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CHAPTER XIII

Seville of To-day

'To have seen real doñas with comb and mantle, real caballeros with cloak and cigar, real Spanish barbers lathering out of brass basins, and to have heard guitars upon the balconies.' – Thackeray, Cornhill to Cairo.

'MANY monuments, fine religious processions, splendid bull fights, and not much business,' was the pithy description of modern Seville given to me by an intelligent Basque señora, living in the Province of Santander. The picture is a good one. As to the monuments, we have seen that the city abounds with them. But it is not only the historic buildings, associated with the Romans, Goths, Berbers and Almohades, that lend the fascination of antiquity to Seville. The Andalusian features, the manners, the speech, the domestic habits, the music, songs and dances of the people remind us hourly, while in the city, of the Seville of a thousand years ago.

A spell of Orientalism, strange and seductive, comes upon the stranger, as he sits on the marble benches under the palms in the Plaza de San Fernando, watching the olive-skinned chicos at their evening pastime of mimic bull-fighting, or dancing, with quaint, slow movement of the feet and much swaying of the body, to a semi-barbaric accompaniment of clapping hands and a low chanting. The gaunt mules, with their Arabesque wool trappings and panniers, that pass slowly by, the water-sellers in their white garments and hemp-soled shoes, and the women with their black lace mantillas, which must surely be a survival of the Mohammedan veil, all serve to impress one with their suggestion of Moorish influence.

Electric lights and electric tramcars scarcely mar the charming illusions of the Oriental and the mediæval in the Seville of to-day. The tokens of modernity are subservient; they do not jar continually as in Madrid, perhaps the most commonplace of Spanish cities. In Seville you cannot forget the Moriscoes, and the part they played in the making of the city, the memories of Christopher Columbus, the art of Velazquez and Murillo, the romances of Cervantes, and the traditions of the Mother Church of Christendom. Every step causes reflection upon the past. You are carried back to the Middle Ages from the ringing of matin bells till the midnight cry of the watchman.

The costume of the Sevillian caballero– and remember that every man in Spain is a cavalier – has suffered, no doubt, in picturesqueness since the time of Don Quixote. But there is a real grace and a romantic charm in the winter capa, flung upon the shoulders, with one of its plenteous folds muffling the mouth, and another thrown back to show the gorgeous lining of amber, green, or crimson. One looks for the point of a scabbard, containing a good Toledan blade, below the cloak. It is not there, though the practice of carrying weapons still survives everywhere in the Peninsula.

Once only have I seen the sword carried by a civilian in Spain. Travelling from Córdova to Toledo by rail, I had as companion a young man who had provided himself with a cutlass and a revolver, in case of assault by robbers. The sword was thrust through the straps of his bag. Revolvers are frequently worn on a belt under the coat, and most of the working class carry the navaja, a knife with a long blade, a sharp edge, and a keen point.

There is, however, no need for the traveller to provide himself with a six-shooter or a dagger; indeed, the revolver hung at the head of the bed, as I have seen it in a Seville hotel, is not only superfluous, but the mere possession of arms is apt to cause surmises as to the valuables carried by the armed stranger, and may lead to the pilfering of his portmanteau.

The custom of going about armed is just one of those mediæval usages that still prevail in spite of the suppression of brigandage and the protection of the railway trains and stations by the vigilant, well-trained and courteous Civil Guards. Spaniards are conservative; they cling to practices that are no longer necessary, and the carrying of knives and pistols is one of those quixotic characteristics of the race, which will probably survive for several generations. As a matter of fact, the stranger in Seville is as safe, to say the least, as he is in London. The species Hooligan is unknown in Spain, though, of course, there are thieves in the country as in every other quarter of Christendom throughout the globe. The navaja is never worn and used ostentatiously. It is the weapon of the criminal population and the disreputable, and it is too often drawn in street broils and for vendetta purposes.

It is not necessary that I should caution the visitor against wandering alone, after dark, in the low streets of the city, nor warn him that it is risky to engage professional guides, who are not well known for honesty, and recommended by one of the proprietors of the better-class hotels. I do not wish to alarm the timid traveller. One should point out, however, that highway robberies do occasionally occur in the country districts.

Two years ago, in the neighbourhood of Granada, a party of travellers found themselves and the guides surrounded by ruffians on a mountain-side, and were submitted to a complete rifling of their pockets before they were allowed to proceed on their way. A friend of mine, an English artist, was one of the party. You are frequently told in Spain that brigandage has been entirely suppressed. It is quite true that the Civil Guards have almost exterminated the organised bands of brigands that used to infest the lonelier roads of the country. But, here and there, as in Galicia, robbers sometimes work in small parties on the high roads, after dark. In Seville, however, one may feel as secure as in any other continental city. The average Andalusian is honest. Railway porters, cabmen, and hotel servants expect a propina or 'tip'; but they are seldom exacting, and rarely addicted to pilfering. The propina is a national institution; but a small gratuity is, as a rule, gratefully received, and I have met porters and others who have refused a fee for their assistance. Railway servants and hotel waiters are so poorly paid in Spain that they rely largely for their living upon the generosity of travellers. There is, however, a protest afloat against the propina, and a society has been formed in Madrid to combat the custom of giving 'tips.'

The smart or fashionable life of Seville may be studied, after five in the evening in the warm months, in the narrow central thoroughfare called Sierpes, or in the drives of the beautiful gardens bordering the Guadalquivir. The Calle de Sierpes signifies in English the street of the serpents. It is a street for foot passengers only, with many cafés, wine bars, nick-nack stores, and superior hatters', tailors' and tobacconists' shops. In this quarter ladies will find a fine array of fans, mantillas and showy Andalusian shawls. Some of these articles bear the label 'made in Austria.' The shawls worn by the majas, or Sevillian smart dames, and maidens of the middle and working class, are sometimes very beautiful. Yellow is a favourite hue, as it accords with the black which is universally worn by the women of southern Spain.

The majo costume, as 'sported' by the dandies of Sierpes, is correctly made up of a wide-brimmed brown or white felt hat, a shirt with a frilled front, and diamond or paste studs, a low waistcoat, or broad silk band around the middle, a short coat, resembling an Eton jacket, and trousers cut exceedingly tight across the hips. A majo affects the dress and conversation of his ideal, the bull-fighter. He favours the tightest, thin-soled, pointed brown shoes, crops his hair, shaves his cheeks and chin clean, walks with a self-consciousness, and ogles and bandies repartee whenever he passes a maja. The loungers of Sierpes exhibit more or less amused interest in the English or American lady visitors. Their hats are a wonder to them; their serviceable travelling dresses appear severely plain, their coats masculine in fashion, and their shoes short, broad, and absurdly low in the heel.

How different is the guise and demeanour of the Spanish señora! If she is of the upper rank of society, she may wear a Parisian hat and a dress in the English style; but her slow, erect and graceful walk proclaim her an Andalusian. She will not start and seem insulted when a man stares her full in the face, smiles, and exclaims: 'How lovely you are! Blessed be the mother who bore you!' A parting of the lips, perhaps a slight flush, show that she is pleased when the gallant turns to gaze at her.

So much has been sung and written about the loveliness of the Sevillian doñas that I may perhaps be taken to task if I do not join in the rapturous chorus. The beauty of the Andalusian women does not startle one immediately upon setting foot in Seville. It seems to me to be a charm that needs comprehension. Undoubtedly you may see a proportion of handsome faces among the ladies in the evening parade in the park, on the racecourse, at the bull fights, and in the theatres. If you expect to find that every other woman in Seville is a belle – well, I think you will be disappointed.

'If Shakespeare is right in saying that there is no author in the world "teaches such beauty as a woman's eyes," then Andalusia easily leads the world in personal beauty.' So writes Mr. Henry T. Finck, in his Romantic Love and Personal Beauty. Byron comments in the same strain, and so does Blanco White, not to mention other authors. Perhaps Mr. G. P. Lathrop's description of the girls of the Seville tobacco factory may, by reason of its dispassionateness, be accepted as a fair estimate. In Spanish Vistas, Mr. Lathrop writes: 'Some of them had a spendthrift common sort of beauty, which, owing to their southern vivacity and fine physique, had the air of being more than it really was… The beauty of these Carmens has certainly been exaggerated. It may be remarked here that, as an offset to occasional disappointment arising from such exaggerations, all Spanish women walk with astonishing gracefulness, and natural and elastic step, and that it is their chief advantage over women of other nations.'

The opinion of Washington Irving on the charms of the Seville fair may perhaps explain my qualification that the graces do not make a sudden and arresting appeal, but require reflection and comprehension, like many interesting works of art. Washington Irving says: 'There are beautiful women in Seville as … there are in all other great cities; but do not, my worthy and inquiring friend, expect a perfect beauty to be staring you in the face at every turn, or you will be awfully disappointed… I am convinced the great fascination of Spanish women arises from their natural talent, their fire and soul, which beam through their dark and flashing eyes, and kindle up their whole countenance in the course of an interesting conversation. As I have had but few opportunities of judging them in this way, I can only criticise them with the eye of a sauntering observer. It is like judging of a fountain when it is not in play, or a fire when it lies dormant and neither flames nor sparkles.'

A true appreciation of the Sevillian dame is only possible to such as possess the wit to understand the quality known as sal or 'salt.' Andalusian sal has a flavour of its own. It is made up of persiflage and the quality called 'smartness.' Sal is more esteemed than beauty in a woman; it is more fascinating than physical comeliness. 'The Andalusian women,' writes the author of Costumbres Andaluzas, 'has on her lips all the salt of the foam of two seas.' … The woman of Andalusia 'is frank, passionate, loving or hating without taking the trouble to dissemble her sentiments.' She is 'life, light, fire'; she 'is beauty illumined by the torch of Paradise,' etc. Such is the strain of Spanish gallantry.

In the old days the ardent lover was wont to beat himself beneath a maiden's window, until the blood trickled down his back. Nowadays, the amorous cavalier waits below the casement, and when he catches a glimpse of the object of his devotion, exclaims: 'Your beauty ravishes me! Your eyes burn into my soul!'

The peculiarly guarded life of the young Spanish woman, which is in part a relic of Orientalism, and in part traceable to her religion, forces her to develop ingenuity in attracting an admirer, and in her means of communicating with him.

Mr. Lathrop, in his Spanish Vistas, says that the beggars around Seville Cathedral are sometimes the bearers of love letters to the ladies who attend the services and go to confession. A piece of silver is dropped into the mendicant's dirty palm, and a little note is transferred to the señorita's hand. And with eyes fixed modestly upon the ground, the maiden steps out of the portal of the sacred building, clutching the tender missive which she burns to read. In all countries stealthy courtship has its charm and romance for lovers; and in Spain the zest of wooing is quickened by the devices employed for clandestine assignations, and the secret conveying of gifts and letters from one lover to another. Our forthright British mode of love-making might appear almost barbarous to an Andalusian girl.

The women of Southern Spain are short, and they incline to stoutness. Mr. Finck says that sexual selection 'is evolving the petite brunette as the ideal of womanhood,' and that 'the perfected woman of the millennium will resemble the Andalusian brunette, not only in complexion, hair, eyes, gait, and tapering plumpness of figure, but also in stature.'

Among the men of Seville one sees many slim, lissome, well-proportioned figures of medium height. Some of the majos of Sierpes are of this type, and among the working class there are many good-looking, clean-limbed men. The masculine physiognomies impress me as being much more varied in contour and more expressive than those of the women. Faces that might be English are not uncommon among the men of Seville. But the true Andalusian features are distinctive, and have an Arab cast. The hair is dark, black or brown, and the skin olive or tawny. There is an unshaven look about many of the middle-class men. A majo who dresses in the height of fashion will often go out to parade the streets with a three days' beard on his chin. But his hands will be scrupulously washed several times a day, and the finger nails will be carefully trimmed and polished.

To see Sevillian society out of doors, go to the Parque Maria Luisa and the adjoining Paseo de las Delicias about five in the afternoon. This is the fashionable promenade, and here the élite of the city drive in open carriages daily. The costumes of the señoras are varied and stylish. Some of the ladies wear English gowns and hats, and one sees a few of the latest Paris fashions in dresses. But the majority have not discarded the mantilla of black or white lace, and the fan is in every hand. A 'smart turn-out' is a sort of four-wheeled dogcart, drawn by four mules, with bells, and gay worsted ear-caps and worked bridles. The servants are dressed in London livery, the landaus are of French or English make, and many fine horses may be seen. Caballeros ride upon prancing nags. Under the palms and orange trees there are seats filled with loungers, the women fanning themselves, the men smoking cigars or cigarettes. None but foreigners smoke a pipe in the streets of Seville. A majo would not be guilty of such vulgarity.

Beneath the odorous orange trees, where innumerable nightingales warble, one may watch the afternoon procession of carriages and pedestrians. A breeze blows from the wide Guadalquivir. It is cool by the ornamental water, where roses and camellias are rife. The blue uniform of an officer, the white duck trousers of a dandy, the sunshades of the ladies show amidst the greenery of the avenues. From the cavalry barracks comes the blare of bugles. In the Parque there are peacocks and a den of wild boars.

In April, during the feria week, there is horse-racing on the broad meadows beyond the Paseo de las Delicias. English horses, ridden by English jockeys, sometimes compete in the races. The grand stand is a large one, with a long enclosure. It is well filled on race days with the rank and fashion of Andalusia. One is struck with the gravity of the spectators as contrasted with the animation of a British crowd upon a racecourse. The people are thoroughly enjoying the spectacle; but they do not shout, and there is no ring of bellowing bookmakers. Backers of horses purchase a ticket at a little office in the enclosure. There is only one of these offices, and there are no betting men behind the ropes of the course.

An element of pageant is introduced by the company of cavalry drawn up near the grand stand. When officers of the State arrive upon the course, they are saluted with a flourish of trumpets. A number of mounted men of the Civil Guard keep the course clear of pedestrians. The resplendent dresses of the ladies, the bright uniforms of the soldiers and the costumes of the jockeys make a brilliant scene in the dazzling southern sunshine.

But horse-racing is not the national pastime of Spain. Bull-fighting is deemed the nobler sport, and Seville has been called 'the Alma Mater of the bull-fighter.'⁷ I do not here propose to describe one of these combats. Such descriptions have perhaps occupied an undue space in many books about Spanish ways and customs. The most reliable accounts of bull-fighting are to be found in Mr. Williams's The Land of the Dons, and in Wild Spain, by A. Chapman and W. T. Buck.

There is a handsome Plaza de Toros at Seville, built in 1870, with seats for fourteen thousand spectators. At Easter, and during the feria festivals in April, there are several fights in the arena, which are attended by immense crowds made up of all classes from the duke to the girls from the cigarette factory. The enthusiasm which bull fights evoke is so great that large crowds collect around the hotels, where the bull-fighters reside during Holy Week and fair time, in order to watch the heroes of the ring start for the Plaza de Toros.

I was in Seville during the feria of 1902, and I may now attempt to describe the scene on the Prado de San Sebastian. The city was thronged with sight-seers; every hotel and boarding-house was overcrowded, and hundreds of cattle and horse dealers, gipsies and itinerants slept on the fair ground in booths or upon the bare earth. I found the open space on the Prado covered with flocks of sheep and goats, droves of bullocks, horses, mules and donkeys, tended by picturesque herdsmen and muleteers in the dress of several provinces. An English carriage and pair of handsome horses paraded the ground, and changed hands at a high price. Caballeros rode their steeds up and down, to show off their points, and gipsy 'copers' haggled and chaffered. In the long row of refreshment tents was one bearing the sign of Los Boers. I entered one of the booths, and ordered a refresco, a bitter, syrupy decoction, with a tang of turpentine. Men and women were sipping this beverage with much zest, and watching the continual procession of holiday-makers under the trees. Everyone was quiet, orderly and sober. I did not see one drunken or quarrelsome person on either of the fair days, which I think may be taken as a token of the sobriety of the Spaniards. The diversions of the feria struck me as innocent, perhaps childish; but there was none of the coarseness and the squalor of a fair in England. There were only a few shows.

The Gitanas had their tents, where they danced to gorgio audiences, exacting exorbitant fees for each performance. Importunate gipsy dames stood at the doors of their tents, inviting the visitors to enter, and to taste their curious liquors, or to have their fortunes told. It was not easy to escape from these syrens, for they seized one's coat sleeve, and almost dragged one into their shows and booths. Some of the Gitana girls are remarkably handsome, and the gay colours of their clothing lend animation to this part of the feria.

One of the most interesting streets of the fair is that of the casetas, or pavilions of the influential Sevillians, who spend the day in receiving guests, dancing, guitar playing and singing. The doors of the casetas are open. You can look within at the merry company. The old folk sit around on chairs; someone clicks a pair of castanets, and a graceful girl begins to dance. Fans are fluttering everywhere; there is a soft tinkling of guitars. Dark eyes flash upon you, and red lips part in smiles as the hats of majos are raised. Some of the children are dressed in old Andalusian costume, with black lace over yellow silk, and mantillas upon their dark hair. They dance to the castanets, and win handclaps from grandfathers and grandmothers, who recall their own dancing days of forty or fifty years ago.

There is an iron tower in the centre of the fair ground. I ascended it, and gained a view of the bright crowd, the flocks, the prancing horses and the waving bunting everywhere displayed. At night the avenues of booths are illuminated with thousands of fairy lights, electric lamps and Chinese lanterns. The fair is then thronged in every part, and everyone submits to a good-humoured jostling. At this festive time you must be prepared for disturbed nights. The streets are never quiet by day or night, and there is a constant tramping up and down the stairs of the hotels. Long after midnight one hears the revellers in the plazas, singing and dancing to the clapping of hands or the strumming of guitars.

This 'fantastic pandemonium,' as it is called by a Sevillian rhymer, lasts for about eight to ten days. During the three days of the feria, the hotel charges are doubled, and in some cases trebled. The city profits considerably through the influx of visitors at this time, and also during Semana Santa, or Holy Week, when Seville is very crowded.

Nothing can prove so instructive concerning the Spanish devotion to ritual and religious pageant as a visit to Seville at Easter. The processions and celebrations of Semana Santa are exceedingly interesting from the artistic and the antiquarian point of view. All the costly vestments, the rare ecclesiastic treasures of the Cathedral, the works of artists and sculptors, and the sacred images of Christ and the Virgin are then displayed, in the midst of high pomp, to the adoring eyes of the vast crowds lining the streets and filling the windows. It is during these ceremonies that one may catch the spirit of mediævalism still surviving in Spain. Even the religious dances of antiquity are performed in the Cathedral before the high altar on Corpus Christi day. The dancers are boys, sixteen in number, and they are called the Seises. They dress in the costume of the reign of Felipe III.

The pasos or processions of Semana Santa pass through Sierpes to the Plaza de la Constitución, where the mayor of the city is seated on a daïs before the Ayuntamiento. Here there are stands for spectators. The processions are headed by men of the Guardia Civil; mummers dressed as Romans follow, then come masked monks, girls in white raiment, bands of music, and city officials. On Palm Sunday there is a blessing of the palms in the Cathedral by the Cardinal Archbishop, who is clothed in purple canonicals. The procession leaves the edifice by the Puerta San Miguel. At Vespers the sacred banner is elevated, and at six in the evening four pasos parade the streets, in honour of San Jacinto, Santisimo Cristo, San Juan Bautista and San Gregorio.

Figures by Montañez, the celebrated ecclesiastical sculptor, are borne in these processions. One of the most imposing objects of veneration is the immense crucifix, carried on a stand by thirty concealed bearers. It is followed by musicians playing the solemn funeral music of Eslava.

Miguel Hilarion Eslava, the composer, was born in 1807, near Pampeluna, in the north of Spain. He sang in the cathedral choir of that city, and afterwards played the violin in services. First a priest, he became chapel-master at Seville, in 1832, where he composed a great number of pieces of church music and masses. His chief work is Lira Sacro Hispaña, a collection of sacred music from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century, with brief biographies of the composers. This magnum opus is in ten volumes.

Eslava also wrote secular music, and his operas of Il Solitario, La Tregura di Ptolemaide and Pedro el Cruel were first produced at Cadiz. The eighth volume of the Lira contains only Eslava's music, and the Museo Organico Español embodies some of his own organ compositions. This famous composer spent many years of his life in Seville. He lived in a house in the Calle del Gran Capitan, now used as the Colegio de San Miguel, a school for boys. Over the gateway is an inscription announcing that Eslava lived in this house. The courtyard is extremely quaint, and should be seen.

The solemn strains of Eslava's Miserere may be heard in the Capilla Mayor of the Cathedral during Holy Week, upon the day of 'rending the Veil of the Temple.' This ceremony is accompanied by peals of artificial thunder. On the Saturday after Good Friday, the Velo Negro (black curtain) is torn amidst the clanging of bells and claps of thunder. On the same day a candle, twenty-five feet in height, is consecrated.

There is a similarity in the processions of Semana Santa, and they are less sumptuous than in bygone times. But they are still popular, and the visitor should endeavour to obtain a favourable point of view for watching the ceremonials in the streets and in the Cathedral. The figure of the Virgin is always the same in Spain; an image clad in black velvet, trimmed with lace, and adorned with diamonds, while the tableaux of the Saviour upon the Cross are often very realistic and ghastly. On Good Friday the large image of the Virgin is carried by thirty-five men, and there is a representation of Christ in the throes of death upon a splendid cross of tortoiseshell and silver.

An interesting rite is performed on Thursday afternoon, when the Cardinal Archbishop washes the feet of twelve poor persons, who are given new clothes and a substantial meal. In the evening the Miserere of Eslava is again sung in the Cathedral by a chorus of one hundred and fifty voices, accompanied by ninety instrumentalists.

During Holy Week a lamb fair is held in the Feria del Rastro. The lambs are bought and given to children, who lead them about the streets.

The Corpus Christi festivals, or La Fiesta del Santisimo Corpus, are less gorgeous than those of Semana Santa, but they are not without interest to the student of religious custom. The dancing of the Seises in the Cathedral is certainly a curious spectacle. Blanco White says that among the treasures carried in the Corpus Christi procession of his day were the tooth of St. Christopher, the arm of St. Bartholomew, the head of one of the eleven thousand virgins, a part of the body of St. Peter, a thorn from the crown of the Saviour, and a fragment of the True Cross.

Special services and pageants are also celebrated on All Saints' Day and at Christmas (La Natividad). The pilgrimages are another Andalusian custom dating from early Christian times. These romerias are of a festal character. The people resort to Rocio in Almonte on Whit Sunday, dressed in holiday garb, and riding in carriages decked with banners. Dancing, singing and feasting are the chief attractions of these semi-religious fêtes. La Consolación de Utrera is celebrated on September 8, when excursion trains are run from Seville to Utrera. In October there are romerias on each Sunday at Salteras, eight miles from the city. The festivities usually end with a display of fireworks.

Passion plays are still represented in Seville. At Easter the drama of the 'Passion and Death of our Lord Jesus Christ, with the Glorious Resurrection' is acted at the Teatro Cervantes. The Teatro de San Fernando is the home of opera and spectacle, and there is a summer theatre, the Eslava, in the Paseo de la Puerta de Jerez.

Who has not heard of the charm of Andalusian dancing? Seville is the home of the bailarin, the artist of the bolero, olé, Sevilliana, and other dances. On every evening in summer, the inhabitants dance in their patios to the guitar and castanets, while the street lads perform their Oriental antics in the plazas and bye-streets. The cleverest professional dancing is to be seen at the Café de Novedades, at the end of the Calle de las Sierpes, where it is joined by the Calle de Campana. There are other cafés in Sierpes where national and gipsy dancing may be witnessed, but perhaps the most characteristic performances are those of the Novedades. You may obtain a seat, just in front of the stage, for half a peseta. The entertainment usually opens with a representation of gipsy or flamenco dancing, which is a strange exercise and difficult to describe. A number of women sit in a semi-circle on the stage, and in the centre of the dancers is a male guitar player. Nothing happens for some time, but the spectators evince no impatience. They sip coffee, smoke, and chat contentedly.

Presently one of the flamenco women quits her chair, and begins to strike extraordinary postures. At one moment she might be trying to impersonate Ajax defying the lightning; in the next she is apparently fleeing from a satyr. Her hands are held high above her head, and there is a continual movement of the fingers. She writhes and wriggles rather than dances, and the feet play no part, except that the heels now and then thump the stage. Meanwhile her seated companions drown the sound of the guitar with the clapping of their hands and cries of anda!

One after another the women go through these curious contortions to the delight of the audience. I believe that there are subtle fascinations in these dances when one understands the drama which they represent; but to the casual spectator they are somewhat tedious, and they do not make much appeal to the imagination or to one's sense of the graceful in movement. Most visitors will prefer the Andalusian dancing. The dancers of the Novedades are extremely nimble in the bolero, one of the prettiest and most joyous of dances. Their shapely, lissome feet skim and bound in bewildering and intricate steps, to the clicking of ribbon-decked castanets. They spring into the air, hover, and bound again; they move rapidly on their toes, float, glide, and almost fly. It is a wonderful sight. One is sorry when the troop leave the stage. There is an intoxication in watching such grace, lightness and agility.