WHEN supper was over, the old man gave a knock upon the table with the
haft of his knife, to bid them prepare for the dance: the moment the
signal was given, the women and girls ran altogether into a back
apartment to tie up their hair,—and the young men to the door to wash
their faces, and change their sabots; and in three minutes every soul was
ready upon a little esplanade before the house to begin.—The old man and
his wife came out last, and placing me betwixt them, sat down upon a sofa
of turf by the door.
The old man had some fifty years ago been no mean performer upon the
_vielle_,—and at the age he was then of, touch’d it well enough for the
purpose. His wife sung now and then a little to the tune,—then
intermitted,—and join’d her old man again, as their children and
grand-children danced before them.
It was not till the middle of the second dance, when, from some pauses in
the movements, wherein they all seemed to look up, I fancied I could
distinguish an elevation of spirit different from that which is the cause
or the effect of simple jollity. In a word, I thought I beheld
_Religion_ mixing in the dance:—but, as I had never seen her so engaged,
I should have look’d upon it now as one of the illusions of an
imagination which is eternally misleading me, had not the old man, as
soon as the dance ended, said, that this was their constant way; and that
all his life long he had made it a rule, after supper was over, to call
out his family to dance and rejoice; believing, he said, that a cheerful
and contented mind was the best sort of thanks to heaven that an
illiterate peasant could pay,—
Or a learned prelate either, said I.