The Strand was a game path once just at the edge of the crumbling river bank, where the flints went rolling down unto the Thames. Roan hairy elephants grazed there, loitering on their way to water in Fleet Ditch. Later, along that pathway of the Mammoth, tame kine went lowing homeward of an evening to the Brython's stockaded village on Tower Hill. Afterwards respectable suburban Romans built their villas there outside the walls of Augusta. A thousand years later still the Strand was a stable lane behind the Thames-side palaces of the Plantagenets. Then the mews became a cobbled Georgian street linking the olden cities of London and Westminster, and to-day it is the main artery of a world capital.

As a thoroughfare it may not claim comparison with the Grand Canal in Venice or the exquisite Sierpes of old Seville. It is not, like Princes Street in Edinburgh, part of a splendid landscape. It lacks the spaciousness and verdure of Unter den Linden, the endless perspective of the Nevski, the glittering wealth of the Rue de la Paix, the astounding uproar of abysmal Broadway. Many a provincial thoroughfare, as the Apollo Bunder in Bombay, or Collins Street in Melbourne, would put the Strand to shame; yet, second to the Via Dolorosa, it is a street of memories.

For if the Strand might speak it would tell us about Queen Boadicea in her scythed chariot, perhaps of St. Paul as a ship's passenger from Cadiz, of the English Emperor Hadrian on his way to Rome, of Richard Lionheart home from captivity, the Black Prince leading John of France his prisoner of war, of Henry V returning thanks for Agincourt, of Cabot and Columbus, Erasmus, Holbein, of Peter the Great and Handel and Voltaire, of Cochrane and Mazzini the Liberators, of Drake and Shakespeare, Milton, Newton, Darwin, Purcell, of Nelson and Wellington, of Gordon and Allenby, of ever so many saints, heroes, conquerors and statesmen, discoverers, explorers, adventurers, pioneers, in every field of service. How the old pavements echo to the tramp of horsemen! Processions march here of men from the ends of the Earth, bringing the glory with them of young free Dominions, hundreds of feudatory kingdoms, barbaric states in tutelage, and savage legions armed in the cause of Peace. So in this olden highway it is very pleasant on a sunny day to watch the passing traffic when one ought to be at work. And well may we envy fellows like Bill Fright, who saw the Strand in October, 1835, when still the shop windows were bowed with little panes of glass, and had a couple of tallow dips of an evening to light up the modest stock; when still men wore the dress becoming to their trade; big cargo wagons, drawn by teams of ten, came rumbling over the cobbles; and the gay mail coaches with a blare of horns set forth for Portsmouth or for Liverpool.

There goes Tittlebat Titmouse, Esquire, with little mousy features inflamed with drink, and bright green driving-gloves, perched in his high gig. Here's Mr. Jorrocks, grocer and sportsman, attended by James Pigg, jostling his way to buy a "hoss" at Aldridge's. Mr. Pickwick, author of Observations on Tadpoles in the Hampstead Ponds, comes beaming past us, escorted by his colleagues the poet Snodgrass, the sportsman Winkle, and the loving Tupman. Time has enlarged their waistcoats since the day, now seventeen years ago, when they set forth upon their memorable journey to observe mankind. This is the anniversary, and they are on their way to the Adelphi Hotel, to dine most bountifully. Mr. Paul Pry, who lives close by at 11 Adam Street, may possibly look in, and say, with one eye round the corner of the door, "I hope I don't intrude!"

Here comes the Iron Duke, on an Arab whose dam had carried him at Waterloo. He has a seat in the saddle, this erstwhile flogging martinet, and mellow tyrant. He is attended by a mounted servant.

There is Mr. Pendennis, bound from the Temple to the Courts at Westminster; and behind him is Mr. Peter Simple, midshipman, guided by Boatswain Chucks, on his way to report at the Admiralty.

Here are two or three more notables, the Count d'Orsay, and young Mr. Disraeli the eminent novelist. What a pair of fops! Mr. Carlyle is slouching past, the unkempt, observant historian of the French Revolution, watching for another such upheaval here in England. Watch here a day or two and one might see Turner the painter, whose father's barber shop is just round the corner, Mr. Dickens, Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Tennyson, and other blithe young fellows whose troubles are still to come.

The vision fades, and one can only see a solitary figure leaning against a post, a bareheaded youngster in a ragged jersey and sea boots, Bill Fright, whose barge is laden down beside the Fox, ready to clear with the ebb. So we must follow him as he slouches down Ivy Lane to the barge.

V

The barge Polly Phemus belonged to Mr. Thomas Fright the publican, who found her a convenience for smuggling schnapps and cognac from certain caverns at Epple Bay upriver to his cellars. Mr. James Fright his brother was registered as master, but if entrusted with the cash for port dues would invest the same in gin for his own personal comfort. Now Mrs. Fright kept the cash account with Quakerish precision, and an excessive frankness, making such entries as "Bribe to peeler Addock, 2d.; squaring Mr. Wimpole, the Customs Officer, 2/—; to Mr. Dyker for brandy smuggled, 206/-2d."