l-bitten
Bacchanalians offer to fight one another, and then decide to kiss. The
babble of talk and laughter becomes a fury; the radiant maidens and the
bold boys become the eternal tragedy. Sometimes there is a dance, and
the empurpled girls are "taken round" by their masterful squires, the
steps of the dance involving much swirling of green, violet, pink, and
azure petticoats.

But afar in the Forest there is Sabbath peace, the sound of far bells,
the cry of the thrush, the holy pattering of leaves. The beeches,
meeting aloft and entwining, fling the light and the spirit of the
cathedral to the mossy floors. Here is purity and humanity. The air
beats freshly on the face. Away in the soft blue distance is a shadowy
suggestion of rolling country, the near fields shimmering under the
sweet, hot sky of twilight, and the distant uplands telling of calm and
deep peace in other places. Truly a court of love, and truly loved by
those who, for an hour or so, dwell in it. Tread lightly, you that pass.
It may move you to mirth, but there is nothing mirthful here; only the
eternal sorrow and the eternal joy. Perchance you do not make love in
this way; but love is love.... Under every brooding oak recline the rapt
couples, snatching their moments in this velvety green. Drowsy fragrance
is everywhere. The quiet breeze disorders stray ringlets, and sometimes
light laughter is carried sleepily to sleepy ears. Love, says an old
Malayan chanty which I learned at West India Dock--Love is kind to the
least of men. God will it so!

But if it be winter, then the Londoner is badly hit on Sundays. The
cafes and bars are miserable, deserted by their habitues and full only
of stragglers from the lost parts, who have wandered here unknowingly.
The waiters are off their form. They know their Sunday evening clientele
and they despise it; it is not the real thing. The band is off its form.
The kitchen is off its form. It is Sunday.

There are no shows of any kind, unless it be some "private performance"
of the Stage Society, for which tickets have to be purchased in the
week. Certainly there are, in some of the West End and most of the
suburban halls, the concerts of the National Sunday League, but the
orchestras and the singers are really not of a kind to attract the
musical temperament. The orchestras play those hackneyed bits of Wagner
and Tchaikowsky and Rossini of which all the world must be everlastingly
sick, and the singers sing those ti