Holloway.
Bells. Stream of people, looking good, in tall hats and best things, going inland—unregenerate stream, in tweeds, making for sands. Salvation Army, with fervent but tactless drum. Sunday not a day for Nautical Drama. Beach, "Will I take a tract?" Hate being rude, so accept.... I have gone a hundred yards, and I have fourteen tracts—almost enough to start distributing on my own account.
Evening.—Sacred Music. That is, I go to pier when Military Band is playing. Band certainly broad in its views—I find them performing an unmistakable polka. There are sacred dances, I know, in Oratorios—but surely not polkas? As they follow it up with Faust, and the Jeunesse Dorée Valse, I realise that I am on the secular, or Trafalgar Pier—it is Waterloo Pier that has the Sacred Band.
