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.
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