And now why is it that, we have gone back four hundred years and more, to linger thus long with the Secretary of the Great Ecclesiastical Council of Bale, in that quaint and queer old town, with its half French, half German look, its grand, grotesque old churches, hung round with knightly shields and filled with women, each in a pulpit of her own, its stork-crowned roofs, its houses blazing with wrought gold and silver, its threescore fountains, and the magnificence in which, without a court, it rivalled the richest capitals of Italy, its noble-spirited and pleasure-loving, but simple-minded and unlearned burghers, its white-limbed beauties, and its deceitful clocks?  It is not because that town is now one of the principal ribbon-factories of the world, and exports to this country alone over $1,200,000 worth yearly; although some fair readers may suppose that an all-sufficient reason,—­and some of their admirers and protectors, too, for that matter.  Think of it! nearly one million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of ribbons coming to us every year from a single town in Switzerland!  The statement is enough to carry horror and dismay to the heart and the pocket of every father and brother, and above all, of every husband, actual or possible, who hears of it.  It is a godsend to the protectionists, who might reedify their party on the basis of a prohibitory tariff against ribbons.  If they were successful, their success would be brilliant; for if our fair tyrants could not get ribbons—­those necessaries of life—­from Bale in Switzerland, they would tease and coax us to build them a Bale in America; and we should do it.

We have gone back to the old Bale of four hundred and twenty years ago, because there, and not long after that time,—­about 1498,—­according to general belief, Hans Holbein was born; because these were the surroundings under the influence of which he grew to manhood; and because there, about sixty years before his birth, a Dance of Death was painted, the most ancient and important of which we have any remaining memorial.  This Dance was painted upon the wall of the churchyard of the Dominican Convent in Great Bale, by order of the very Ecclesiastical Council of which our Aeneas Sylvius was Secretary, and in commemoration of a plague which visited the town during the sitting of that Council, and carried off many of its members.

What is a Dance of Death? and why should Death be painted dancing?  Some readers may think of it as a frantic revel of grim skeletons, or perhaps—­like me in my boyish musings—­imagine nameless shapes with Death and Hell gleaming in their faces, each clasping a mortal beguiled to its embrace, all flitting and floating round and round to unearthly music, and gradually receding through vast mysterious gloom till they are lost in its horrible obscurity.