That last burst of sincerity, that superb scorn of antiquarian sentiment, overwhelmed me finally. I closed my eyes in a kind of ecstasy. My friend (who was helping me to lean on the gate) asked me with some curiosity what I was doing.
"My dear fellow," I said, with emotion, "I am bidding farewell to forty-three hansom cabmen."
"Well," he said, "I suppose they would think this county rather outside the radius."
"Oh, my friend," I cried brokenly, "how beautiful London is! Why do they only write poetry about the country? I could turn every lyric cry into Cockney.
- "'My heart leaps up when I behold
- A sky-sign in the sky,'
"as I observed in a volume which is too little read, founded on the older English poets. You never saw my 'Golden Treasury Regilded; or, The Classics Made Cockney'--it contained some fine lines.
- "'0 Wild West End, thou breath of London's being,'
"or the reminiscence of Keats, beginning
- "'City of smuts and mellow fogfulness.';
"I have written many such lines on the beauty of London; yet I never realized that London was
