The following may be submitted as something like an ordinary programme of these _soirées musicales_. Slowly and mournfully some decrepit old man, or toothless old woman, begins with broken voice to babble out a doleful recitative; ere long first one and then another will put in an appearance from the surrounding huts, and point with the forefinger at the original performer, as if to say that this is all his fault, when suddenly, all together, they burst forth in universal chorus, taking up the measure, which they work into a wondrous fugue. At a given signal the voices rise in a piercing shriek, and then ensues a series of incredible contortions; they jump, they dance, and roll themselves about as though they had bodies of indian-rubber; they swing themselves as if they were propelled with the regularity of machines; it would almost seem as if their energy were inexhaustible, and as if they would blow their trumpets till their lungs gave way, and hammer at their drums till their fists were paralyzed. All at once everything is hushed; simultaneously they make a pause; but it is only to fetch their breath and recover their strength, and once more the tumult breaks out intense as ever. The license of their revelry is of so gross a character that the representation of one of my interpreters must needs be suppressed. It made a common market-woman droop her eyes and called up a blush even to a poor sapper’s cheek. Many of the people had iron rings about their ankles with balls attached, and these they rattled with such violence that their feet were bathed with blood.