drums, quartette and solo—­it is the drama full developed although still in miniature.  Of all so-called dancing in the South Seas, that which I saw in Butaritari stands easily the first.  The hula, as it may be viewed by the speedy globe-trotter in Honolulu, is surely the most dull of man’s inventions, and the spectator yawns under its length as at a college lecture or a parliamentary debate.  But the Gilbert Island dance leads on the mind; it thrills, rouses, subjugates; it has the essence of all art, an unexplored imminent significance.  Where so many are engaged, and where all must make (at a given moment) the same swift, elaborate, and often arbitrary movement, the toil of rehearsal is of course extreme.  But they begin as children.  A child and a man may often be seen together in a maniap’:  the man sings and gesticulates, the child stands before him with streaming tears and tremulously copies him in act and sound; it is the Gilbert Island artist learning (as all artists must) his art in sorrow.

I may seem to praise too much; here is a passage from my wife’s diary, which proves that I was not alone in being moved, and completes the picture:- ’The conductor gave the cue, and all the dancers, waving their arms, swaying their bodies, and clapping their breasts in perfect time, opened with an introductory.  The performers remained seated, except two, and once three, and twice a single soloist.  These stood in the group, making a slight movement with the feet and rhythmical quiver of the body as they sang.  There was a pause after the introductory, and then the real business of the opera—­for it was no less—­began; an opera where every singer was an accomplished actor.  The leading man, in an impassioned ecstasy which possessed him from head to foot, seemed transfigured; once it was as though a strong wind had swept over the stage—­their arms, their feathered fingers thrilling with an emotion that shook my nerves as well:  heads and bodies followed like a field of grain before a gust.  My blood came hot and cold, tears pricked my eyes, my head whirled, I felt an almost irresistible impulse to join the dancers.  One drama, I think, I very nearly understood.  A fierce and savage old man took the solo part.  He sang of the birth of a prince, and how he was tenderly rocked in his mother’s arms; of his boyhood, when he excelled his fellows in swimming, climbing, and all athletic sports; of his youth, when he went out to sea with his boat and fished; of his manhood, when he married a wife who cradled a son of his own in her arms.  Then came the alarm of war, and a great battle, of which for a time the issue was doubtful; but the hero conquered, as he always does, and with a tremendous burst of the victors the piece closed.  There were also comic pieces, which caused great amusement.  During one, an old man behind me clutched me by the arm, shook his finger in my face with a roguish smile, and said something with a chuckle, which I took to be the equivalent