ABSTRACT
W H E N all London is at rest-when bedroom blinds are drawn down and street doors locked and chained-when lights are rarely seen but in the windows of the sick wards of hospitals, which seem the only places where any are awake-then the Haymarket is in its glory, gay and lively as a ball-room, with the gaudily-dressed multitude sauntering along its broad pavements, crowding them as on an illumination night. The gas is flaring from the shop windows, and throwing out its brilliant rays until the entire street is lit up as a stage.
