"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, _flaneur_ 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.