ceivably beautiful may be the human body when it is made to conform to the laws of beauty—which are identical with the laws of choreography. And so perfect was the artistry of these demigods from out of the North that "difficulty" became a forgotten word. Every man thought that he felt within himself at least a portion of the essence that animated Volinine, Mordkin, Nijinski; every woman knew she had latent some of the magic of Pavlowa, Lopoukowa, or Karsavina. And they were right. Every normal human is in greater or less degree an artist.
Sudden reactions are usually attended by more violence than discrimination. The appetite for sheer quantity is satisfied before the need of restraint is felt. So with the new dancing that gratified hundreds of thousands of feet suddenly freed from conventional weights on their movements. The Turkey Trot (name to delight posterity) raced eastward from San Francisco in a form to which the word "dancing" could be applied only by exercise of courtesy. Literally, caricaturists could not caricature it; it made caricatures of its devotees. But they were not concerned with that. They were in the exaltation of rediscovery ; they were happily, beneficially mad with varied rhythm, marked by free movements of their own bodies. The "trot" was easily learned; the problem became one of finding space in which to dance it, so quickly did its performers fill every floor within hearing-distance of a piano.
The cynical inference that morals or their lack bore any relation to the phenomenon of this dance's rapid spread, is beside the point. Of the original "trot" nothing remains but the basic step. The elements that drew denunciation upon it have gone from the abiding-places
