'The Rebuilding of London' proceeds ruthlessly apace. The humble old
houses that dare not scrape the sky are being duly punished for their
timidity. Down they come; and in their place are shot up new tenements,
quick and high as rockets. And the little old streets, so narrow and
exclusive, so shy and crooked--we are making an example of them, too.
We lose our way in them, do we?--we whose time is money. Our omnibuses
can't trundle through them, can't they? Very well, then. Down with
them! We have no use for them. This is the age of 'noble arteries.'
'The Rebuilding of London' is a source of much pride and pleasure to
most of London's citizens, especially to them who are county
councillors, builders, contractors, navvies, glaziers, decorators, and
so forth. There is but a tiny residue of persons who do not swell and
sparkle. And of these glum bystanders at the carnival I am one. Our
aloofness is mainly irrational, I suppose. It is due mainly to
temperamental Toryism. We say 'The old is better.' This we say to
ourselves, every one of us feeling himself thereby justified in his
attitude. But we are quite aware that such a postulate would not be
accepted by time majority. For the majority, then, let us make some
show of ratiocination. Let us argue that, forasmuch as London is an
historic city, with many phases and periods behind her, and forasmuch
as many of these phases and periods are enshrined in the aspect of her
buildings, the constant rasure of these buildings is a disservice to
the historian not less than to the mere sentimentalist, and that it
will moreover (this is a more telling argument) filch from Englishmen
the pleasant power of crowing over Americans, and from Americans the
unpleasant necessity of balancing their pity for our present with envy
of our past. After all, our past is our point d'appui. Our present is
merely a bad imitation of what the Americans can do much better.
Ignoring as mere scurrility this criticism of London's present, but
touched by my appeal to his pride in its history, the average citizen
will reply, reasonably enough, to this effect: 'By all means let us
have architectural evidence of our epochs--Caroline, Georgian,
Victorian, what you will. But why should the Edvardian be ruled out?
London is packed full of architecture already. Only by rasing much of
its present architecture can we find room for commemorating duly the
glorious epoch which we have just entered. To this reply there are two
rejoinders: (1) let special suburbs be founded for Edvardian buildings;
(2) there are no really Edvardian buildings, and there won't be any.
Long before the close of the Victorian Era our architects had ceased to
be creative. They could not express in their work the spirit of their
time. They could but evolve a medley of old styles, some foreign, some
native, all inappropriate. Take the case of Mayfair. Mayfair has for
some years been in a state of transition. The old Mayfair, grim and
sombre, with its air of selfish privacy and hauteur and leisure, its
plain bricked facades, so disdainful of show--was it not redolent of
the century in which it came to being? Its wide pavements and narrow
roads between--could not one see in them the time when by day gentlemen
and ladies went out afoot, needing no vehicle to whisk them to a
destination, and walked to and fro amply, needing elbow-room for their
dignity and their finery, and by night were borne in chairs, singly?
And those queer little places of worship, those stucco chapels, with
their very secular little columns, their ample pews, and their
negligible altars over which one saw the Lion and the Unicorn fighting,
as who should say, for the Cross--did they not breathe all the
inimitable Erastianism of their period? In qua te qaero proseucha, my
Lady Powderbox? Alas! every one of your tabernacles is dust now--dust
turned to mud by the tears of the ghost of the Rev. Charles Honeyman,
and by my own tears.... I have strayed again into sentiment. Back to
the point--which is that the new houses and streets in Mayfair mean
nothing. Let me show you Mount Street. Let me show you that airy
stretch of sham antiquity, and defy you to say that it symbolises, how
remotely soever, the spirit of its time. Mount Street is typical of the
new Mayfair. And the new Mayfair is typical of the new London. In the
height of these new houses, in the width of these new roads, future
students will find, doubtless, something characteristic of this
pressing and bustling age. But from the style of the houses he will
learn nothing at all. The style might mean anything; and means,
therefore, nothing. Original architecture is a lost art in England; and
an art that is once lost is never found again. The Edvardian Era cannot
be commemorated in its architecture.
Erection of new buildings robs us of the past and gives us in exchange
nothing of the present. Consequently, the excuse put by me into the
gaping mouth of the average Londoner cannot be accepted. I had no idea
that my case was such a good one. Having now vindicated on grounds of
patriotic utility that which I took to be a mere sentimental prejudice,
I may be pardoned for dragging 'beauty' into the question. The new
buildings are not only uninteresting through lack of temporal and local
significance: they are also hideous. With all his learned eclecticism,
the new architect seems unable to evolve a fake that shall be pleasing
to the eye. Not at all pleasing is a mad hotch-potch of early Victorian
hospital, Jacobean manor-house, Venetian palace, and bride-cake in
Gunter's best manner. Yet that, apparently, is the modern English
architect's pet ideal. Even when he confines himself to one manner, the
result (even if it be in itself decent) is made horrible by vicinity to
the work of a rival who has been dabbling in some other manner. Every
street in London is being converted into a battlefield of styles, all
shrieking at one another, all murdering one another. The tumult may be
exciting, especially to the architects, but it is not beautiful. It is
not good to live in.
However, I am no propagandist. I am not sanguine enough to suppose that
I could do anything to stop either the adulteration or the demolition
of old streets. I do not wish to infect the public with my own
misgivings. On the contrary, my motive for this essay is to inoculate
the public with my own placid indifference in a certain matter which
seems always to cause them painful anxiety. Whenever a new highway is
about to be opened, the newspapers are filled with letters suggesting
that it ought to be called by this or that beautiful name, or by the
name of this or that national hero. Well, in point of fact, a name
cannot (in the long-run) make any shadow of difference in our sentiment
for the street that bears it, for our sentiment is solely according to
the character of the street itself; and, further, a street does nothing
at all to keep green the memory of one whose name is given to it.
For a street one name is as good as another. To prove this proposition,
let us proceed by analogy of the names borne by human beings. Surnames
and Christian names may alike be divided into two classes: (1) those
which, being identical with words in the dictionary, connote some
definite thing; (2) those which, connoting nothing, may or may not
suggest something by their sound. Instances of Christian names in the
first class are Rose, Faith; of surnames, Lavender, Badger; of
Christian names in the second class, Celia, Mary; of surnames, Jones,
Vavasour. Let us consider the surnames in the first class. You will
say, off-hand, that Lavender sounds pretty, and that Badger sounds
ugly. Very well. Now, suppose that Christian names connoting unpleasant
things were sometimes conferred at baptisms. Imagine two sisters named
Nettle and Envy. Off-hand, you will say that these names sound ugly,
whilst Rose and Faith sound pretty. Yet, believe me, there is not, in
point of actual sound, one pin to choose either between Badger and
Lavender, or between Rose and Nettle, or between Faith and Envy. There
is no such thing as a singly euphonious or a singly cacophonous name.
There is no word which, by itself, sounds ill or well. In combination,
names or words may be made to sound ill or well. A sentence can be
musical or unmusical. But in detachment words are no more preferable
one to another in their sound than are single notes of music. What you
take to be beauty or ugliness of sound is indeed nothing but beauty or
ugliness of meaning. You are pleased by the sound of such words as
gondola, vestments, chancel, ermine, manor-house. They seem to be
fraught with a subtle onomatopoeia, severally suggesting by their
sounds the grace or sanctity or solid comfort of the things which they
connote. You murmur them luxuriously, dreamily. Prepare for a slight
shock. Scrofula, investments, cancer, vermin, warehouse. Horrible
words, are they not? But say gondola--scrofula, vestments--investments,
and so on; and then lay your hand on your heart, and declare that the
words in the first list are in mere sound nicer than the words in the
second. Of course they are not. If gondola were a disease, and if a
scrofula were a beautiful boat peculiar to a beautiful city, the effect
of each word would be exactly the reverse of what it is. This rule may
be applied to all the other words in the two lists. And these lists
might, of course, be extended to infinity. The appropriately beautiful
or ugly sound of any word is an illusion wrought on us by what the word
connotes. Beauty sounds as ugly as ugliness sounds beautiful. Neither
of them has by itself any quality in sound.
It follows, then, that the Christian names and surnames in my first
class sound beautiful or ugly according to what they connote. The sound
of those in the second class depends on the extent to which it suggests
any known word more than another. Of course, there might be a name
hideous in itself. There might, for example, be a Mr. Griggsbiggmiggs.
But there is not. And the fact that I, after prolonged study of a
Postal Directory, have been obliged to use my imagination as factory
for a name that connotes nothing and is ugly in itself may be taken as
proof that such names do not exist actually. You cannot stump me by
citing Mr. Matthew Arnold's citation of the words 'Ragg is in custody,'
and his comment that 'there was no Ragg by the Ilyssus.' 'Ragg' has not
an ugly sound in itself. Mr. Arnold was jarred merely by its suggestion
of something ugly, a rag, and by the cold brutality of the police-court
reporter in withholding the prefix 'Miss' from a poor girl who had got
into trouble. If 'Ragg' had been brought to his notice as the name of
some illustrious old family, Mr. Arnold would never have dragged in the
Ilyssus. The name would have had for him a savour of quaint
distinction. The suggestion of a rag would never have struck him. For
it is a fact that whatever thing may be connoted or suggested by a name
is utterly overshadowed by the name's bearer (unless, as in the case of
poor 'Ragg,' there is seen to be some connexion between the bearer and
the thing implied by the name). Roughly, it may be said that all names
connote their bearers, and them only.
To have a 'beautiful' name is no advantage. To have an 'ugly' name is
no drawback. I am aware that this is a heresy. In a famous passage,
Bulwer Lytton propounded through one of his characters a theory that
'it is not only the effect that the sound of a name has on others which
is to be thoughtfully considered; the effect that his name produces on
the man himself is perhaps still more important. Some names stimulate
and encourage the owner, others deject and paralyse him.'
Bulwer himself, I doubt not, believed that there was something in this
theory. It is natural that a novelist should. He is always at great
pains to select for his every puppet a name that suggests to himself
the character which he has ordained for that puppet. In real life a
baby gets its surname by blind heredity, its other names by the blind
whim of its parents, who know not at all what sort of a person it will
eventually become. And yet, when these babies grow up, their names seem
every whit as appropriate as do the names of the romantic puppets.
'Obviously,' thinks the novelist, 'these human beings must "grow to"
their names; or else, we must be viewing them in the light of their
names.' And the quiet ordinary people, who do not write novels, incline
to his conjectures. How else can they explain the fact that every name
seems to fit its bearer so exactly, to sum him or her up in a flash?
The true explanation, missed by them, is that a name derives its whole
quality from its bearer, even as does a word from its meaning. The late
Sir Redvers Buller, tauredon hupoblepsas [spelled in Greek, from
Plato's Phaedo 117b], was thought to be peculiarly well fitted with his
name. Yet had it belonged not to him, but to (say) some gentle and
thoughtful ecclesiastic, it would have seemed quite as inevitable.
'Gore' is quite as taurine as 'Buller,' and yet does it not seem to us
the right name for the author of Lux Mundi? In connection with him, who
is struck by its taurinity? What hint of ovinity would there have been
for us if Sir Redvers' surname had happened to be that of him who wrote
the Essays of Elia? Conversely, 'Charles Buller' seems to us now an
impossible nom de vie for Elia; yet it would have done just as well,
really. Even 'Redvers Buller' would have done just as well. 'Walter
Pater' means for us--how perfectly!--the author of Marius the
Epicurean, whilst the author of All Sorts and Conditions of Men was
summed up for us, not less absolutely, in 'Walter Besant.' And yet, if
the surnames of these two opposite Walters had been changed at birth,
what difference would have been made? 'Walter Besant' would have
signified a prose style sensuous in its severity, an exquisitely
patient scholarship, an exquisitely sympathetic way of criticism.
'Walter Pater' would have signified no style, but an unslakable thirst
for information, and a bustling human sympathy, and power of carrying
things through. Or take two names often found in conjunction--Johnson
and Boswell. Had the dear great oracle been named Boswell, and had the
sitter-at-his-feet been named Johnson, would the two names seem to us
less appropriate than they do? Should we suffer any greater loss than
if Salmon were Gluckstein, and Gluckstein Salmon? Finally, take a case
in which the same name was borne by two very different characters. What
name could seem more descriptive of a certain illustrious Archbishop of
Westminster than 'Manning'? It seems the very epitome of saintly
astuteness. But for 'Cardinal' substitute 'Mrs.' as its prefix, and,
presto! it is equally descriptive of that dreadful medio-Victorian
murderess who in the dock of the Old Bailey wore a black satin gown,
and thereby created against black satin a prejudice which has but
lately died. In itself black satin is a beautiful thing. Yet for many
years, by force of association, it was accounted loathsome. Conversely,
one knows that many quite hideous fashions in costume have been set by
beautiful women. Such instances of the subtle power of association will
make clear to you how very easily a name (being neither beautiful nor
hideous in itself) can be made hideous or beautiful by its bearer--how
inevitably it becomes for us a symbol of its bearer's most salient
qualities or defects, be they physical, moral, or intellectual.
Streets are not less characteristic than human beings. 'Look!' cried a
friend of mine, whom lately I found studying a map of London, 'isn't it
appalling? All these streets--thousands of them--in this tiny compass!
Think of the miles and miles of drab monotony this map contains! I
pointed out to him (it is a thinker's penalty to be always pointing
things out to people) that his words were nonsense. I told him that the
streets on this map were no more monotonous than the rivers on the map
of England. Just as there were no two rivers alike, every one of them
having its own speed, its own windings, depths, and shallows, its own
way with the reeds and grasses, so had every street its own claim to an
especial nymph, forasmuch as no two streets had exactly the same
proportions, the same habitual traffic, the same type of shops or
houses, the same inhabitants. In some cases, of course, the difference
between the 'atmosphere' of two streets is a subtle difference. But it
is always there, not less definite to any one who searches for it than
the difference between (say) Hill Street and Pont Street, High Street
Kensington and High Street Notting Hill, Fleet Street and the Strand. I
have here purposely opposed to each other streets that have obvious
points of likeness. But what a yawning gulf of difference is between
each couple! Hill Street, with its staid distinction, and Pont Street,
with its eager, pushful 'smartness,' its air de petit parvenu, its
obvious delight in having been 'taken up'; High Street Notting Hill,
down-at-heels and unashamed, with a placid smile on its broad ugly
face, and High Street Kensington, with its traces of former beauty, and
its air of neatness and self-respect, as befits one who in her day has
been caressed by royalty; Fleet Street, that seething channel of
business, and the Strand, that swollen river of business, on whose
surface float so many aimless and unsightly objects. In every one of
these thoroughfares my mood and my manner are differently affected. In
Hill Street, instinctively, I walk very slowly--sometimes, even with a
slight limp, as one recovering from an accident in the hunting-field. I
feel very well-bred there, and, though not clever, very proud, and
quick to resent any familiarity from those whom elsewhere I should
regard as my equals. In Pont Street my demeanour is not so calm and
measured. I feel less sure of myself, and adopt a slight swagger. In
High Street, Kensington, I find myself dapper and respectable, with a
timid leaning to the fine arts. In High Street, Notting Hill, I become
frankly common. Fleet Street fills me with a conviction that if I don't
make haste I shall be jeopardising the national welfare. The Strand
utterly unmans me, leaving me with only two sensations: (1) a regret
that I have made such a mess of my life; (2) a craving for alcohol.
These are but a few instances. If I had time, I could show you that
every street known to me in London has a definite effect on me, and
that no two streets have exactly the same effect. For the most part,
these effects differ in kind according only to the different districts
and their different modes of life; but they differ in detail according
to such specific little differences as exist between such cognate
streets as Bruton Street and Curzon Street, Doughty Street and Great
Russell Street. Every one of my readers, doubtless, realises that he,
too, is thus affected by the character of streets. And I doubt not that
for him, as for me, the mere sound or sight of a street's name conjures
up the sensation he feels when he passes through that street. For him,
probably, the name of every street has hitherto seemed to be also its
exact, inevitable symbol, a perfect suggestion of its character. He has
believed that the grand or beautiful streets have grand or beautiful
names, the mean or ugly streets mean or ugly names. Let me assure him
that this is a delusion. The name of a street, as of a human being,
derives its whole quality from its bearer.
'Oxford Street' sounds harsh and ugly. 'Manchester Street' sounds
rather charming. Yet 'Oxford' sounds beautiful, and 'Manchester' sounds
odious. 'Oxford' turns our thoughts to that 'adorable dreamer,
whispering from her spires the last enchantments of the Middle Age.' An
uproarious monster, belching from its factory-chimneys the latest
exhalations of Hell--that is the image evoked by 'Manchester.' But
neither in 'Manchester Street' is there for us any hint of that
monster, nor in 'Oxford Street' of that dreamer. The names have become
part and parcel of the streets. You see, then, that it matters not
whether the name given to a new street be one which in itself suggests
beauty, or one which suggests ugliness. In point of fact, it is
generally the most pitiable little holes and corners that bear the most
ambitiously beautiful names. To any one who has studied London, such a
title as 'Paradise Court' conjures up a dark fetid alley, with untidy
fat women gossiping in it, untidy thin women quarrelling across it, a
host of haggard and shapeless children sprawling in its mud, and one or
two drunken men propped against its walls. Thus, were there an official
nomenclator of streets, he might be tempted to reject such names as in
themselves signify anything beautiful. But his main principle would be
to bestow whatever name first occurred to him, in order that he might
save time for thinking about something that really mattered.
I have yet to fulfil the second part of my promise: show the futility
of trying to commemorate a hero by making a street his namesake. By
implication I have done this already. But, for the benefit of the less
nimble among my readers, let me be explicit. Who, passing through the
Cromwell Road, ever thinks of Cromwell, except by accident? What
journalist ever thinks of Wellington in Wellington Street? In
Marlborough Street, what policeman remembers Marlborough? In St.
James's Street, has any one ever fancied he saw the ghost of a pilgrim
wrapped in a cloak, leaning on a staff? Other ghosts are there in
plenty. The phantom chariot of Lord Petersham dashes down the slope
nightly. Nightly Mr. Ball Hughes appears in the bow-window of White's.
At cock-crow Charles James Fox still emerges from Brooks's. Such men as
these were indigenous to the street. Nothing will ever lay their ghosts
there. But the ghost of St. James--what should it do in that galley?...
Of all the streets that have been named after famous men, I know but
one whose namesake is suggested by it. In Regent Street you do
sometimes think of the Regent; and that is not because the street is
named after him, but because it was conceived by him, and was designed
and built under his auspices, and is redolent of his character and his
time. When a national hero is to be commemorated by a street, he must
be allowed to design the street himself. The mere plastering-up of his
name is no mnemonic.