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.
My Lend.
Crush tremendous; all the art, chivalry, and beauty of Holloway and Mile End pass in dazzling procession before me. "Shouldn't you laugh if this old pier was to come down, eh? There's a tidy lot on it," observes a Blazer to a Yachting Cap. "I should 'ang on to you if it did," responds the Cap, tenderly—"we'd all gow down together!"
The pier is certainly crowded—is it strong? Don't like the idea of going down with my Drama unwritten. Shall retire—good night's rest, and then start fresh with Drama in morning.
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