"Midnight's meridian is supposed to mark

The bound twixt toil and slumber. Light and dark

Mete out the lives of mortals

In happy alternation," said my guide.

"Six hours must fleet ere Phoebus shall set wide

His glowing orient portals.

"The last loud halloo at the tavern-door

long since has driven the reckless and the poor

From misery's only haven

Forth on the chilling night. 'All out! All out!'

Less sad would fall on bibulous' souls, no doubt,

The refrain of the Raven.

"London lies shuttered close. Law's measured beat

Falls echoing down the shadow-chequered street;

A distant cab-wheel clatters;

The wastrel's drunken cry, the waif's low moan,

Reach not the ear of tired Philistia, prone,

Dreaming of other matters."

The Shadow's slow subacid speech, I knew,

Foreboded more than mirth. Downward we drew,

Silent, and all un-noted,

O'er sleeping Shopdom. Sleeping? Closer quest

Might prove it one vast Valley of Unrest

O'er which we mutely floated.

"Post-midnight peace," I said, "must fall like balm,

After the long day's turmoil, on this calm,

Close-clustering, lamp-lit city,"

"Peace?" sighed the Shadow. "She of the white dove

Is not less partial in her gifts than Love,

Or Wealth, or Worldly Pity.

"See yon close-shuttered shop! Peace broodeth there,

You deem perchance; but look within. A lair

Of midnight smugglers, stirring

At the sea's signal, scarce seems more agog.

And yet each toiler's heart lies like a log,

Sleep each tired eye is blurring.

"Feet scuttle, fingers fleet, pens work apace;

A whipt-up zeal marks every pallid face;

One voice austere, sonorous,

Chides, threatens, sometimes curses. How they flush,

Its victims silent, tame! That voice would hush

A seraph-choir in chorus.

"Strident, sardonic, stern; the harrying sound

Lashes them like a flail the long hours round,

Till to strained nerves 'twere sweeter

To silence it with one fierce passionate grip,

Than into some bland Lotos Land to slip,

And moon out life to metre.

"From early morn till midnight these poor slaves

Have 'served the public;' now, when nature craves

Rest from the strain and scurry

Of Shopdom's servitude, they still must wake

Some weary hours, though hands with fever shake

And nerves are racked with worry.

"Though the great streets are still, the shutters up,

Gas flares within, and ere they sleep or sup

These serfs of Competition

Must clean, and sort and sum. There's much to do

Behind those scenes set fair to public view

By hucksters of position.

"The shop-assistant's Sabbath has begun!

His sixteen hours long Saturday has run

Its wearing course and weary.

The last light's out, and many an aching head

At last, at last, seeks in a lonely bed

A dreamland dim and dreary.

"In roseate visions shall racked souls rejoice

Haunted by echoes of that harrying voice?

Nay, friend, uncounted numbers

Of victims to commercial strain and stress,

Seek nought more sweet than dull forgetfulness

In the short night's scant slumbers."

"Too sombre Spirit, hath the opening year

No scenes of gayer hope and gentler cheer?

Is all beneath night's curtain

In this vast city void of promise glad?

Are all the guests of midnight spectres sad,

And suffering and uncertain?"

So I addressed the Shadow. "Friend," he smiled.

"'Twas 'lurid London' that you wished 'untiled.'

Most secret things are sinister.

Innocent mirth needs no Ithuriel spear

To make its inner entity appear.

Still, to your mood I'll minister.

"Not long-drawn Labour only breaks the rest

Of London's night. Society in quest

Of Gold's sole rival, Pleasure,

Makes little of the bounds of dark and day.

Night's hours lead on a dance as glad and gay

As the old Horaes' measure.

"Look!" Such a burst of laughter shook the room

As might dispel a desert anchorite's gloom.

Flushed faces keen and clever

Contorted wildly; such mirth-moving shape

Was taken by that genial histrion's jape

As mobs are mute at never.

A long soft-lighted room, the muffled beat

On carpets soft of watchful waiters' feet

In deft attendance gliding;

A table spread with toothsome morsels, fit

For the night-feast of genius, wealth and wit,

Of a skilled chef's providing.

Goodfellowship, bonnes bouches, right pleasant tales

Of bonnes fortunes! Here a quaint cynic rails,

There an enthusiast gushes.

Gay talk flows on, not in a rolling stream,

But with the brooklet's intermittent gleam

And brisk irradiant rushes.

Side-lights from all Society shift here

Reflected in keen mot and jocund jeer,

Wild jest, and waggish whimsey.

Stagedom disrobed and Statecraft in undress,

Stars of the Art-world, pillars of the Press,

Sage solid, flÂneur flimsy,

All cross and counter here; they lounge and sup:

The fragrant smoke-cloud and the foaming cup

Tickle their eager senses.

What care these for the clock, whilst banter flows

And dainty "snacks" and toothsome herring-roes

The distant cook dispenses?

"How different these," my calm companion said,

"From the crowd yonder! These yearn not for bed

As rest from leaden labour.

The night may be far spent, the Sabbath dawns,

But here no dull brain-palsied drowser yawns

At his half-nodding neighbour.

"With wit, and wealth, and wine, the hours of night

In sombre Babylon may dispense delight.

These revellers, slumber-scorning,

Radiant and well-arrayed, will stop, and stop,

Till waiters drowse. But then, yon slaves of Shop

Must meet a different morning."

(To be continued.)