I It was only fifty years ago, when the want of fresh air and room for recreation was being realised, that people began to wake up to the truth that there were already great open spaces in London which ought to be cared for and preserved. It was brought home by the fact that over £1000 an acre was being paid to purchase market-gardens or fields so as to transform them into parks, while at the same time land which already belonged to the people was being recklessly sold away and built over. All through the history of most of the common lands encroachments of a more or less serious nature are recorded from time to time. The exercise of common rights also was often so unrestrained as to inflict permanent injury on the commons. The digging for gravel was frequently carried to excess, whins and brushwood were cut, and grass over-grazed until nothing remained. At last, in 1865, a Commons Preservation Society was formed with the view of arousing public attention to the subject. As is often the case, some people ran to the opposite extreme, and wished to transform the commons into parks without giving compensation to the freeholders and copyhold tenants, who thereby would lose considerable benefits. In some cases after the Metropolitan Commons Act of 1866 was passed, the Lord of the Manor, on behalf of all the freeholders, disputed the right of the Metropolitan Board of Works to take the land without compensation to the owners. The lord of the manor was considered unreasonable by some of the agitators for the transference of the common lands to public bodies, but he was fighting the battle of all the small owners. The freeholders in some cases were as many as fifty for some 40 acres. Many of the commons were Lammas Lands. The freeholders, of which there were a large number, had the use of the land from the 6th of April until the 12th of August, and the copyhold tenants of the manor had the right of grazing during the remainder of the year. The number of cattle each could graze was determined by the amount of rent they paid, and the grazing was regulated by the “marsh drivers,” men elected annually by the courts of the Manor for the purpose. A curious incident in connection with these rights happened on Hackney Downs in 1837. The season was late, and the steward of the Manor put up a notice to the effect that as the freeholders’ crops were not gathered the grazing on the Downs could not begin until the 25th, instead of the usual 12th of August. The marshes and other common lands in the parish were open, so there was actually plenty of pasture available for those entitled to it. There was a fine crop of wheat on some plots on the Downs, and on the morning of Monday the 14th August, “a few persons made their appearance and began to help themselves to the corn.” Summoned before the magistrates, the bench decided that after the usual opening day the corn “was common property, and could be claimed by no one parishioner more than another.” On the strength of this decision the whole parish turned out, and a terrible scene of looting the crop took place, while the poor owners vainly tried to save what they could. The freeholder with the most wheat, a Mr. Adamson, lost over £100 worth, although he worked all night to save what he could. A case followed, as Mr. Adamson prosecuted Thomas Wright, one of the many looters who thought they had a right to it, for stealing his wheat. This time the magistrates fined the man twenty shillings, and half-a-crown, the value of the wheat he had actually taken, as he had no right to take away the crop, although he had a right to put cattle on the Downs. Further trials for riot before the Court of Queen’s Bench resulted in the prisoners being discharged after they had pleaded guilty. It appeared both the looters and Mr. Adamson were in the wrong. They had no right to remove the corn, neither had he, after the 12th August, and those who had grazing rights could have turned on their cattle to eat the standing corn. This incident just shows how the right of freeholders and copyholders could not lightly be trifled with.

The report of the Select Committee on Open Spaces in 1865 pointed out in the same way, that although the right to these common lands had been enjoyed from time immemorial, the rights were vague as far as the public at large were concerned. They were probably limited to a certain defined area or body of persons, as the inhabitants of a parish, and it was doubtful if the custom would hold good at law for such a large place as London. Thousands of people from all parts of London trampling over a common was a very different thing to the free use of it by the parishioners. This report led to the passing of the Metropolitan Commons Act of 1866. Both before and after this Act there were several others for the maintenance and regulation of the commons and all the parks, gardens, and open spaces too numerous to mention.9

Under the present system most of the metropolitan commons and heaths are in the hands of the County Council, and in some cases considerable sums have been spent on them. Among the smaller ones is London Fields, Hackney, the nearest open space to the city. This was in a very untidy state when first taken in hand after 1866. The grass was worn away, and it was the scene of a kind of fair, and the resort of all the worst characters in the neighbourhood. It used to be known as Shoulder of Mutton Fields, and the name survives in a “Cat and Mutton” public-house on the site of a tavern which gave its name to the fields. It was in the eighteenth century a well-known haunt of robbers and footpads, and in spite of a watch-house and special guard robberies were frequent. The watch must have been rather slack, as about 1732 a Mr. Baxter was robbed about five in the morning “by two fellows, who started out on him from behind the Watch-House in the Shoulder of Mutton Fields.” Hackney is rich in open spaces, as besides London Fields there is Hackney or Well Street Common, near Victoria Park, Mill Fields, Stoke Newington and Clapton Commons, Hackney Downs (over 40 acres) on the north, and Hackney Marshes (337 acres) on the east. These were Lammas Lands, and the marshes were used for grazing until within the last few years, when the rights were bought up and the land finally thrown open to the public in 1894. The river Lea skirts the marsh, and used not unfrequently to flood, doing considerable damage. The London County Council have made four cuts across the bends of the river, forming islands. The water now can more easily flow in a wet season, and the periodical inundations no longer occur. The planting of these islands has not been carried out at all satisfactorily. An utter want of appreciation of the habits of plants or the localities suited to them has been shown. A stiff row of the large saxifrage, S. cordifolia, charming in a rock garden or mixed border, has been put round the water’s edge, and behind it, berberis, laurels, and a few flowering bushes suited to a villa garden shrubbery. The opportunity for a really pleasing effect has thus been missed, and money wasted. A few willows and alders, with groups of iris and common yellow flags, and free growing willow herb, and purple loosestrife, would soon, for much less expense, have made the islands worthy of a visit from an artist. Instead, an eyesore to every tasteful gardener and lover of nature has been produced. The beauty of the marsh has always been appreciated by the dwellers in Hackney and Clapton. The view over the fertile fields from the high land was one of the attractions since the time when Pepys wrote, “I every day grow more and more in love with” Hackney.

Hackney Downs now form a large open area for recreation, but they were fruitful fields sixty years ago. An engraving, from a drawing by W. Walker, dated 1814, represents a “Harvest Scene, Hackney Downs, with a View of the Old Tower, and Part of the Town of Hackney,” and gives a delightful picture of harvesters reaping with sickles, and binding up sheaves of the tall, thick-growing corn. That some of the Downs were arable land was a grievance to those who had grazing rights, and there was a considerable agitation to get the freeholders to lay it all down in grass, after the incident of looting the corn in 1837, already referred to. The Downs continued rural within the memory of many still living. The Lord of the Manor remembers that an inhabitant stated that she had, whilst walking across the Downs, startled a wild hare from her form. This would be about the year 1845, and for ten or twelve years later there were partridges in the larger fields of turnip and mangold-wurzel which adjoined the Downs. The rural character has quite changed, and now the Downs are a large open space, with young trees growing up to supply shade along the roads which encircle the wide grassy area.

Highbury Fields, although much smaller than Hackney Downs, being only 27 instead of 41 acres, play as important a part in the north of London, as the Downs do in the north-east. They are not, however, Common Lands, but until recently were actually fields with sheep grazing in them. Tradition points to Highbury Fields as the site of the Roman encampment during the final struggle with Boadicea. In the Middle Ages they belonged to the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, and there the rebels of the Wat Tyler rising, headed by Jack Straw, camped after leaving Hampstead. There are a few old trees still standing in the Fields, which were formerly within the grounds of two detached residences, one of them the Manor House. An old “moated grange,” or barn, belonging to the ancient Priory, gives its name to the public-house, Highbury Barn, the goal of motor omnibuses. The moat was only filled up fifty years ago, and the old buildings pulled down, after enjoying some notoriety as a Tea Garden for over a century. A part of the present Fields was called “the Reedmote,” or “Six Acre Field,” and is also shown on old maps as “Mother Field.” When Islington Spa was a fashionable resort, and Sadler’s Wells at the height of its prosperity, the houses facing the Fields were built. On the north-west the row is inscribed in large letters, “Highbury Terrace, 1789,” and this, according to old guide-books, “commands a beautiful prospect.” On the east lies another substantial row of eighteenth-century mansions, and the inhabitants are proud to point out to strangers No. 25 Highbury Place as the house in which Mr. Chamberlain lived, from the age of nine until he was eighteen, when he went to live in Birmingham. His present home, now so well known, was built in 1879, and was named in remembrance of Highbury Place. In the early years of the nineteenth century several well-known people were living in these houses. John Nichols, the biographer of Hogarth, who was for fifty years editor of the Gentleman’s Magazine, died there in 1826. A few years later a historian of Islington describes Highbury Place as “thirty-nine houses built on a large scale, but varying in size, all having good gardens, and some of them allotments of meadow land in the front and rear. The road is private, and is frequented only by the carriages passing to and from the several dwellings situated between the village and Highbury House.” This description draws a very rural picture, of which nothing now remains but the name. The Fields were turned into a public Park in 1885, and now consist of wide open spaces for games, with intersecting paths well planted with limes, elms, chestnuts, and planes, and an abundance of seats. Near the point where Upper Street, Islington ends and Holloway Road joins it, a memorial to the soldiers and volunteers of Islington who fell in the Boer War has been erected, and the figure of Victory stands conspicuously facing the approach from the city.

By far the most beautiful and the most frequented of all London Commons is Hampstead Heath. The original Heath measured 240 acres, but, with the addition of Parliament Hill, there are now over 500 acres of wild open country for ever preserved for the benefit of Londoners. ’Appy ’Ampstead, the resort not only of ’Arrys and ’Arriets, but poets, artists, and people of every rank in life, is too well known to demand description. The view from it seems more beautiful every time the occasional visitor ascends the hill, and gazes down on London and away over the lovely country of the Thames valley. The County Council, the present holders of this public trust, have mercifully refrained from turning it into a park—the original intention of those who first wished to preserve it. The bracken still flourishes, the gorse still blooms, and there is yet a wild freshness about it that has not been “improved” away.

Hampstead has had periods of fashion as a residence. In the eighteenth century it is described as “a village in Middlesex, on the declivity of a fine hill, 4 miles from London. On the summit of this hill is a heath, adorned with many gentlemen’s houses.... The water of the [Hampstead] Wells is equal in efficacy to that of Tunbridge, and superior to that of Islington.” These Wells appear to have first attracted notice in the time of Charles II. In 1698, Susanna Noel and her son, third Earl of Gainsborough (then the owner of the soil), gave the Well, with six acres of ground, to the poor of Hampstead. For more than thirty years the Wells, with all the attendant attractions of the pump-room, with balls and music, drew the fashionable world up to Hampstead. It was said to be “much more frequented by good company than can well be expected, considering its vicinity to London; but such care has been taken to discourage the meaner sort from making it a place of residence, that it is now become ... one of the Politest Public Places in England.” Here Fanny Burney made her heroine, Evelina, attend dances, and it plays a part in the fortunes of Richardson’s Clarissa Harlowe; and here all the wits and poets of the time mingled in the gay throng. Many have been the celebrated residents in Hampstead—Lord Chatham, Dr. Johnson, Crabbe, Steele, Gay, Keats, William Blake, Leigh Hunt, Romney and Constable, John Linnell, and David Wilkie among the number. The site of the pump-room is all built over, but some fine old elm trees in Well Walk, still have an air of romance and faded glory about them. The houses near the Heath—such as Shelford, afterwards Rosslyn House, with a celebrated avenue of Spanish chestnuts, The Grove, Belsize Park, the residence of Lord Wotton, and then of Philip, Earl of Chesterfield—have all been consumed by the inroads of bricks and mortar. It is more than likely that the Heath would have shared the same fate, had not the inhabitants taken active steps to arouse public attention to preserve this wild heath, unequalled near any great city. Already aggressive red villas were making their appearance in far too great numbers. The western side was dotted over with them. That the purchase of it for the public benefit has been appreciated it is not difficult to prove, when over 100,000 visit it on a Bank Holiday. It was the commencement of building operations near the Flagstaff by the lord of the manor, Sir Thomas Maryon Wilson, in the heart of the Heath, that brought things to a crisis in 1866. A case began against the lord of the manor, but he died before it was ended, and his brother, Sir John, being willing to compromise, the sum of £47,000 was agreed on for the sale of the Heath to the Metropolitan Board of Works. The few houses dotted about on the Heath are those of squatters, who have established their right by the length of time they have been in possession. The small hamlet or collection of houses in the “Vale of Health,” those near the “Spaniards” and round Jack Straw’s Castle, have existed from time immemorial, although few old houses of interest remain, and large, unsightly buildings have taken the place of the picturesque ones. In the Vale of Health the houses are chiefly given up to catering for holiday-makers. The “Spaniards,” at the most northerly point of the Heath, is a genuine old house, and it still has a nice garden, although all the alleys and fantastic ornaments which made it popular, in the eighteenth century, have vanished. The name came from the fact that the first owner was a Spaniard. The next proprietor was a Mr. Staples, who “improved and beautifully ornamented it.” The house was on the site of the toll-gate and lodge to Caen Wood, and its position saved that house from destruction, at the time of the Gordon riots. The rioters had burnt and wantonly destroyed Lord Mansfield’s house in Bloomsbury Square. Maddened with drink, and flushed with triumph at the success of their outrages, they made a bonfire in the square of the invaluable books collected by Lord Mansfield. Their temper may be imagined as they marched by Hampstead to commit the same violence at Caen Wood, Lord Mansfield’s country house. The proprietor of the “Spaniards” invited them in, and threw open his cellars to the mob. Fresh barrels of drink were sent down from Caen Wood, and meanwhile messengers were despatched for soldiers; so that by the time all the liquor had been consumed, and the drunken rioters began to proceed, they were confronted by a troop of Horse Guards, who, in their addled condition, soon put them all to flight. The name of the other inn on Hampstead Heath, which stands conspicuously on the highest point, 443 feet above the sea, is Jack Straw’s Castle, and has also some connection with a riot. Jack Straw was one of the leaders in the Wat Tyler rebellion, and after burning the Priory of St. John of Jerusalem, he came up to Hampstead and Highgate, though there is no direct evidence to connect him, in 1381, with any tavern on the spot on which the inn stands. The addition of Castle to the name is from the fact, that there was some sort of fortress or earthworks on this commanding point. The inn on the site was known as the Castle Inn, and not until 1822 is there any mention of it as Jack Straw’s Castle. The wood of the gallows on which a famous highwayman was hung behind the house in 1673 was built into the wall. Jack Straw’s Castle is now quite modernised, but the view from it, on all sides, is still as lovely as ever. The Whitestone Pond in front is really a reservoir, and to the south of that lies the Grove, with fine trees and some old-fashioned houses. The most picturesque walk is that known as the Judges’ or King’s Bench Walk, from a tradition that justice was administered under the trees there, when the judges fled from London at the time of the Great Plague. This walk is on the south-west side of the Heath, the Well Walk on the south-east. To the east of the highest point with Jack Straw’s Castle and the road which runs northwards towards the “Spaniards” is the Vale of Health, and below are a series of ponds. Hampstead has always furnished a water-supply for the city at its feet. When more water was required, in the sixteenth century, the Lord Mayor proposed to utilise the springs there, and convey the water to London by conduits. A pound of pepper at the Feast of St. Michael annually to the “Bishop of Westminster,” was the tribute for the use of the water, as the land belonged to the Abbey of Westminster, having been granted to it by King Ethelred in 986. The managers of water-supply in 1692 were a company known as the Hampstead Water Company, which became absorbed in the New River Company. The lakes are very deep, and dangerous for boating, bathing, and skating, although used for all those purposes.

The hill which rises beyond the ponds and stretches away to the east, is part of the land adjoining the true Heath, which was bought in 1887, so as to double the area of open country, and prevent that side of the Heath being overlooked by houses. The character is quite a contrast, and lacks the wildness, but it is pretty, park-like scenery, and Hampstead Heath would have been greatly spoilt had this further wide space of pasture land not been saved. The first hill to the east of the Heath is crowned by a mound or tumulus, which was opened a few years ago; the investigations leading scientists to believe that it was a British burial-place of the bronze age. This used to be very picturesque with a group of Scotch firs—now, alas! all dead. The next hill is Parliament or Traitor’s Hill, and there is no very definite solution of the name. It may have been a meeting-place of the British “Moot” or Parliament, or the origin may only be traced to Cromwell’s time. As if to encourage the tradition being kept up, a stone suggests that meetings may take place within 50 yards of the spot by daylight. Below the hill are flat meadows by Gospel Oak, said to be so named from its being a parish boundary, and the Gospel was read under the tree to impress the parishioners, with the same object as the other and more familiar form of beating the bounds. These Gospel Oak fields are the typical London County Council greens for games, so gradually, after leaving the summit of the Heath, the descent is made, from the artistic and picturesque, to the practical and prosaic.

Hampstead was always famous for its wild flowers. The older botanists roamed there in search of rare plants, and the frequent references in their works, especially in Gerard’s “Herbal,” show how often they were successful. Osmundas, or royal ferns, sundew or drosera, and the bog bean grew in the damp places, and lilies of the valley were among the familiar flowers. As late as 1838 a work on London Flora enumerates 290 genera, and no less than 650 species, as found round about the Heath. The soil, the aspect, the situation, are all propitious. Even now it is so far above the densest smoke-fogs that much might be done to encourage the growth of wild flowers. It is true notice-boards forbid the plucking of them, and that is a great step in advance—but the sowing of a few species, which have become extinct, would add greatly to the charm of the place. It is also still the favourite haunt of wild birds, and the more the true wildness is encouraged, the more likely they are to frequent it. It is much to be hoped that the London County Council will refrain in their planting, from anything but native trees and bushes which look at home, and which would attract our native songsters. Within the last ten or twelve years a very great variety of birds have been recorded either as nesting there or as visitors. The following list (taken from “Birds in London” by W. H. Hudson, 1898) may interest bird lovers:—

Wryneck, cuckoo, blackcap, grasshopper, sedge, reed and garden warblers, both white-throats, wood and willow wrens, chiff-chaff, redstart, stonechat, pied wagtail, tree pipit, red-backed shrike, spotted fly-catcher, swallow, house martin, swift, goldfinch, wheat-ears in passage, fieldfare in winter, occasionally redwings, also redpoles, siskin, and grey wagtail.

This list is certainly a revelation to those who only associate dusty sparrows and greedy wood-pigeons with the ornithology of London. No better testimony is wanted to prove that Hampstead is still the beautiful wild Heath that has given pleasure to so many generations.

The only other large space of common land, north of the river within the London area, is Wormwood Scrubs, of very different appearance and associations from Hampstead. The manorial and common rights were purchased by the War Office, and the ground made over to the Metropolitan Board of Works in 1879, with reservations for the rifle range and military exercises. The space is altogether over 200 acres. The ground in ancient times was a wood, adjoining “Old Oak Common,” just beyond the London boundary, which was covered with patriarchal oaks. The last was felled in 1830. The ground, being flat, is admirably suited for the War Office purposes; it has gone through a process of draining, and the only part not downtrodden by soldiers has been “improved” by the London County Council, so there is little wildness or attraction in the place. The presence of a prison, erected in 1874, still further diminishes its charm as an open space.

This completes the open large spaces on the north; the south of the river is even richer in commons. One of the most thoroughly rural spots within the London area is Bostall Wood. There is nothing to spoil the illusion, and for quite a considerable walk it would be easy to imagine that a journey on the magic horse of the “Arabian Nights” had been taken to some distant forest land, to forget that the roar of the town was barely out of one’s ears, and that ten minutes’ walk would take one, out of the enchanted land, back to suburban villas and electric trams.

Beyond the inevitable band-stand, which attracts thousands on a summer Sunday evening, there is nothing to jar, and spoil the illusion of real country. The woods, and Bostall Heath which adjoins them, can be reached from Plumstead or Abbey Wood Station, in twenty minutes’ walk up the steep hill. Pine woods crest the summit, and below them stretches a delightful thicket, chiefly of oaks and sweet chestnut, with an undergrowth of holly and a pleasant tangle of bracken and bramble, where the blackbirds, chaffinches, and robins call to each other and flit across the path. Steep slopes, and valleys, and hollows clothed with trees, give possibilities of real rambles, in a truly sylvan scene. Under the pines, which are tall enough to produce that soothing, soughing sound even in the most gentle breeze, the carpet of pine needles is cushioned here and there with patches of vivid green moss where the moisture has penetrated. Beyond the Wood lies the Heath, studded with birch trees, among gorse and bracken. There are narrow gullies and glades, like miniature “gates” or “gwyles” of the sea coast, and at the foot of the Heath lie the marshes, often in the soft light as blue as the sea, and the silver Thames, a bright streak across the picture, chequered with the red sails of the barges, and tall masts of the more stately ships.

The whole area of woods and common is only about 133 acres, but the varied surface, and the distant views from it, make it appear of larger extent. It is little known to most Londoners, although the Heath was purchased as far back as 1877, and the Wood bought by the London County Council in 1891. The place, however, is much frequented and duly appreciated by the neighbouring population. This peaceful country-side could be reached within an hour, from any point in the City. It is attractive at all times of the year, especially in spring, when the green is pale and the young brackens, soft and downy, are uncurling their fronds, and the dark firs stand up in sharp contrast to the tender greens. Or, perhaps, still more delightful is it in autumn, when

“Red o’er the forest gleams the setting sun,”

and the oaks have turned a rich russet, and the birches, of brilliant yellow, shower their tiny leaves on the mossy earth, like the golden showers which fell on Danaë in her prison.

The attractive wood-clad hills of Bostall are the most remote of all London’s open spaces. They lie the furthest east on the fringe of the suburbs. From Bostall westward roofs and chimney-pots become continuous—Woolwich, Greenwich, Deptford, Bermondsey, Southwark getting more and more densely crowded. But westward also begins the chain of commons which circle the town round the southern border—with breaks, it is true, yet so nearly continuous that from the highest point of one, the view almost ranges on to the next.

Only a deep valley, with Wickham Lane on the track of a Roman road, divides Bostall Wood from Plumstead Common. This is open and breezy, standing high above what was in ancient times the marsh overflowed by the Thames. The greater part is, however, used by the military, and the trample of horse artillery makes it look like a desert. It is a curious effect to see this part of the Common in winter. It has probably been used for manœuvring all the week, and by Saturday afternoon there are pools of mud, and ruts, and furrows, and hoofmarks all over it. On this dreary waste hundreds of boys and young men, sorted according to age, play more or less serious football matches. The coats of the players, in four little heaps, do duty for goal-posts, and these are so thickly strewn over the surface, and the players so closely mingled, that the effect is like bands of savages fighting among their slain—the ancient barrow in the centre of the ground gives colour to the supposition.

A sudden deep valley, called “the Slade,” cuts the Common in two. In the hollow there are ponds, and on the high ground beyond stood a windmill, the remains of which are embedded in the Windmill Tavern.

The next common west of Plumstead, is Woolwich, maintained by the War Office and given up to military exercises. The extent is 159 acres. It is so much absorbed by the requirements of the War Office that it cannot be classed among London’s playgrounds.

Going westward, the next large space is Blackheath, whose history is wrapped up with that of Greenwich, the beautiful Greenwich Park having once been part of the Heath. It is high ground, for the most part bare of trees, and with roads intersecting it—one of them, the old Roman Watling Street. The wild, bare summit of the Heath was a dangerous place for travellers, and many was the highway robbery committed there in times past. It is of very large extent, some 267 acres, and has been effectually preserved for public use, for some thirty-five years, since early in the Seventies.

The Heath has played its part in history—gay scenes, such as when the Mayor and aldermen of London flocked, with a great assemblage, to welcome Henry V. after the battle of Agincourt, or more ominous and hostile demonstrations, as when Wat Tyler collected his followers there, or when Jack Cade, some seventy years later, did the same thing. A few fine old eighteenth-century houses still stand on the edge of the Heath, and an avenue, “Chesterfield Walk,” perpetuates the name of one of the distinguished residents. Morden College, at the south-east corner of the Heath, is a fine old building of Wren’s design, founded by Sir John Morden, for merchants trading with the East who, through unforeseen accidents, had lost their fortunes.

To the west of Blackheath there was once a Deptford Common, but it has long since been built over, and, with the exception of the small Deptford Park, there is a large district of dense population without any open space. The nearest is Hilly Fields on the south. This is a steep, conical hill, with little beauty to recommend it, except its breezy height, and views over chimney-pots to the Crystal Palace. A large, bleak-looking building, with a small enclosure on the highest point—at present for sale—marked the West Kent Grammer School, does not improve the appearance of this open space. There are some 45 acres of turf, and a line of old elms and another of twisted thorns show that there were once hedgerows. There is some promiscuous planting of young trees, and iron railings, and of course a band-stand; otherwise no particular “beautifying” has been attempted since it was opened to the public in 1896.

In the valley of the Ravensbourne, below the hill stretches the long, narrow strip of the Ladywell Recreation Ground. It lies on either bank of the stream between Ladywell and Catford Bridge stations. It is intersected by railways, and the pathway passes sometimes over, sometimes under the lines, and constant trains whizz by. But in spite of such drawbacks, the place has a special attraction in the stream which meanders through the patches of grass devoted to games. Where the stream has been untouched, and allowed to continue its course unmolested between iron railings, even the railings cannot destroy a certain rural aspect it has retained. Alders and elms, with gnarled and twisted roots, lean over the banks, and hawthorns dip down towards the rather swiftly flowing water. When the land was bought for public use in 1889 the stream frequently overflowed its sandy banks, and one or two necessary cuttings were made across some of the sharpest curves, to allow a better flow of water. This has stopped all the objectionable flooding, but the melancholy part is that, having been obliged to make these imperative but necessarily artificial cuttings, the London County Council did not plant them with alders, thorns, and willows, like the pretty, natural stream; but instead, the islands thus formed, and the banks, were dotted about with box and aucuba bushes. The babbling stream seems to jeer at these poor sickly little black bushes, as if to say, “What is the good of bravely playing at being in the country, and trying to make believe trout may jump from my ripples and water-ousels pop in and out of my banks, if you dreadful Cockneys disfigure me like that?” Very likely it does not jar on the feelings of the inhabitants of Lewisham or Catford, but when public money is spent by way of improvement, it is cruel to mar and deform instead. Where the churchyard of St. Mary’s, Lewisham, touches the stream is a pretty spot, but, in places, untidy little back-gardens are the only adornment; but that is not the fault of the London County Council.

Peckham Rye Common is more or less flat, without any special feature of interest, except at the southern end, which has been converted into a Park. The Rye—what a quaint name it is! and there is no very satisfactory derivation. It may either come from a stream of that name, long since disappeared, or from a Celtic word, rhyn, a projecting piece of land—Peckham Rye, the village on the spur of the hill, now known as Forest Hill and Honor Oak. This “Rye” has been a place of recreation from time immemorial, and at one time must have extended so as to embrace the smaller patches of common known as Nunhead Green (now black asphalt), and Goose Green. The Common was secured by purchase from further encroachments in 1882.

The Park has much that savours of the country. An enclosure within it, is not open to the public, and for that very reason is one of the most rural spots. There is a delightful public road across it, known as “the Avenue.” The old trees form an archway overhead, and on either side of the fence the wood is like a covert somewhere miles from London; brambles and fern and brushwood make shelter for pheasants, and squirrels run up the trees. The farm-house, and its out-buildings with their moss-grown tiled roofs, have nothing suburban about them. The front facing the Rye Common has a notice to say it is the Friern Manor Dairy, but even that is not aggressive, as the name carries back the history to the time of Henry I., when the manor was granted to the Earl of Gloucester, and on till it was given by his descendants to the Priory of Halliwell, which held it until the church property was taken by Henry VIII. and granted to Robert Draper, and so on till modern days. There is, besides this attractive farm, a regular piece of laid-out garden, and a pond and well-planted flower-beds; but the little walk among trees, beside a streamlet which has been formed into small cascades, and crossed by rustic bridges, is a more original conception, and is decidedly a success, and a good imitation of a woodland scene. The contrast is all the greater as Peckham is so eminently prosaic, busy, and unpicturesque; the old houses having for the most part given place to modern suburban edifices.

Due west of Peckham lies Clapham, the largest of the South London Commons, 220 acres in extent; although, being flat and compact in shape, it does not appear larger than Tooting, which is really only 10 acres less, but of more rambling shape. The Common has suffered much less than most of its neighbours from enclosures. It was shared between two manors, Battersea and Clapham, and the rival lords and commonalities, each jealous of their own special rights, were more careful to prevent encroachments than was often the case. At one time Battersea went so far as to dig a great ditch to prevent the cattle of the Clapham people coming into its part of the ground. The other parish resisted and filled up the ditch, and was sued for trespass by Battersea, which, however, lost its case—this ended in 1718. The Common has an air of dignified respectability, and is still surrounded with some solid old-fashioned houses, although modern innovations have destroyed a great number of them. A nice old buttressed wall, over which ilex trees show their heads, and suggest possibilities of a shady lawn, carries one back to the time when Pepys retired to Clapham to “a very noble house and sweete place, where he enjoyed the fruite of his labour in great prosperity”; or to the days when Wilberforce lived there, and he, together with the other workers in the same cause, Clarkson, Granville Sharp, and Zachary Macaulay, used to meet at the house of John Thornton by the Common.

There is nothing wild now about the Common, and the numbers of paths which intersect it are edged by high iron railings, to prevent the entire wearing away of the grass. The beauty of the ground is its trees. They proclaim it to be an old and honoured open space, and not a modern creation. Only one tree has any pretentions to historical interest, having been planted by the eldest son of Captain Cook the explorer, but only a stump remains. The ponds are the distinctive feature of the Common, and there are several of them dotted about, the joy of boys for bathing and boat-sailing. The origin of most of them has been gravel pits dug in early days. There is the Cock Pond near the church, the Long Pond, the Mount Pond, and the Eagle House Pond, some of them fairly large. The Mount Pond was at one time nearly lost to the Common, as about 1748 a Mr. Henton Brown, who had a house close by, and who kept a boat on the water, obtained leave to fence it in for his own private gratification. It was not until others followed Mr. Brown’s example, and further encroachments began to frighten the parish, that it repented of having let in the thin end of the wedge. A committee was formed to watch over the interests of the Common lands, and took away Mr. Brown’s privileges; but in spite of their vigilance other pieces were from time to time taken away. A little group of houses by the Windmill Inn are on the site of one of these shavings off the area, for a house called Windmill Place. The church was built on a corner of the Common in 1774, and has a peaceful, solid, dignified appearance, standing among fine old elms and away from the din of trams, which rush in all directions from the corner hard by. It was built to replace an older parish church, which was described as “a mean edifice, without a steeple” by a writer of the eighteenth century, who admired the “elegant” one which took its place. The present generation would hardly apply that epithet to the massive Georgian edifice, but it seems to suit its surroundings: substantial and unostentatious, recalling memories of the evangelical revival, it seems an essential part of the Common and its history.

Away to the south-west of Clapham lies Tooting (why does the very name sound comic, and invariably produce a laugh?), another Common, nearly as large, and much more wild and picturesque. Clapham is essentially a town open space, like an overgrown village green; but on Tooting Common one can successfully play at being in the country. The trees are quite patriarchal, and have nothing suburban about them, except their blackened stems. There are good spreading oaks and grand old elms, gnarled thorns, tangles of brambles, and golden gorse. The grass grows long, with stretches of mossy turf, and has not the melancholy, down-trodden appearance of Clapham or Peckham Rye.

Fine elm avenues overshadow the main roads, and no stiff paths with iron rails, take away from the rural effect. Even the railway, which cuts across it in two directions, has only disfigured and not completely spoilt the park-like appearance. The disused gravel-pits, now filled with water, have been enlarged since the London County Council had possession; and if only the banks could be left as wild and natural, as nature is willing to make them, they may be preserved from the inevitable stamp which marks every municipal park. The smaller holes, excavated by virtue of the former rights of digging gravel, and already overgrown, assist rather than take away from the charms of the Common.

Tooting Common consists of two parts, belonging to two ancient manors. The smallest is Tooting Graveney, which derives its name from the De Gravenelle family, who held the manor soon after the Conquest, on the payment of a rose yearly at the feast of St. John the Baptist. The larger half, Tooting Beck, takes its name from the Abbey of Bec in Normandy, which was in possession of the Manor from Domesday till 1414, when it came to the Crown. Both manors can be traced through successive owners until the rights were purchased in 1875 and 1873 by the Metropolitan Board of Works. The avenue of elms which runs right across the Common divides the two. Tooting Beck is more than twice the size of Graveney, and has the finest trees. One of the oldest elm trees, now encircled by a railing, was completely hollow, but now has a young poplar sprouting out of its shell. Tradition associates this tree particularly with Dr. Johnson, and though he did not compose his Dictionary under it, it is more than likely he often enjoyed the shade of what must have been a very old tree in his day. For fifteen years he was a constant visitor at Thrale Place close by. “He frequently resided here,” says a contemporary guide-book, “and experienced that sincere respect to which his virtues and talents were entitled, and those soothing attentions which his ill-health and melancholy demanded.” The house stood in 100 acres of ground between Tooting and Streatham Commons, and has since been pulled down and built over. During these years, no doubt, Tooting as well as Streatham Common was often trodden by the brilliant circle who drank tea and conversed with the accomplished Mrs. Thrale—Sir Joshua Reynolds, Burke, Garrick, Goldsmith—to all of them the woodland scenes of both Commons were familiar.

To prevent the too free use of the turf by riders, a special track has been made for them, skirting the Common, and passing down one of the finest avenues. It may save the grass from being too much cut up, but to those who don’t feel called to gallop across the Common, the loss of the green sward under the tall feathery elms is a cause of regret. It is such, perhaps necessary, alterations which spoil the delusion of genuine country, otherwise so well counterfeited on Tooting Common. A charming time is when the may is out and the gorse ablaze with bloom, the chestnuts in blossom, and birds are singing all around; or if one happens to be there on a winter’s day, when it is too cold for loungers or holiday-makers, there are moments when the nearness of streets and trams could be forgotten. The frosty air, and dew-drops on the vivid green grass, the brown of the fallen leaves, the dark stems clear against an amber sky, with the intense blue distance, which London atmosphere produces so readily, combine harmoniously into a telling picture, which remains photographed “upon that inward eye, which is the gift of solitude.” The dream is as quickly dispelled. A sight, a sound, recalls the nearness of London, which makes its presence felt even when one is trying to play Hide-and-seek with the chimney-pots. How well Richard Jefferies, that inimitable writer on nature, describes his feelings in the neighbourhood of London, in spots only a little further from Hyde Park Corner than Tooting Beck:—

“Though my preconceived ideas were overthrown by the presence of so much that was beautiful and interesting close to London, yet in course of time I came to understand what was at first a dim sense of something wanting. In the shadiest lane, in the still pine-woods, on the hills of purple heather, after brief contemplation there arose a restlessness, a feeling that it was essential to be moving. In no grassy mead was there a nook where I could stretch myself in slumbrous ease and watch the swallows ever wheeling, wheeling in the sky. This was the unseen influence of mighty London. The strong life of the vast city magnetised me, and I felt it under the calm oaks.”

The most remote of London open spaces in this direction is Streatham, to the south-east of Tooting, close to Norwood, and on the very extremity of the County of London. Much smaller than the other commons, it possesses attractions of its own. It is less spoilt by modern buildings than any of these once country villages, but ominous boards foretell the rapid advance of the red-brick villa. The houses which now overlook the upper part are substantial, in the solid, simple style of the eighteenth century, In those days Streatham possessed a mineral spring, and for a few years people flocked to drink at it. But long before the end of the eighteenth century other more fashionable watering-places had supplanted it, and in 1792 Streatham is described as “once frequented for its medicinal waters.” The spring was in the grounds afterwards belonging to a house called the Rookery, and near the house called Wellfield, on the southern side of the Common. The waters were said to be so strong that three glasses of Streatham were equivalent to nine of Epsom. Although so near London, the journey to the springs presented some dangers, as this was one of the most noted localities for footpads and highwaymen. The woods of Norwood, which came close to the Common, afforded covert and an easy means of escape. This road from London, which went on to Croydon and Brighton, had such a bad reputation that the risk of an adventure must have counterbalanced some of the health-giving properties to any nervous invalid! The lower part of the Common, near the road, is flat and open, and not particularly inviting. The charms of the top of the hill are all the more delightful, as they come as a surprise. There are fine old trees, and a wealth of fern, thorns, and bramble, and the short grass is exchanged for springy turf the moment the crest of the steep hill is reached. But by far the greatest surprise is the glorious view. Away and away over soft, hazy, blue country the eye can reach. It may or may not be true that Woolwich, Windsor, and Stanmore can be seen: nobody will care who gazes over that wide stretch of country bathed in a mysterious light, perhaps with the rays of the sun, like golden pathways from heaven, carrying the thoughts far from the prosaic villas or harrowing slums concealed at one’s feet. Only the wide expanse and the waving bracken and tangled brushwood fill the picture—while one rejoices that such a beautiful scene should be within the reach of so many of London’s toilers.

Wandsworth is among the least beautiful and the most cut-up of the commons. Large and straggling in extent, it has been so much encroached upon that roads, and houses, and railways cross it. It is narrowed to a strip in places, and all the wildness and all the old trees have gone. Some young avenues by the main road have been planted, and no more curtailments can be perpetrated, as it was acquired for the use of the public in 1871. For many years the encroachments had roused the inhabitants, and about 1760 a species of club was formed to protect the rights of the commoners. When enclosures took place, the members all subscribed and went to law, and often won their cases. The head was called the “Mayor of Garratt,” from Garratt Lane, near the Common, where a “ridiculous mock election” was held. A mob collected, and encouraged by Foote, Wilkes, and others, witty speeches were made. Foote wrote a farce called “The Mayor of Garratt,” which for some time gave the ceremony no small celebrity. The rowdyism becoming serious at the sham elections, they were suppressed in 1796. When the Common was eventually saved, it was in a bad and untidy state: quantities of gravel had been dug, and holes, some of them filled with water, were a danger; the trees had all disappeared, and the whole surface was bare and muddy. It has improved since then, but there is nothing picturesque left. The “Three Island Pond,” which is supposed to be its greatest beauty, is stiff, formal, and new-looking, with a few straggly trees growing up. Still it is safely preserved as an open space, and makes a good recreation ground.

All round London, besides the larger commons, smaller greens are to be found, which are survivals of the old village greens. They recall the time when London was a walled city, and thickly scattered round it were the little hamlets which have now been absorbed by the ever-growing, monster town.

There is little that is distinctive about them. For the most part they are simply open spaces of well-worn turf without trees. Shepherd’s Bush is one of these. Brook Green, in Hammersmith, not very far from it, has the remains of a few fine elm trees. In Fulham there are Parson’s Green and Eel Brook Common. Away in South London, Goose Green and Nunhead Green are other examples where grass is even more inconspicuous.