



Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
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    PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

    VOL. 98

    January 11, 1890.




UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.

    "Tres volontiers," repartit le demon. "Vous aimez les tableaux
    changeans; je veux vous contenter."

    _Le Diable Boiteux._


XVI.

  "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?
   