Dearly as I love the open air, I cannot regret the mediaeval days. I do
not wish them back again, I would sooner fight in the foremost ranks of
Time. Nor do we need them, for the spirit of nature stays, and will
always be here, no matter to how high a pinnacle of thought the human
mind may attain; still the sweet air, and the hills, and the sea, and the
sun, will always be with us.
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 movement? 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.
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