Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/How to convert London into a garden

by John Rose Cormack

HOW TO CONVERT LONDON INTO A GARDEN.

 

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If the exhalations of animals be the food of plants, and vice vertd , it is quite clear that plants should be well off in cities could we only get rid of unfavourable circumstances. And, notwithstanding the unfavourable circumstances, many trees and plants do get acclimated in London. And exquisite is the sensation when, from the hot glare in summer time we unexpectedly fall in with a green tree which shades us from the sun’s rays by its half transparent green curtain. On the north side of St. Paul's there are a few trees, one of which stretches out almost lovingly a long and slender branch, gracefully waving up and down over the footpath, and fascinating the eye more than all the architecture, the forms of which it enhances by contrast. It is said that scarcely a quarter of a mile of distance exists without a tree in any part of London; though for the most part they are shut in back-yards. But Lincoln’s Inn, the Drapers’ Gardens, tho Temple, and, abovjall, the small Temple Garden, indicate to us what London might be, and with great advantage to health.

Visible coal smoke, and coal gases not so visible, are the chief impediments to plant growth; and in spite of this, certain trees do grow tolerably healthy. The coal nuisance in the atmosphere prevents the other nuisance from neutralising the growth of our plants. Time was when we resigned ourselves to a smoky atmosphere as a necessary evil; but one day a Parliamentary order, or Order in Council, was issued, that steam-boats and steam-factories — all but the Lambeth potteries — must perforce swallow and consume their own smoke, the fact being not then very clearly understood that a mode of perfect combustion to prevent the generation of smoke was the one thing needful. So boats and factories had to submit and grope in the dark, as they best might, after a solution of the

problem under the coercion of the policeman’s to be enabled to bum coal without smoke, and, persecutions. They were open to observation from the bridges and the river shores, and so most of them took to using smokeless but not therefore gasless coal, and this made some difference in the more prominent parts of London; but the great mass of kitchen chimneys — the grand producers of smoke — remained and remain as before, and probably, with no other motive but coercion to restrain them, would have remained smoke-makers to the end of time, for no Government officials would have compelled them to do that in which they were not competent to instruct them.

Fortunately, self-interest in another direction has led to a simple and easy solution of the problem. The great boiler question, how to consume fuel with the minimum of waste, and also with the minimum of smoke, was long ago solved in Cornwall, where the great cost of coal, by reason of distant transit, forbade a profitable use of it — unless without waste. This was done for upwards of a score of years, and was talked of as a sort of wonder, and not believed in by those who used coal at the pit’s mouth, nor by Londoners to whom the cost was far less than in Cornwall. But one Mr. Wicksted, far and wide known as an engineer, having taken in charge the East London Water Works, where the chief business was to pump water to a great height, determined to do it at as little cost as possible for the benefit of his employers. So he visited Cornwall, satisfied himself of the facts, and erected a powerful steam engine at Old Ford, in the locality where once King Alfred changed the course of the Lea river, and set the Danish ships a-dry leaving them in terrorem like other Black Ravens.

The question of preventing smoke is simply that of mixing a sufficient (and not more than sufficient) quantity of atmospheric air with the gases which are distilled in the process of burning. If too much air be supplied, the heat will be carried off in waste, and possibly without generating smoke, just as a very small fire may be blown out and extinguished by too large a bellows. If smoke-producing coal be broken into fine dust, and gradually and thinly scattered on a hot coke fire, the gases will be rapidly distilled, and if mixed with atmospheric air in the right quantity, all the gases will be burnt, producing a bright flame, and the residue will be coke or carbon, which burns without smoke. This is merely the process adopted in Cornish boilers, mechanism being used to sift the coal-dust or small coal on to the fire.

Analyses of cost in processes of manufacture are common. Analyses of cost in the chemistry of kitchen fires is at best a rare process amongst those interested. Fortunately, a very large and influential body have become interested in smoke prevention. The legislature has forbidden the burning of coal in locomotive engines, and specified that only smokeless fuel shall be consumed. The smokeless fuels are anthracite or Welsh coal, and coke. Anthracite disintegrates and falls through the grate bars, and will not answer when violently shaken along a railroad. Coke in many cases costs double the price of coal, and as a ton of coke will not give out so much heat as a tone of bituminous coal, it becomes a very important matter consequently, without waste. Many years back this was accomplished by Mr. Dewrance on the Grand Junction Railway; but as the Grand Junction in those days paid eleven per cent., little regard was paid to savings which perhaps involved trouble and opposition. Lower dividends have now made every source of saving desirable, and scores of people have been at work to construct coal-burning locomotives, Mr. Beattie of the South-Western being the earliest in the field. Of course, if the process be complete, that which is simplest and cheapest is preferable. One by Mr. D. K. Clark fulfils these conditions. He makes, at little cost, a novel kind of bellows; an infinitesimal jet of high-pressure steam from the boiler induces a violent rush of air. As many of these bellows or openings are connected or applied above the surface of the black coal through which the gases are distilling, the jet of steam, and consequently of air, is contrived to pitch in any direction so as to mix thoroughly with the gases, in which case combustion ensues. If the mixture be not produced, the cold air may then pass through these tubes without consuming the gases, and with a diminution of steam production. But so perfect is Mr. Clark’s arrangement, that by turning off or on the steam jets, smoke maybe produced or prevented at pleasure.

What is done in locomotives may be done in house chimneys, by powerful air draughts induced by the chimney. It is no doubt possible to prevent the generation of smoke, if not in open fires, in fires partially closed in a peculiar manner. Fires are required in dwellings to be used in two ways: to produce warmed air, and to produce radiant heat. Both are required in kitchens for boiling water, heating food, baking, and roasting. The latter process cannot well be achieved without radiant heat. Again, in cold weather the general atmosphere of a house requires warming to that extent which is wholesome for breathing; but a greater amount of radiant heat is required for the feet of persons of sedentary habits, or whose circulation is slow. The heat which is pleasant to the feet, would be destructive to the lungs; and the heat which can be borne by the lungs would be almost useless to the feet.

One simple method of preventing smoke, is to feed the fuel from below, in which case the distillation carries the gases through the hot fuel; and there is no reason why this principle should not be applied to kitchen as well as to other fires. But, however, it is sufficient for our present purpose that smoke from bituminous fuel can be prevented; the details are not necessary in this present paper.

We suppose, then, a bright atmosphere — bright as that of any city where wood fuel is used, nay, brighter, for wood also produces smoke very unpleasant in a peculiar state of the atmosphere, as when a log of green elm hisses and sputters at you in Paris in winter time. And now for my gardens. But where is the space? may be asked. So may be asked, where is the space for a garden in an uncleared forest? The space for gardens in a city is equal to that of the whole of the city, less the streets and passages; in short, it is the whole space occupied by the buildings. So then the buildings are to be cleared away to convert the whole city into a garden? Not so, only the roofs of the buildings.

In southern climates buildings are constructed with flat roofs, as there is no snow, and comparatively little rain. In some cases the roof consists of a floor of canes or sticks, covered with mud mixed with chopped straw. In South America, La Plata, where mist and heavy rain fall at times, flat roofs are constructed by laying first parallel stems of palm-trees from wall to wall, filling the crevices with sticks and mud, laying thereon flat tiles cemented with a mixture of lime, burnt brick dust, and blood; covering the joints with a second layer of tiles, and then again with a third layer. This is impervious to water; and as there are no heavy carts or waggons to induce vibration, this kind of roof does not crack. Roofs depart further from the horizontal and grow more vertical as we go north; and in Canada they get to a steeple form, like that of Westminster Abbey’s mountain ridge. Almost too steep for tiling, they use small oblong boards, called shingles, nailed on to them, or they are covered with tin plates, which glisten like eastern minarets in the sunshine. On such roofs snow cannot lie; three inches thickness of snow slides off in a kind of small avalanche, to the annoyance of the passers by.

Steep roofs are necessarily lofty, and are much exposed to damage by wind; and what are called Italian roofs, of much less fall, are therefore largely used; but the steep roofs are truncated in various ways — the apex is sometimes cut off flat, or the height is lessened by making the roof in a series of ridges of the same pitch, with valleys between them and around them, involving risk of the very snow they are pitched to avoid, by the overflowing of the gutters, which are a receptacle of the ashes that pass up the chimneys. Smoke nuisance thus helps to increase rain nuisance. Italian roofs, with external gutters, are not exposed to this; but they involve the difficulty, that if a slate gets loose, the trampling of those who have to repair it breaks many other slates, and at a risk of the repairer falling off the house.

To get access to ordinary roofs for the purpose of repairs, there is usually a trap-door in the attic ceiling, where a ladder is placed on occasion. In the roof itself is another trap-door or a dormer, leading out into a gutter so narrow that one cannot walk along it without disturbing the tiles or slates. Apart from the dirt and overflowing of the gutters, these roofs are rarely in order; and the space below the tiles, called the “cockloft” — probably from having been a roosting place for the fowls in the buildings forming the type of the present structures — is a receptacle for soot, dust, filth, and all the bad air in the house ascending from below: add to this, it is usually all in darkness. Few persons know what this really is, till in case of fire, when they know not how to escape, and risk their lives in slipping from steep gutters on their way to a neighbouring house. Those who have ascended the dark wooden gallery in passing through the dome of St. Paul’s, may have an idea of it, save that they ascend staircases instead of ladders. Thus a space equal to nearly the whole basement area of all the buildings in London is devoted to filth and risk of life, and au incalculable amount of waste in repairs.

This great nuisance has not passed by unnoticed. The space alone — equal to another floor in a house — is wasted, and this space — supposing the air to be free from smoke — is the purest in the whole house, being farthest removed from the surface of the earth. Attempts have been made to construct flat roofs, but rarely successfully. An architect once showed me his own dwelling, over a part of which he had a flat roof, which he boasted was successful. But in every corner there was a stain, and at last he was obliged to own that the cement would crack from time to time, and required constant attention.

The reason is plain. All flat roofs hitherto constructed have been of brittle material, and brittle material— such as water-cement — cracks from subsidence of the ground; from unequal settlement, from expansion and contraction by heat and cold, and from many other causes.

To guard against this, flat roofs are commonly covered with sheet-lead. But this again is a nuisance. To prevent the lead from cracking by the heat and cold, it is laid in broad stripes, the edges being turned over projecting rolls of timber, sufficiently elevated to prevent rain-water from overflowing. We find every alternate ridge is a table-elevation, or a valloy, then a succession of valleys. Such a roof is a nuisance to walk on, independently of the temptation to thieves to steal the lead.

Is it then impossible to make flat and permanent roofs — roofs permanent as a foot-pavement? I think — nay, I’m sure, it is not a difficult operation if set about with common sense. We have for ages made flat roofs to ships at sea — I mean the decks. Planks nailed down side by side are caulked with tarred or pitched hemp. The planks are wet naturally in some climates and artificially in others, and their constant swelling keeps the joints tight. We put wine and liquors into barrels — the wine swells the staves and the liquor does not run out. We put wine and liquors into stone bottles, and we joint the opening with an elastic cork — the cork swells and the liquor does not run out. The difference between these arrangements and that of the flat roofs that let in water is, that in the one case, the materials are elastic, in the others, brittle.

For many years past a valuable building material has been in use; slate sawn or cut into large tables of any required size, from half an inch to three or four inches in thickness. If we suppose four walls to be built up in a square and overlaid with a solid table of this slate, projecting a foot beyond the walls, and with a descending edge to prevent water running underneath to the walls, it is evident that nothing short of a Swiss flood descending the Rhine, and rising upwards, could get access by way of the roof.

But we can’t get slates so large! No! But we can get very large slates, and we can put them together so as to be water-tight.

How?

As we joint, wine-bottles with corks; cork the

edges of the slates in grooves. They will be very long corks doubtless, but they will be very efficient, and will last a very long time, and can be very easily replaced if needful, without the slightest difficulty of access, and at a very tritling cost.

So now we have got a really flat roof with a slope, say of half an inch to the yard, to lead away the rain-water, and overhanging the wall, with a cornice all round and a parapet some six inches in height, to prevent rain from falling over or into the street. On this parapet is an ornamental railing to prevent accidents. Thus there is a flat pavement on the house-top, as flat as the foot-pavement in the street below.

The slates are laid on rafters of iron or wood— or iron and wood—the edges being kept together by iron dogs. But the slates aro only an inch in thickness, and are exposed to heat and cold. Well, the rain and the snow will not affect them, for the cork provides against that. But the room below might be affected. True, so we will ceil that room with lath and plaster, or with a ceiling of thin slabs; and between the two we will provide for a constant current of external air in summer, which will keep the room cool enough, and for fixed warm air in winter, which will warm the room and cause all snow to melt on the roof.

Supposing a range of houses of equal height and the roofs communicating, we should thus obtain an upper street by which the inmates of a burning house might escape, or which they might convert into a garden far more healthy than the enclosures we call squares, or a playground for their children, or in the case of poor people, into a laundry and drying ground. And further, if we bridged over the intervening openings, all London might communicate by a system of aërial streets.

But inasmuch as we are not a gregarious people, and most men like to sit down each under the shade of his own something or other—fig trees not being indigenous—it would be quite practicable to carry up thin slate partitions with doors for emergencies. And thus, upon the roof, greenhouses might be erected if preferred to the open air. And probably we should soon see ivy and creeping plants entwining London chimneys as they do country chimneys, the boxes in which they might be rooted being supplied with water from high-level fountains quite as prettily as the Temple court. The water would be better applied than as at present to other and mischievous uses.

These gardens would be far more healthy than those of the low lying districts round London. We might have a return of the olden time only with the gardens elevated. Instead of saying : “My Lord of Ely when I passed your garden,” it would be: “My Lord of Ely, now I mount your garden,” and, Hatton Garden would be restored.

And Whetstone Park, that “Punch” mocks at so comically, might fairly look down on Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

Think of the wine-parties, supper-parties, and open-air dinners, that might take place with the upper crust of London restored to its proprietors! Compare Pump Court, Temple, with the new gardens of Chepe looking on to St. Paul’s, and Bow bells chiming; meanwhile men’s brains crooning with old reliques of the merry doings of the olden time, around the crosses of Paul and Chepe.

But now for the drawbacks of “Sitch a gettin’ up-stairs.” What then? How many of the poor are there who would gladly mount the Monument, could they only get fresh air or the sight of a garden, and especially a garden of their own—not a window garden, but a garden to walk in. And for those better off there are mechanical appliances enough, when they come to be wise enough to use them, as instance the Coliseum in the Regent’s Park. Gardens of this kind would be, as in the East, the resort of the family in fine weather, and in bad weather a warm greenhouse on the roof would be a more pleasant thing than a dark parlour. Scarcely anything could be conceived more beautiful than the enormous expanse of London roofs covered with shrubs and flowers. And it would be a perfectly practicable thing so to construct the greenhouses that they might be open or closed at pleasure. Every housekeeper might possess his own bit of Crystal Palace, his own fountains, and his own flower baskets, watered not by hand, but by art without labour, so that the lady of the house, by a process as easy as ringing a bell, would effect this object.

And now as to cost. This kind of roof, once in demand, would be cheaper than ordinary roofs in first cost, and immeasurably cheaper in maintenance. The roof would be at least as permanent as the walls. The system awaits only the riddance of smoke for open air purposes, but for greenhouse purposes it might be accomplished to-morrow. Every separate house in a row might at once possess what is at present the peculiar luxury of people who happen to possess corner houses. If a London builder about to erect a row of four-roomed cottages, were to adopt such a system, it would be equivalent to adding another story as a garden to each house, with the same outlay, and without increasing ground-rent. If at the same time he could arrange his fires to prevent them engendering smoke, and carry water on to the roof, he would provide for the operation of washing and drying without slops in the house. But we must get the legislature at work to compel smokeless arrangements in dwellings as well as in factories.

Looking back in these pages, they seem so unusual as to read like a romance. Gardens on our housetops! Babylonian luxuries! But I am nothing if not—practical. And, for my own part, I shall feel greatly obliged to any critic who will demonstrate to me that any part of this proposition is either nut practical, or not practicable; in short, not a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence, by which landlords may reap profits and tenants reap a large amount of comfort and health.

With flat roofs water-tight as a cistern, and with water laid on to them, and easy of access, the area of London dwellings would be practically doubled; and I may add that such an arrangement of roof would be better, cheaper, and more permanent for railway-stations, than the coverings of corrugated metal.

W. Bridges Adams.

 

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