dancing have here a rich assortment offered
for their choice. The fine folk dance much
like others of their kind, but the small
people illustrate the poetry of motion, and
are great at saltatory improvisation. New
steps are dashed off triumphantly; there is a
sort of fancy-knitting done with the feet,
whose pattern, if taken down on paper,
might interest lady professors of the art.
Lofty leaps, displaying the muscular vigour
of the gentleman, are highly admired; but,
the best idea of the general tone of the ballet
may be formed by supposing each young
Frenchman, when dressing for the evening,
to have dropped a lump of cobbler's-wax
somewhere inside his pantaloons, which wax,
sticking there, he endeavours to dislodge by
convulsive efforts all night long, in vain.
His bit of cobbler's-wax won't shake out,
kick he never so strenuously. On Tuesday
bal champêtre again; on Wednesday, a general
rush to the forest, and a little bit of a dance
on the grass. This, with dinings, supperings,
coffee-drinking, beer and wine ditto, fireworks,
and interchanges of friendly visits—this, and
nothing else, is our ducasse.

At one end of the bower-bordered parallelogram,
where all our ducasse-balls are held
(unless rain prevents), there stands a marvellous
lime-tree, whose top has been trained
into the shape of a parrot's-cage. The birds,
its occupants, are some six or eight musicians,
who mount by a ladder to their leafy orchestra.
Thence they regale us with alternate strains
of quadrille, polka, schottische, mazurka,
varsovienne, and whatever is most in vogue.
At dusk (we begin to dance by daylight),
candles, showing about as much light as
glow-worms, glimmer amidst the branches of the
melodious tree. We then trip it by moonlight,
with the summer breeze fanning our
faces; altogether, a pretty pastoral. The
nightingale fills up the intervals of silence,
while the band takes breath, and perhaps a
glass of wine. But, this same band of
musicians proves our rank in the festal world.
Ducasses from the third magnitude downward,
are obliged to content themselves with
a single fiddler. Less they cannot have,
unless one of the company would volunteer a
series of solos on the comb. The classical
title of this single minstrel is Le Ménétrier,
from the Latin ministerium, occupation, office,
trade, whence has been concocted, in low
Latinity, ministerialis and ministerarius,
tradesman, artisan. And, as the best Latin
authors sometimes bestow the name of artifices
(workmen par excellence) on performers
on musical instruments, those persons
received, for the same reason, during the middle
ages, the name of ministeriales or ministerarii.
Their claim to the title of artists is founded
on the same idea. Thus, a musical performer
of the olden time is now a wretched scraper
on the violin.

The country above all others where the
real minstrel is still to be found, is Flanders
—only a hop, skip, and a jump from us.
The glories of the fiddler are spread far and
wide, being known in every village contained
within the circle of which his own habitation
is the centre. The ménétrier is always merry;
and yet, he is never rich. Never was a
ducasse-fiddler known to make his fortune;
he is a philosopher by trade, and often dies
in want of ordinary comforts. He is
well-received wherever he goes. He makes occasional attempts at wit, and is learned in the
scandalous chronicle of the neighbourhood,
retailing it freely without hard pressing. He
is a very eagle to spy out every secret flirtation.
All the while that he is rasping,
he notices what girl dances continually with
what young man; he watches them, as they
steal out of the ball to drink each other's
health in a cup of black coffee; and he
enjoys communicating his observations to the
youth, whom he can put in a rage by the
news. The minstrel is never a married man,
and never a young one; he must come into
the world old, if he ever does come into
it. The minstrel may be blind; sometimes
he is deaf. It is of no consequence. With
his cracked fiddle, white with rosin-dust at
top, black with grease and perspiration and
beer beneath, he earns a living, such as it is;
which does not prevent his following some
minor trade on week-days. He is a
wheelbarrow trundler, a thatcher, a turner, a
public-house keeper, or a calf-rnerchant.

It is not at all necessary for a village
minstrel to know anything of music. He
plays antediluvian tunes, always the same,
sliding over the notes in a slipshod way; and
if his first string happen to break, it is quite
out of the question for him to finish the
dance on the second. He is no one-stringed
Paganini, not he. It is fun to see him in a
select little ball, when a fiddle-string breaks.
The dancers stop, but dare not laugh in his
face, for fear he should sulk and strike work,
instead of striking-up. So, he puts on his
string again, as grave as a judge, and
re-commences at the very note where the
treacherous catgut let him down.

The fiddler's pay is variously regulated,
according to local custom. Sometimes he is
paid by the estaminet-keeper, the landlord of
the place where the ball is held. In other
cases he gets so much per dance from every
cavalier who leads out a partner; but, in the
genuine Flemish villages, it is the ladies
exclusively who pay the musician. They
come to the ball, holding in their hands a
white pocket-handkerchief, and grasping tight
the knotted end in which are concealed the
necessary two-sous pieces. Each damsel pays
once as her contribution towards the afternoon's
amusement, and it would be considered
an affront if her admirer were to offer to pay
in her stead. When the ball is of a certain
magnitude, the minstrel is accompanied by a
friend who collects the two-sous from each
young lady, as she takes her place in her