THE DANCE.
As we drew near the dance-house I could hear the monotonous yet rythmic beat of the drum, and get glimpses through the door-way of the feathered heads moving in time to the music. Outside there was a crowd of women, girls, and young men, the young men wrapped in white sheets under which they carry off, and make love to, the dusky maidens. This is the way a Titon "makes love." As a recent writer describes this dance, bringing before one only its poetry, and that which may be perhaps really beautiful, it does not seem shocking or revolting in the least; but the reality is simply dreadful. Not so much in itself, perhaps, though that is bad enough, as in its influence, its consequences, all that it means and all that it leads to.