ON THE LONDON ROAD 



THE road comes straight from London, which is but 

 a very short distance off, within a walk, yet the 

 village it passes is thoroughly a village, and not 

 suburban, not in the least like Sydenham, or Croydon, 

 or Balham, or Norwood, as perfect a village in every 

 sense as if it stood fifty miles in the country. There 

 is one long street, just as would be found in the far 

 west, with fields at each end. But through this long 

 street, and on and out into the open, is continually 

 pouring the human living undergrowth of that vast 

 forest of life, London. The nondescript inhabitants 

 of the thousand and one nameless streets of the 

 unknown east are great travellers, and come forth 

 into the country by this main desert route. For 

 what end? Why this tramping and ceaseless move- 

 ment ? what do they buy, what do they sell, how do 

 they live? They pass through the village street and 

 out into the country in an endless stream on the 

 shutter on wheels. This is the true London vehicle, 

 the characteristic conveyance, as characteristic as the 

 Russian droshky, the gondola at Venice, or the caique 

 at Stamboul. It is the camel of the London desert 

 routes; routes which run right through civilisation, 

 but of which daily paper civilisation is ignorant. 

 People who can pay for a daily paper are so far above 

 it; a daily paper is the mark of the man who is in 

 civilisation. 



Take an old-fashioned shutter and balance it on 

 the axle of a pair of low wheels, and you have the 



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