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the rule of spiritual and intellectual forces. In a world of rapidly shifting physical values, the only safe national ground is the average individual's reliance on character as his last and surest refuge against the assaults of fortune and circumstance. Whatever happens to British ships, British men and women will remain. If science should be so fortunate as to light upon the means to ensure an enormous release of human effort for human ends, they will not only be relieved of an immense strain on their physical resources, but will be enriched by a hitherto undreamt of capacity to advance civilization, instead of keeping it merely in being, with a constant tendency to relapse. Probably what attracts most men to admire war-ships and sailors is the thought and the actual vision, which thousands of us have realized of late, of the high degree of skill, training, physical wellbeing, and cheerful acceptance of great dangers, which a well-conducted naval service involves. The soldier is also popular; but he does not embody the idea of adaptability, of nimble, allround capacity and practical sense, which we identify with the "handy man." It is consoling to think of this power of creating fine character even out of unpromising material. But the process gets more costly and less remunerative every year. Methods and machinery are changed every few weeks, till the national scrap-heap mounts heaven-high.

Equally wasteful is the dealing with

The Nation.

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the human element. Some of it is demoralized or thrown away in peace, and much of the rest the nation is bound to devote to death and oblivion in war. In civil life, on the other hand, the net gain is far greater, the waste much less serious. The aims, moral in themselves, stimulate all the good qualities excited by war, where the aims are immoral. Civil life on dry land makes almost as much demand on physical courage as life on a war-ship, and the merchant service and the fishing industry exact a greater toll of their workers than the Navy, whose normal functions are mainly peaceful. Horse-keepers, enginedrivers and guards, miners, chauffeurs, all pursue more or less dangerous lives, and usually meet accidents and sudden perils with calm. Men will die in stopping a runaway horse, or in rescuing a brother-worker from fire-damp, or in sucking poison from a diphtheritic throat, from a truer voluntary impulse than drives them to die on a battleground or be roasted in a gun-turret on a "Dreadnought." In support of the first kind of action society has the immense advantage that all the force of its accepted religions and pieties freely rallies to it and applauds it, and is joined by the instinctive voice within. Whereas, in support of the latter only man's sophisticated conscience can yield full approval, while a state of strife is set up between his ideals and his passions, which depraves the one and gives a furious and uncontrolled power to the other.

COUNTRY

There is a prevalent opinion that English country people are not dancIt is assumed, because we hear nothing in country places of national figure- and step-dancing that love for

ers.

DANCING.

this national pastime has left the people. There is a disposition to class together folk-dancing and folk-singing,that is to say, the folk products of other countries are cultivated with

enthusiasm, while the existence of native art at home is ignored or denied outright; indeed, it might be supposed that the English peasant was more devoid of the smallest artistic sense than are his fellows in any other country of the world, except savages.

In reality the true English countryman is a cheerful person, however difficult it may be for the unsympathetic or the severely critical to find out in which direction he likes to take his diversion. A great many highly educated people have not yet learned that it is possible to be very well amused while you are sitting still and doing nothing obvious. It is not their way of enjoyment, and they refuse to believe that any one else can be happy in the circumstances, which is rather unintelligent of them, because it is a positive fact that some of our fellowBritons are not happy unless they have a grievance; and yet there are those who deplore this quality in their neighbors, being apparently incapable of understanding that to go about looking miserable may be somebody else's , peculiar way of enjoying himself.

That, at any rate, is not the WestCountryman's way, and it is in the West and the North that the most truly national type of English peasant is to be found. There are certain national arts, notably folk-poetry and folk-music, which survive in greater strength and bulk in these parts than in all the rest of England put together. Folkpoetry and folk-music may be extinguished by the nearness of large towns. Near London we should expect native arts to be overpowered by the artificial products of the great city, so that a love of dancing among the people in or near London might be the result of London influence. Streetarabs dance, and often dance well, though untaught, to barrel-organs. They have seen dancing in pantomime and music-hall, and imitate it nat

urally; and that in itself goes far to prove that the dancing instinct is natural in "the masses," and comes out at the first chance. But in Somersetshire, which is one of the remotest parts of England, the country people are very often excellent dancers, and that in villages which have little traffic with great towns. Nor is it the case that they see much dancing in the homes of the country gentry, for in many villages there is only the manor house and the parsonage, and very often no dancing at all in either. The fact is that the love of dancing is deep rooted in the English countryman, and it comes out willy-nilly when he gets a chance. But he dances modern dances because the tradition of others is lacking. Step-dancing of an intricate kind was kept up in Somerset until the rise of the present generation, and still lasts here and there; but since it went on mostly in bars and taprooms, where the female element was lacking, it was not carried into family life as were the old songs. Also it was difficult to learn; but the Somerset people learn carefully all the newest dances, although they do not often know "Sir Roger de Coverley." Their dancing is generally very correct, and slow to a degree bewildering to those not accustomed to their measure. But country manners are very decorous, and romping is not allowed in dancing; and though the barn-dance in Somerset assumes the air of a minuet in reduced circumstances, the awful spectacle of the Lancers, as danced in some ballrooms, is never seen here.

In a very few parts of England, and by a very few persons, the old English traditional dances have been preserved in full life and vigor. And the point to remark is that in those places where the Morris-dance is revived the country people, most particularly the children, fall in at once with the spirit of the dance, the swing and stamp of

it. These English country dances are a variant of the dances known to almost all European nationalities. The steps in the Morris are the same as in the Irish, Scottish, and Norwegian country dances: feet crossed and lifted in intricate and graceful steps, high jumping, quick and slow stepping, measure and figure performed by the "side" all together. The rhythm of the dance is impossible to miss, accentuated as it is by the bells on stamping feet and clapping hands. That makes the outline of the dance, and the jigging tune that is inseparable from the movements seems to restrain its course, while the dancing in sides keeps the feeling of community throughout.

Dancing, like other art, is the outcome of strong feeling, and all primitive dancing is mimetic, a game of war or a game of some other powerful interest. These games are seen best today in the dances of savage races,-the splendid war-dances of the Zulus (inseparable from music, as are all high forms of dancing), and the lower dances of baser races. Religion had a great deal to do with the origin of dancing. It inspired much of the beautiful choral dances of the Greeks, as it inspires yet the ecstasy of the whirling Dervish. It matters little whether these English dances are really a survival of the old mimic warfare between pretended Moor and Christian, a game of war with all the malice knocked out of it. What does matter is the survival of the game-feeling in them, which makes their performance a true delight to the everlasting child that stays inside most of us, however old we grow. Children take so naturally to these dances that they hardly need teaching; they fall in at once with the swing of step and figure, because the dominating feeling of the Morris-dance is the natural healthy man's delight in life. Nature

has given us powerful feelings, and art cannot exist without them. And within the delightful restraint of rhythm and measure the primitive art of the Morris-dances represents in mimicry bean-setting in spring (which is nothing less than the immemorially ancient pagan invocation of the earthspirit), hunting and the excitement of the chase, fisticuffs, single-stick, quarterstaff, or even the stamping of carthorses "with Jockey to the Fair."

Morris-dancing is invaluable as physical training for children. It is impossible for them not to learn the exact value of time-beats, because to keep the dance going the time must be perfect. And the quick jumping steps are a splendid training for balancing the body. Children learn easily and readily because the spirit of the dance inspires them without mental effort. How necessary such inspiration is in the training of children any one can judge who has ever watched the heavy, timeless jump of a small, slow country school drilling. Feet and brains do not work together, and the class jumps all at once, but reaches the ground again at a dozen different times. A child's brain must be overworked unless its small reasoningpower is helped by external inspiration such as this of the dance-swing.

Untaught children take more quickly to the Morris-step than those who have learned the modern fashion of glide and slide. And whether Morris-dancing is actually graceful depends much on the dancer. That it may be so any one can imagine who knows Highland dancing. "Bacco-Pipes" is a humble relation of the sword-dance, and that its origin certainly was a triumph over conquered foes is a conviction that grows upon the performer, measuring his steps across the pipe-stems to the quaint jigging tune. The modern dance has gained in grace and intricacy and refinement of many kinds, but it is

a sophisticated beauty. It has lost something of the spring and freshness of the earlier passion; it has lost most of the game-feeling that keeps the heart of youth in the Morris-dance. Morris-dancing should be taught us first when we are children, and the The Spectator.

dances of elegance should come second. Dancing, like all other arts, clears the soul; the glorious company of the Apostles, says a Father of the Church, praise their Maker in everlasting dance.

THE SEASIDE LIFE OF FRANCE.

With the exception of a holiday spent during the summer in one of the many towns and villages scattered along the coast, few Englishmen know anything about the seaside life of France, or of the habits and superstitions of the people; and yet they are even now a distinct race with an heroic past, great traditions, and unique customs. As early as the thirteenth century these simple and hardy sailors carried on an enormous trade. Their fleets traversed every sea. One captured the Canaries, another merchant squadron sailed up the Tagus and bearded the King of Portugal in his capital. They also claim to have sailed round the Cape of Good Hope before the passage was discovered by the Portuguese; but if this was the case they kept the secret so well that they lost the credit of it. It was they who opened the fur trade in Canada and established a European colony in Senegal; and even now the men travel to the uttermost parts of the earth, and the women take their full share in the varied life of the great seaport towns and little fishing-villages of the country. Both sexes still retain the characteristics of many centuries ago, and it is only by penetrating into their quaint villages that an insight can be gained into their manners and customs, for each little fishing-village has its own traditions and many of them are deeply interesting. The influence

of the sea, the constant nearness of death, the grandeur of Nature in all her moods which is ever before the fisherfolk, probably account for the difference in their character from the people in other parts of the country.

The fishermen of Northern France are stern, silent, and most extraordinarily superstitious. Many of them still retain their faith in gnomes and fairies, and they are convinced that a great disaster is sure to befall him who forgets to cross himself with holy water on rising in the morning. No one of their number attempts to put to sea on the Jour des Morts (All Souls' Day). Their comrades who have perished during the year are in their minds and this reacts upon the imagination, for they allege that ships and ghosts appear and vanish in the most startling manner. A religious service precedes every important event in their lives; no fishermen would dream of putting out to sea in a boat which had not been baptized, and their little churches, scattered all along the coast, are rarely without worshippers, praying for the safety of those at sea and for good hauls of fish. The harbor pilots are important personages in the seaside life of France. They have seen much of the world in their wanderings, and have generally collected a wonderful store of miscellaneous information. Being Government servants they are thoroughly reliable char

acters, and are the most moral of the whole seafaring class. On the return of a boat from any distant part the pilot goes to meet her. Etiquette forbids his speaking to anyone on board before the captain, to whom he relates everything that has happened during the boat's absence from home. As the men have often been away for several months the excitement to hear the news among the crew is intense.

Besides sailing to the uttermost parts of the earth in pursuit of cod, herring, and mackerel, the French do a large trade with the fish in their own waters. Of these there is a great number, including two sorts of skate, mackerel, soles, turbot, brill, plaice, flounders, bream, and oysters. There are three classes of fisherfolk in Northern France. Some of the men have their own boats, and they hire what assistance they require, buy their own nets, find their own bait, etc.; others hire a boat between them and each man gets so much, while the rest goes to the owner; the third class are too poor to do anything but sell their services. The boats vary in size from five to fifty tons, and generally nine men form a crew. The brotherhood existing among them extends beyond death. The widow of one of their number has a right to send out her nets with the boat to which her husband belonged, and her share of what is caught is scrupulously handed over to her. The women are more remarkable than the men, and they are far better educated. It is they who drag the boats in and out of the little harbors, and who sell the fish in the markets. They are thus brought into contact with the peoples and civilizations of all countries, and no class of women in Europe is so emancipated. They are strong and robust, and their outdoor life and masculine habits-for they belong to the sea as much as do their menfolkharden their bodies, at the same time

giving them a taste for all masculine pursuits and pleasures. They rarely

quarrel with their husbands: indeed, the latter would fare badly did they attempt coercion or ill-treatment in any shape or form, for the women are taller than they are and quite as strong; so the "mere men" of the French coast prefer to keep their skins whole, and treat their wives as "jolly good fellows," which is exactly what they are. They sing their songs and enjoy their glass of cider with the best of their menfolk. Every Saturday night, when the earnings of the week are divided, all contribute to a sumptuous repast of fish and eggs, with plenty of cider. These functions would be considered dreary festivities among the same class in England; for however much they enjoy themselves there is a certain solemnity in all their pleasures. They rarely dance and when they do it is a stately measure, while one of the party sings a song. All their annals are tinged with melancholy.

The commercial system established in the large fishing-towns of Northern France is of a very elaborate and intricate character. As soon as the boats come in and the fish are landed, they are generally sold outright to the ècoreur, the agent between the fisherman and the merchant, who pays the fisherman at once, deducting sometimes as much as 5 per cent. for his services; but he takes all risks and suffers the loss in case of a bad sale. The ècoreur, in his turn, sells the fish to the mareyeur, the merchant who provides the baskets and packs and forwards them to Paris and other large towns; he also pays the carriage and the town duties and fees to the market crier. It is he who has to bear the loss of the fish if it arrives in bad condition and is intercepted by the police. In many parts of the coast the fishing is lazily prosecuted, for there is no di

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