leet 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 a