great number of wooden buildings, and greater quantity of wooden materials employed, to say nothing of thatch, they had greater need of them. On the other hand, they had not so many scientific combustibles among them. Still, the want of a proper engine is manifest from what we know of their attempts in that way. They used squirts,—actually nothing but squirts. Every alderman was obliged to provide one. It will be understood that the squirt was not of schoolboy dimensions, but so large as to require two men, holding it in their arms between them, like a sort of mummy, to dip its nose into a bucket, and then, raising it to the proper angle, discharge the contents at the building on fire.

The first construction of the fire engine, properly so called, is attributable to a German named Hautsch, in 1657, which was afterwards improved by the brothers Van der Heyden, in 1672. But, though the merit of the invention confers all due honour on the engineering mind of Germans, it may be questioned whether the character of the people was ever of a kind to induce the working of them with promptitude or efficiency. So recently as a few years ago, when the writer was staying in the town of Bonn, intelligence was brought of a fire at Popplesdorf, a village about a mile and a quarter distant. The town engine was got out by a couple of men, with pipes in their mouths, and the horse—one horse—being put to, it was trotted off in the most deliberate manner. Outside the town gates we overtook a number of students and other gentlemen, all leisurely sauntering with their pipes towards Popplesdorf, never doubting but they would be in ample time before the engine had extinguished the fire. And so they were, for it was burning nearly half the day. Nevertheless, the Prussian Government have been the first to purchase the invention of the Steam Fire Engine. Their theories in the matter seem perfect; but to put out a fire with promptitude cannot be done even by a Steam Fire Engine without a little human activity.

The contrast of our vivacity in these matters is very striking, and in no case more so than when some mischievous idiot gives a false alarm (an atrocity which we believe is not often committed), or when some extraordinary meteorological phenomenon induces the mistake. We find two extraordinary instances of this recorded in Knight’s ‘London.’

‘On the first of these, _twelve_ engines and _seventy-four_ brigade men were kept in constant motion from _eleven in the evening till six the next morning_, in endeavouring to search out what appeared to be a large conflagration; some of the engines reached Hampstead, and others Kilburn, before it was found that the glare was the effect of the “northern lights.” On the other occasion, a crimson glare of light arose at the north-east part of the horizon, at about eight o’clock in the evening, seemingly caused by a fierce conflagration; and the resemblance was increased by what appeared to be clouds of smoke rising up after the glare, and breaking and rolling away beneath it. _Thirteen_ engines and a large body of men went in search of the supposed fire, and did not detect their error till they had proceeded far to the north-east.’

The statistics of London fires are very interesting, and much may be learned from them, not only as matter of anxious information, but of salutary warning.

The total number of fires in London in the past year, was 838. Of these, 28 were utterly destructive fires; the number of lives lost being 26. Seriously damaged, 228; slightly damaged, 582.

Of chimneys on fire there were 89; and there were 76 false alarms—not mischievous, but from error or panic.

The number of calls on the fire-office and other aids amounted to 1003.

In the above 838 fires, the number of insurances (ascertained) were 368; those which insured on the building only, were 163; those which insured on the contents only, were 72; and the number of uninsured was 235.

Of the 26 lives lost, 13 were from the ignition of bed-furniture or wearing apparel; explosion of fire-works, 5; and 8 from inability to escape out of burning houses.

An examination of the statistics of fires in the Metropolis during sixteen years, _i.e._ from 1833 to 1848 (which document was obligingly laid before us by Mr. Braidwood), has put us in possession of a great mass of very curious and instructive information, from which we extract the following:——

Apothecaries and dealers in drugs 36 Bakers 244 Booksellers, binders, and stationers 137

Of these latter, 96 burnt gas; and the fires caused by gas amounted to 28.

Cabinet-makers 156 Carpenters and workers in wood 434 Churches 33

Of these last-named, 3 were totally destroyed, and 10 much damaged; the rest slightly, or mere alarms. Of the cause of the fires, 8 were from the stoves, flues, &c., and 2 from lightning.

Drapers, woollen and linen 254

Of these, 105 were much damaged; 239 burnt gas; and the cause of 140 of these fires was carelessness or accident with the gas.

Fire-Preventive Company 1

The cause of this was an experiment with some ‘fire-proof plaster,’ which ignited in a most unexpected and insubordinate manner, and caused great damage.

Fire-work Makers 49

The cause of these fires, all of which did great damage, was from the nature of the trade; from the smoking of tobacco; from boys playing with fire; and from the reckless trick of a lighted squib or cracker being thrown into the shop-window.

Gas-works 37

From the great care taken, and ready means of prevention, only 9 of these were much injured, and none totally destroyed.

Grocers 120

Of these, 109 burnt gas; and 26 of the fires are attributable to carelessness or accident with the gas.

Gunpowder-sellers 1

Notice the result of a full consciousness of the danger, and proportionate care. Only one fire!

Lodgings 868

Of the above number, 368 were found to have been caused by the taking fire of curtains, linen airing, &c. Some of the rest were caused by hunting fleas, &c.

Lucifer-match-makers 101 Lunatic asylums 2

Observe the great care in these asylums. All the asylums for lunatics furnishing only two fires in sixteen years!

Printers and Engravers 72 Private houses 3352

Of the above, the immense number of 1302 were discovered to have been caused by the taking fire of curtains, dresses, airing linen, &c.

Sale-shops and offices 526

Of these, 379 burnt gas; and the fires caused by gas were 129.

Ships 82

Caused by stores, flues, cooking, igniting of cargo, smoking tobacco, &c.

Stables 192

Caused by candles, lucifers, smoking tobacco, intoxication, &c.

Tailors 81

Seventeen of the above were caused by gas; 13 by candles; and some by smoking tobacco.

Theatres 20

Of the above number, 8 were caused by gas; some others by smoking tobacco, and the taking fire of curtains, dresses, &c.

Tobacconists 43

Of the above, 6 were caused by gas; 6 by lucifer-matches; others by curtains, smoking tobacco, by a _cat_, and by _rats_. A word more of these incendiaries presently.

Victuallers 542

Of the above, there were 21 totally destroyed; 167 much damaged, and 354 slightly. Of the causes, 83 were from the flues; 73, curtains, dresses, &c.; 65, gas; 36, smoking tobacco; 35, a candle. The remainder comes under the various heads of lucifers, hot cinders, intoxication, children playing with fire, a spark, and a monkey.

Besides this ‘monkey,’ we have had occasion to mention several other ‘sparks,’ concerning whom some passing explanation may be needed. Having noticed the word ‘cat,’ occurring several times in the list of annual causes of fire,—‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Braidwood, ‘we often have a cat.’ It appears that the cat sometimes upsets the clothes-horse with things airing; or, perhaps, in creeping under the clothes to get inside the fender, drags some of them with her on her back. The fire caused by the monkey was attributable to some prank of his—meaning no harm, perhaps, but not much caring about that. The incendiarism of the rats was undoubtedly effected innocently by their investigation of a box of lucifers, which included a trial if the matches were good to eat. Their teeth exploded them—a feat very easily performed.

Of carelessness with gas in shops and warehouses, or with candles near bedroom curtains, muslin dresses, or linen airing before the fire, we need not speak, as the dangers are too obvious by the results; nor of carelessness with lucifer-matches; nor the very common practice of raking out the fire at night from the grate (where it would be safe) down upon the hearth, and leaving the hot embers, which perhaps ignite by the air of the closing door, as the careful person retires to bed. Carelessness with a cigar or pipe is also an obvious cause. Working men often put their pipes, half-extinguished, or alive at the bottom of the bowl, into their jacket-pocket at night; and then hang up the jacket, and go to bed. Children, also, being left alone, near a fire, may generally be expected to play with fire, either because it is beautiful, or because the play is interdicted.

With respect to ‘sparks,’ that a house should take fire, had always been regarded by us with no small degree of scepticism. A gentleman of our acquaintance carried his disbelief much further. Sitting with a party of sporting friends round a winter’s fire, and these dangers being the subject of conversation, he offered to empty the whole contents of the grate on the carpet in the middle of the room—_he_ to pay all expenses if the house took fire; his opponent simply to pay for the carpet and the charred floor. They were all to sit round, and watch the result. It was agreed. ‘Now,’ said a friend, ‘I will bet you _ten_ to one this house will take fire, provided we all go out of the room, lock the door, and leave the house.’ The other would not venture on this.

Mr. Braidwood’s speculation on the question of sparks, in reply to our doubts, is very curious and practical. He estimated the number of houses in London at 300,000. Allowing two _domestic_ fires to each house, we have 600,000 in the day; and these multiplied by 7, give 4,200,000 in a week. That one spark, therefore, from 4,200,000 fires should fly out upon some materials easy to ignite, once in a week, is far from difficult to credit; and this would fully bear out the number on the list that are declared to have occurred from this cause.

The number of fires and alarms of fire that occurred in London during the fifteen years ending in 1847, present a continual _increase_. In 1833 they amounted to 458; in 1834, to 482; and so on, down to 1847, when they amounted to 836. This gives a total of 9662 fires during the fifteen years. The average of this is 644. We next find that in 1848 the number of fires amounted to 805; showing an _increase_ beyond the previous year of 161. In 1849 the number amounted to 838, being an increase of 33 beyond the previous year.

How are we to reconcile this increase with the extraordinary efficiency of the Fire Brigade, and the improvements in measures of precaution? Partly by the regular increase in the numbers of houses. But Mr. Braidwood frankly declares that this does not meet the increase of fires and alarms of fire that reach the Office. We can only account for it, therefore, by the great increase of scientific combustibles, not merely in our shops, but in our domestic arrangements—especially gas, and lucifer-matches—and yet more to the fact that, in former years, many slight fires caused no alarm to be given, while now the arrangements are so complete, that probably almost every slight alarm of fire that occurs is carried to the Office, and duly recorded.

With respect to Fire-Escapes; precautions against fire, that should be adopted in houses; arrangements to meet the accident; and the best means of extinguishing fires (particularly with reference to Mr. Phillips’ Fire-Annihilator, which possesses an undoubted power over _flames_), we cannot now afford the space their importance merits; but we shall bear them in mind for a future number.

POETRY IN THE BYE-WAYS.

Every book-hunter, whose connection with paper and print has more of individuality than of fashion in it—must in his time have met with scores of small volumes of rhyme forced out with a care and pains of which the heart aches to think, prefaced with the bad taste of immoderate deprecation on the part of the author,—or with the worse appeal of extravagant commendation on the part of the patron—none of which shall merit a place on the shelf by the side of Crabbe, or Wordsworth, or Burns—none of which can be denied the possession of some sparks and breathings of true poetry.

Sometimes, however, it must be owned, that the difficulties under which the rhymester has laboured, are the best—nay the sole—evidences of his genius. In the verses of Phillis Wheatly, the negro girl, for instance, there is not a line that is not the stalest of the stale—not an image that is not the most second-hand of the second-hand. Yet, that sixty years since, a woman of her condemned colour and oppressed race—in America, too,—should find spirits to sing, and power to attract an audience,—in that fact was a poem of no common order.

Years ago, there passed through the writer’s hand a small collection of verse—if verse it might be called—in quality, the most dreary and antipathetic, possible—sectarian hymns, full of phrases, the intimate sense of which can never have pierced to the mind of their maker. This was a poor creature in a hospital, who had been found on a harsh January night, frozen into the kennel where she had fallen, and who paid for that night’s lodging with a lingering death of cruelly long duration. Her vital powers gradually retired one by one. For many years she was unable to move a limb; latterly could scarcely speak audibly, or take barely sufficient food to keep life in the half-dead body. But these dismal hymns were her receipt for occupation and cheerfulness. ‘When I cannot sleep,’ she would say, in a dialect of her own peculiar pattern, ‘I _mew_.’—There was poetry in the origin of these ‘_mewings_,’ though none in the dark and narrow stanzas themselves.

From the above illustrations it may be gathered that much of the bye-way poetry with which we shall deal, has never been promoted to the honours and heartaches of paper and print—nor even taken the manuscript forms of ‘longs and shorts’ as decidedly as did the imaginative instincts of Black Phillis, or the long-tried patience of the sufferer in the —— Ward. We may—and shall—have to do with authorship in humble life,—but less, perchance, than those will expect, who have considered our subject merely from the outside of the bookseller’s window, or from the sum total of a rhymester’s subscription list—drawing thence the charming inference that A., B. or C. is a poet, because he has found a publisher and extorted a public!—Too seldom has a Capel Lofft, or a Southey, or a More, while trying to bring forward a Bloomfield, or a Mary Colling, or an ungrateful Bristol Milkwoman, whose facility in versifying has arrested them,—considered how wide is the distance betwixt what may be called the unconscious Poetry of the People—and that meagre and second-hand manufacture, produced with a desire for fame, or under hopes of gain, which challenges competition with the efforts of men more favourably circumstanced, and which goes forth as virtually a solicitation for alms.—On the one side (to take the first instance which occurs) we shall find something like the Gondolier songs of Venice, patched up—St. Mark and the Moon know how!—out of bits of plays and bits of verses and bits of opera-tunes, by old men and girls and boys, while a sprightly people ply their picturesque trade under an Italian sky, with every image round them to inspire and encourage a sense of tune,—and which, after a while, get so rubbed into shape—so rounded and changed,—so decked with canal-wit,—so filled with local names and local words,—that a College of Anatomists should be puzzled to ‘resolve them into their primary elements.’—On the other side, we may cite as example any of the myriad verses anxiously strung together by the hectic and over-wrought operative, by the light of his candle, whose very burning would be reprehensible as an extravagance, could not the ware fabricated at midnight find an immediate market. The first is an utterance—the second a manufacture. The first speaks with the breath of a peculiar life, and wears the colour of a peculiar scenery—the second is an exercise produced under circumstances, which, however stimulating to energy, are but discouraging to Fancy. We may be told, it is true, that many of our dearest ‘household words’ have been wrung from our greatest men, by the pressure of the cruellest exigency. One poet, to pay for his mother’s funeral, must needs write a ‘Rasselas’—another, under constraint less instant, but perhaps not less harassing, shall gladden England for ever, by calling up _Olivia_ and _Sophia_ in the hayfield, and _Farmer Flamborough’s_ Christmas party, and the Vicar slyly making an end of ‘the wash for the face,’ which his innocently-worldly daughters were brewing. But evidence like this does nothing to contradict our wisdom. Had Johnson been compelled to compose his superb style, at a moment’s warning by the coffin-side; had Goldsmith possessed no treasury of adventure and experience to draw upon, no power to handle the pen already learned—neither _Imlac_ nor _Mrs. Primrose_ would have been alive at this day. Without preparation, training, craftsmanship, there is little literature—there is no art. Ballads may grow up—but not epics be produced, nor five-act plays be constructed, nor tales be woven, nor even a complete lyric be finished. It has fallen to the lot of every one of us too often and again, to see hearts fevered, hopes wrecked, life embittered, and Death (or Madness) courted, because men cannot—and their friends _will not_—sufficiently fix their minds on this plain truth; because inclinations are perpetually mistaken for powers; because, bewildered by some faëry dream that the world in which a Scott is king or a Siddons is queen, is paved with gold—every boy who can cut paragraphs into lengths fancies that he is a Scott—and every girl with a strong voice who loves playgoing, that she is a _Lady Macbeth_, a _Cleopatra_, a _Queen Constance_, who can shake ‘the playhouse down.’

At all events, in such mistakes as the above, followed by their sure consequence of misery, lives not the Poetry which we are seeking. In its place we too often encounter a dismal wax-work show—a creature with glassy eyes and hot red cheeks, and a stiff arm, in a noble attitude perhaps, but always beckoning in one and the same direction,—not the living, breathing, hoping, fearing being, human like ourselves, yet better than ourselves, with whom we can sit down at meat, and kneel down at prayer—not the fragment of Heaven upon Earth to encounter and make acquaintance with, which redeems us from utter heartlessness or discomfort. The Poetry of appreciation when creation is impossible—the Poetry of daily life, as sung in deeds of unselfishness, delicacy, triumph over temptations—consideration of the weak (let the brute-force theorists ‘sound their trumpets and beat their drums’ as loudly as if upon themselves devolved the whole orchestral and choral noise of ‘Judas Maccabeus’) and companionship with the humble—the Poetry of a healthy, not a maudlin love for Nature—these are to be sought out and gathered up. In turn we may sit on the bleak hill-sides of Scotland with the shepherd-rhymesters of the north—or wander down the alleys of English manufacturing towns, to see what fairly-patterned verse may have been woven there. Or in a green lane we may open such a book as good Mr. Barnes has published in the Dorsetshire dialect, to show how ingeniously music may be got out of a corrupt local English phraseology. Or we may cross the Channel to hear Jasmin, the Provençal hairdresser, recite; or to see Reboul, the Nismes baker, bring out an ode hot from his oven.—But our business will be more with deeds than with words, more with genuine thoughts and impulses in action, than with second-hand fancies, faded as the coarse artificial flowers of a milliner’s shop in Leicester Square, when the season is over, which no passer-by, ‘gentle or simple,’ can think of taking home.

We may have to do, moreover, with the poetry of association as conveyed in those festivals of joy or of sorrow which mark the progress of life and the peculiarity of manners. The nasal, droning burial psalm that may still be heard in remote places of England, winding up a hollow lane or across the corner of a moor,—as some little congregation of friends or neighbours bears a dead body home,—the twilight vesper service (intrinsically tuneless and unmusical) of the Sisters of Charity, who come back to their _Beguinage_ after a long day of hard work, hard prayers, hard consolation, and hard gossip among the poor;—do these things say nothing to us? Is nothing told us by the cry of sailors as they warp the ship into dock at the close of a wild and wintry voyage? by the serenade-music with which the impulsive people of a German town welcome some favourite poet or artist?—Are these not all, more or less, poems conveying to us something of feeling, and life, and youth, be we ever so soured, ever so seared by perpetual contact with coarser and harsher contemplations and employments? May we not call up such pictures,—may we not soothe ourselves with such harmonies,—may we not lay them to our souls as evidences? We must not use them by way of unction flattering us into the sentimental Waiting Gentlewoman’s notion that crime is to disappear like a scene in a pantomime, and thieves all of a sudden to grow as orderly as beadles; but we may apply them as alteratives when we are in danger of being wearied into doggedness, by the man who enacts fits at the street corner—or by the begging-letter Impostor who wrings crowns out of kind-hearted and economical souls, who must for their credulity’s sake forego their holiday—or by the Pole with his anti-Russian pamphlet, who makes his way in, to abase himself by fawning and genteel mendicity, under pretext of being a friend’s friend—or by the sight of such a pillar of stone as the woman who went into the confectioner’s shop to buy gingerbread, ‘because they were going to see our Sally hanged, and should be hungry!’