he said he could not think without the London streets.  The London taverns heard always the quaintest conversation, whether it was Ben Johnson’s at the Mermaid or Sam Johnson’s at the Cock.  Even in our own time it may be noted that the most vital and genuine humour is still written about London.  Of this type is the mild and humane irony which marks Mr. Pett Ridge’s studies of the small grey streets.  Of this type is the simple but smashing laughter of the best tales of Mr. W. W. Jacobs, telling of the smoke and sparkle of the Thames.  No; I concede that I am not a Cockney humourist.  No; I am not worthy to be.  Some time, after sad and strenuous after-lives; some time, after fierce and apocalyptic incarnations; in some strange world beyond the stars, I may become at last a Cockney humourist.  In that potential paradise I may walk among the Cockney humourists, if not an equal, at least a companion.  I may feel for a moment on my shoulder the hearty hand of Dryden and thread the labyrinths of the sweet insanity of Lamb.  But that could only be if I were not only much cleverer, but much better than I am.  Before I reach that sphere I shall have left behind, perhaps, the sphere that is inhabited by angels, and even passed that which is appropriated exclusively to the use of Yorkshiremen.

No; London is in this matter attacked upon its strongest ground.  London is the largest of the bloated modern cities; London is the smokiest; London is the dirtiest; London is, if you will, the most sombre; London is, if you will, the most miserable.  But London is certainly the most amusing and the most amused.  You may prove that we have the most tragedy; the fact remains that we have the most comedy, that we have the most farce.  We have at the very worst a splendid hypocrisy of humour.  We conceal our sorrow behind a screaming derision.  You speak of people who laugh through their tears; it is our boast that we only weep through our laughter.  There remains always this great boast, perhaps the greatest boast that is possible to human nature.  I mean the great boast that the most unhappy part of our population is also the most hilarious part.  The poor can forget that social problem which we (the moderately rich) ought never to forget.  Blessed are the poor; for they alone have not the poor always with them.  The honest poor can sometimes forget poverty.  The honest rich can never forget it.

I believe firmly in the value of all vulgar notions, especially of vulgar jokes.  When once you have got hold of a vulgar joke, you may be certain that you have got hold of a subtle and spiritual idea.  The men who made the joke saw something deep which they could not express except by something silly and emphatic.  They saw something delicate which they could only express by something indelicate.  I remember that Mr. Max Beerbohm (who has every merit except democracy) attempted to analyse the jokes at which the mob laughs.  He divided them into three