There was a dancing lamp-post, a dancing apple tree, a dancing ship.

One would have thought that the untamable tune of some mad musician had set all the common objects of field and street dancing an eternal jig.

And long afterwards, when Syme was middle-aged and at rest, he could never see one of those particular objects--a lamppost, or an apple tree, or a windmill--without thinking that it was a strayed reveller from that revel of masquerade.
On one side of this lawn, alive with dancers, was a sort of green bank, like the terrace in such old-fashioned gardens.
Along this, in a kind of crescent, stood seven great chairs, the thrones of the seven days.

Gogol and Dr.Bull were already in their seats; the Professor was just mounting to his.

Gogol, or Tuesday, had his simplicity well symbolised by a dress designed upon the division of the waters, a dress that separated upon his forehead and fell to his feet, grey and silver, like a sheet of rain.