ined fresh and strong to the day of his
death.

The same thing is true of Lyell and his instructors. When he left Oxford
and went down to Scotland geologising, he must have been full of
Buckland's teaching, and ought to have believed that the surface of the
county of Forfar was just as the Flood left it, some few thousand years
ago. But he at once proceeded to discover in Noachian Forfarshire the
most striking evidence of geological change actually in progress. So
that, under the influence of a great catastrophist, Lyell became the
greatest of the uniformitarians, and more than any one man was the
destroyer of the older point of view.

The personal effect of teacher on pupil cannot be bought at a price, nor
can it be paid for in any coin but gratitude. It is the possibility of
earning this payment that makes the best part of a teacher's life.

VII.
THE PIPE AND TABOR

An Address to a Society Of Morris Dancers, Oxford, February 12, 1914

In the following pages I have brought together some scattered information
on the instruments, especially connected with Folk-Dancing, which give
the title to my address. The coming to life of a mass of beautiful tunes
and dances, in response to the patient search of Mr. Cecil Sharp and a
few others, is one of the most magical occurrences of which I have any
memory. In a less degree I have experienced the same sense of the
unexpected, in learning that in a Kentish village, so near London as
often to be darkened by the skirts of town fogs, the ancient superstition
still existed of telling the bees that their master is dead. Such an
unsuspected lurking of primitive belief in our midst may well give a
shock of surprise. But in the resurrection of the mass of hidden music,
and of the dying traditions of dances, a web of extraordinary beauty is
suddenly revealed--a matter of real importance.

If tunes have souls they are shut out by death from ever again vibrating
in a human tenement. They are like the _gabel-rachels_, the souls of
unbaptised infants whom men in Yorkshire used to hear crying round the
church as though begging to be let in. But the traditional tunes of
England are no longer homeless; they have a safe refuge in the printed
page. They have become immortal, or as near immortality as modern paper
can insure.

Mr. Sharp has done wonderful things; he is like a naturalist who should
discover that we are unconsciously surrounded by whole races of beautiful