You may next observe the Road producing the economic effect of maintaining towns, and especially ports. A road being driven from an existing port to some inland terminus and the port later becoming less and less useful, either through the building of ships too deep for it or silting up or what not, the mere existence of the Road tends to make men cling to the port in spite of its disadvantages. They will, as a rule, from the effect of custom and of vested interest, from the attraction of the points already established on the Road, expend in the maintenance of the port more energy than would have been required to build an alternative road to some new and better port. The effect of this is very marked in Northern France. Boulogne was not only the great Roman port of the channel because it stood in the Narrows; it was also of such importance because it was in antiquity a very broad, secure, land-locked estuary, stretching over what is now all dry land up above the town three miles towards Pont-de-Briques. Centuries ago the harbour silted up, and if it had been left alone it would be hardly serviceable at all. But every effort has been made to maintain that point. Boulogne harbour has been steadily maintained artificially for centuries because the road led to it and needed it, and the alternative use of the far superior estuary of the Seine, with the corresponding growth of Havre, only came quite late in history.
The Road has the same canalizing effect where it overcomes an obstacle such as a broad river, or a mountain chain, or a belt of dense woodland. For instance, the fertile lowland fringe of South Wales and the corresponding fertile land to the east of the Severn were connected, when primitive methods alone could be used, by the bridge at Gloucester, high up the river. The lower reaches were too much for the earlier engineers, especially in the face of such a tide as runs on them. As a result the whole of that line of communications remained for 2000 years highly deflected, and only quite recently has there been some attempt at the more natural line by the piercing of the Severn tunnel.
This effect of the Road in canalizing human effort is specially marked in the case of armies. The saying “an army is tied to the road” is a truth which historians should always keep in mind. There have been great cavalry raids in history—not often of permanent effect—which marched on a broad front, almost free of roads, and dependent only upon a sufficiency of forage. They have come from the grazing grounds of Asia, as a rule, and swept over the plains of Eastern Europe; but the organized and disciplined forces which have moulded history have always of necessity followed the Road. An army is not an island. It is an organism connected by a stalk with its base and dependent on this stalk for its feeding and equipment, its passing back of its prisoners and its wounded, and all its life. All these depend upon the Road. There are even cases in history—more numerous than one might imagine—where the first creation of the Road has been due to military action alone. I believe that the United States show examples of this, especially along the border between the northern and southern states east of the Mississippi. Certainly Europe shows them in striking fashion: it was a military necessity which made the great roads linking up the stations on the Rhine with the towns of Gaul and the rest of the Empire; it was a military necessity which made the regular roads over the Alpine passes. You can hardly say that there was a commercial necessity for the great trunk road which struck the Rhine at Cologne, and which there later created the first bridge across the river. The country beyond was barbarous, and though a large number of Roman merchants penetrated it and a corresponding amount of trade was done, the main necessity for Cologne was a military necessity. Military necessity which drove the great road from the heart of Northern France to this isolated point and so opened up the wild wooded region in between.
iv
The negative effect of the Road, the effect of its breakdown, especially at the bridges and in the causeways over marshy land, is equally indisputable in human relations. We have the typical case of Sussex remaining heathen for one hundred years after the conversion of its neighbours, because the main road from the north with its causeway everywhere crossing the clay and piercing the scrub of the weald fell into decay, and because the bridge at Alfoldean broke down. It is most significant that the great battle of Ockley was fought north of this break in communications. The Danes, marching from London against the English army, could get down as far south as this, and the English army coming up from Hampshire could intercept them as far south as this, but all the Danish attack on Sussex, such as it was (and it was very slight), came from the sea.
Another very conspicuous example of the breakdown of the Road and of the political effect thereof is the chaos you get in the Balkan peninsula after the decay of the great Roman trunk roads. If the Greek Church is to-day separate from the Latin Church to the west it is due not only to the obstacle of the Pinsk Marshes in the north, but to the gradual decline in the south of the main artery between Durazzo and Constantinople. For centuries old and new Rome communicated by the great trunk road down to Brundusium and then across the narrow sea to Dyracchium and Byzantium. When that traffic began to be interrupted the contrast between the east and the west was founded and increased.
A last minor effect of the Road upon human society is the use of the Road as a boundary. That is a use, of course, which hardly ever develops in a high civilization. On the contrary, a road of its nature should run transverse to boundaries. It is built to unite towns the territories of which have boundaries naturally perpendicular to the Road. The road from Canterbury to London, for instance (the first great main road in this island), is transverse to the Darent frontier, and all the great roads from the French-speaking to the German-speaking country on this side of the Rhine are transverse to the language boundary. It is in the very function of a road to be thus transverse to political limits. But with the decay of civilization the remains of a great, well-built road lend themselves at once to the idea of a boundary. Men need something to which they can perpetually refer which will be a permanent mark and which will be indisputable. A river is thus often so chosen; sometimes, but much more rarely, a range of hills, especially where the crest is particularly steep and marked. But the Road, when the use of documents declines and when record is with difficulty maintained—the Road, especially if it has been built to endure, comes in to fulfil this artificial function. Here in England we have more examples of this than in any other part of Europe. Very often you can recover a Roman road first by noting on the map the parish boundaries running on straight lines, which are the prolongation one of the other, and the survival of a Roman road used in the Dark Ages to define a parochial limit. The Road is thus also used as a boundary not only for parishes but for states, not only for states but for realms. The Roman road to the north-west of London was part of the great boundary established between Wessex and the Danish territories of the north and east. One could quote hundreds of cases with a little research, but best of all perhaps is that of the boundary of Westminster, which dates from the heart of the Dark Ages. The northern limit of the manor was fixed by the great Roman military road which to this day survives and is the boundary of Hyde Park on the north.
THE ROAD
§ II
THE ENGLISH ROAD