The Saturnalia will soon be ended. One more picture before we go.
What right has that face over there to intrude amid this scene of wild festivity? That dark and scowling face, filled with hate, and jealousy, and stifled rage. See how its owner prowls restlessly about; continually changing his position, but ever keeping his watchful eyes upon that voluptuous woman who, surrendering her soul to the lascivious pleasing of opportunity, is reeling, gliding, and yielding in the clutch of her partner—her drunken catholicity of desire, her long libidinous reaches of imagination, the glib and facile assent of her emotions, figured in every movement, and visible to every eye.
This was the manner in which Bacchus and Ariadne danced, which so moved the spectators that, as the old writer tells us, "they that were unmarried swore they would forthwith marry, and those that were married called instantly for their horses and galloped home to their wives." That miserable, self-despised, desperate wretch is the exultant husband whom we noticed on his arrival; it is natural that he should take some interest in the lady,—she is the wife he was exulting over. No wonder that there is a dangerous look in his eye as he takes in the situation; the gallant who is dancing with his wife may sup with Polonius yet—late, or rather early, as it is, for "murder's as near to lust as flame to smoke." No wonder there is a hangdog expression in his face as his friends clap him on the back and applaud the lady's performance—ask him how he is enjoying the evening, and so forth. But the climax is reached when the sated Lothario restores the partner of his joys to her lawful lord, with the remark that "your wife, sir, dances most divinely;" then the poor fool must screw up a sickly smile and say "thank you, sir," knowing all the while in his heart of hearts that the man before him has just now most surely made him cuckold under his very nose. Poor fool! Will he never learn to appreciate the utter vileness of his situation? Will he always be persuaded next morning that he must have been excited by the champagne—that his jealousy was the acme of all unreason? Or will he, as many have done, pop out some fine day a full-fledged dancer himself, and compromise matters with his wife by making the degradation mutual?
But while we ponder these things the melody has ceased; the weary musicians have departed. There is a rush for cloaks and hoods, and rather more adjusting of the same upon feminine forms by bold masculine hands than is perhaps necessary for their proper arrangement.
Shift the scenery for the last act of this delectable drama!
The gentlemen will escort the ladies to their homes! Apollo will still pursue the nimble Daphne, Pan will not yet relinquish his hot pursuit of the fleetfooted Syrinx; and verily on this occasion their reward shall be greater than reeds and laurels. Forward, then, to the waiting carriages!
Ah, how grateful to the gas-scorched eyeballs is the thick gloom of the coach—how pleasant to the weary limbs are these luxurious cushions!
There! close the door softly; up with the windows—down with the curtains! Driver, go slowly, as I heard you ordered to do just now, and you shall not want for future patronage. And you, young man within, strike while the iron is hot. In your comrade every mental sense is stupified, every carnal sense is roused. It is the old, old story: "Nox, vinum et adolescentia." The opportunity is golden. Society is very good to you, young man!
Come, my friend, let us go. The play is played out, and so are the players. The final tableau does not take place upon the stage. We read that under one of the Roman Emperors the pantomimic dance was not unfrequently ended by the putting to death by torture upon the stage of some condemned criminal, in order that the spectators might gaze upon death in all its horrible reality. God forbid that any such ghastly finale should take place behind the scenes now that our pantomime is finished! But at all events there is no more to see; and lest your imagination spoil your rest let me divert your attention to the speck of dawn over there in the east. At this hour, says the poet,
"When late larks give warning