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.