CHAPTER II.
"The Dance is the spur of lust—a circle of which the Devil himself is the centre. Many women that use it have come dishonest home, most indifferent, none better."—Petrarch.
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ut," says the worthy reader who has honored me by perusing the preceding Chapter, "what manner of disgusting revel is this that you have shown us? Have we been present at a reproduction of the rites of Dionysus and Astarte? Have we held high revel in the halls of a modern Faustina or Messalina? Have we supped with Catherine of Russia? Or have we been under the influence of a restored Lampsacene?
Don't delude yourself, my unsophisticated friend, you have simply been present at a "social hop" at the house of the Hon. Ducat Fitzbullion—a most estimable and "solid" citizen, a deacon of the church, where his family regularly attend, a great promoter of charities, Magdalen Asylums, and the like, and President of the "Society for the Suppression of Immorality among the Hottentots." The fair women whom you have somewhat naturally mistaken for prêtresses de la Vagabonde Vénus, are the pure daughters and spotless wives of our "best citizens;" their male companions, or accomplices, or whatever you choose to call them, are the creme de la creme of all that is respectable and eligible in society; and, finally, the dance which you have pronounced outrageously indecent, is simply the Divine Waltz, in its various shapes of "Dip," "Glide," "Saratoga," "German," and what not—the King of Dances "with all the modern improvements."
And this, my dear reader, is the abomination that I intend to smite hip and thigh—not with fine words and dainty phrases, but with the homely language of truth; not blinded by prejudice or passion, but calmly and reasonably; not with any private purpose to subserve, but simply in the cause of common decency; not with the hope of working out any great moral reform, but having the the sense of duty strong upon me as I stick my nibbed lancet into the most hideous social ulcer that has yet afflicted the body corporate.
That the subject is a delicate one is best shown by the fact that even Byron found himself reduced to the necessity of "Putting out the light" and invoking the longest garments to cover that which he was unable to describe—hear him:
"Waltz—Waltz alone—both legs and arms demands;
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands;
'Hands which may freely range in public sight
Where ne'er before—but—pray "put out the light.'