The pleasantest hour of my day is the hour about midnight. It is then that I leave the heart of Fleet Street behind me, jump on to the last bus bound for a distant suburb, and commandeer the back corner seat. If the back seat is not vacant I sit as near as I can and watch the enemy who possesses it with a eye. When he rises I on the like a kestrel on its . I love the back seat, not only because it is the most comfortable, but also because it gives you the sense of in the midst of a crowd, which is one of the most enjoyable sensations I know. To see, and not be seen, to watch the human comedy unobserved, save by the friendly stars who look down very searchingly but never blab, to have the advantages of both solitude and society in one breath, as it were—this is my idea of .  
But most of all I love the back seat on such a night as last night, when the crescent moon is sailing high in a cloudless sky and making all the earth a wonder of romance. The day is of the earth, "the huge and thoughtful night" when no moon is seen and the blaze in unimaginable space is of the eternal; but here in this magic of the moon where night and day are is the realm of romance. You may wander all day in the woods and never catch a glimpse of Tristan and Iseult coming down the or hear an echo of Hood's horn; but walk in the beech woods by moonlight and every shadow will have its mystery and will talk to you of the legends of long ago.
 
That is why Sir Walter Scott had such a passion for "Cumnor Hall." "After the labours of the day were over," said Irving, "we often walked in the meadows, especially in the moonlight nights; and he seemed never weary of repeating the first :
 
The dews of summer night did fall—
    The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,
    And many an oak that stood ."
There you have the key to all the world of Sir Walter. He was the King of the Moonlighters. He was a man who would have been my most rival on the midnight bus. He would have wanted the back seat, I know, and there he would have sat and chanted "Cumnor Hall" to himself and watched the moonlight the streets to poetry and turning every suburban garden into a mystery.
 
There are, of course, quite and even wicked people who love "a shiny night." There is, for example, the gentleman from "famous Lincolnshire" whose refrain is:
 
Oh, 'tis my delight
On a shiny night,
In the season of the year.
I love his song because it is about the moonlight, and I am not sure that I am much by the fact that he liked the shiny night because he was a poacher. I never could affect any indignation about poachers. I suspect that I rather like them. Anyhow, there is no stanza of that jolly song which I sing with more than:
 
Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire,
Success to every poach............