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LMOST any one will admit that dancing is an art, but in truth it is really all arts in one; it is music incarnate, it is the poetry of motion, and it is painting. Often it is one of the loveliest of moving-picture representations—we refer, of course, to real dancing, and real dancing is not a species of gymnastic contortions, nor hoidenish romping, though we have recently seen both in the ball-rooms and on the stage.

Real dancing means graceful measures tripped to the lilting rhythm of fine music. To such dancing is our present Tango craze leading us. It began in the orgy that the world indulged in during the vogue of the Turkey Trot, the Grizzly Bear, and the Bunny Hug. They marked the dividing-line that turned the tide of dancing from romping toward the Minuet.

I don't for a minute believe that we shall ever dance the real Minuet again; but I feel—in fact, I know—that the tendency of the moment is