_"Illic Hippolitum pone, Priapus erit."_
Ovid.
"_Le Proverbe qui a couru à l'égard des Cioitres, dangereux comme
le retour de matines, en pouvoit produire un autre avec un petit
changement, dangereux comme le retour du bal_."
Bayle.
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here are, of course, many other classes of waltzers to whom I might
revert, though I have sought in vain for a single one that is entirely
free from reproach. It is however time that the evil should be viewed
from other points. Let us consider some of its results and effects.
I have repeatedly declared, and I now do so again that the waltz has
grown to be a purely sexual enjoyment. That I may not be supposed to
stand alone in this assertion I will again quote the words of the worthy
clergyman before referred to. He writes:
The dance "consists substantially of a system of means contrived with
more than human ingenuity to excite the instincts of sex to action,
however subtile and disguised at the moment, in its sequel the most
bestial and degrading." And again: "it is a usage that regularly
titillates and tantalises an animal appetite as insatiable as hunger,
more cruel than revenge."
Gail Hamilton, to whose words most of us will attach some weight, I
think, in a contribution to an Eastern journal, says: "The thing in
its very nature is unclean and cannot be washed. The very _pose_ of the
parties suggests impurity." But I must go further than this, and assert
that the and motions of the parties cannot even be _spoken_ of by a
young lady without danger of committing a _double entendre_ at which
many a "nice young man" will laugh in his sleeve.
I will illustrate this statement: A charming young lady, just arrived
from abroad, informed me that we do not execute these new round dances
"quite right" in this country. She describes it as having "two forward
and two backward movements, then sideways, with a whirl." But she will
"show me how to do it on the first opportunity."
"That must, indeed, be nicer than the way we do it," said I, "though I
have heard of a similar dance in the Sandwich Islands." Yea, verily, "to
the pure all things are pure."
What says St. Aldegonde in a letter written as long ago as 1577 to
Caspar Verheiden? He says that he approves of the course adopted by the
Church of Geneva, which by interdicting the dance has abolished many
filthy abuses of daily occurance; it being the custom of the men to take
young girls to balls at night and there to vex them by lewd posturing.
No one, he contends, can look on at such a spectacle without sin; what
then shall we say of those who take part in it. Much more he adds, and
when I say that I dare not translate it here, the reader will be
ready to believe that the worthy Saint is pretty plain-spoken in his
strictures on the dance. But he is no more so than is Lambert Daneau
in his "Traité des Danses," the perusal of which might do some modern
dancers good. And yet both these old writers only saw the play of Hamlet
with Hamlet left out, for the Waltz did not exist in their day.
Now, this being the case, what are we to suppose are its effects upon
those who indulge in it? Does the scandal end in the ball room, or, as
Byron says, may we not marvel=
```"If nothing follows all this palming work."=
and do we not feel ourselves constrained to believe his assurance that=
```"Something does follow at a fitter time."=
That the waltz has been the acknowledged avenue to destruction for great
multitudes, is a truth burnt into the hearts of thousands of downcast
fathers and broken-hearted mothers; and the husbands are legion who
can look upon hearths deserted and homes left desolate by wives and
daughters who have been led captive by this magnificent burst of harmony
and laying-on of hands.
One of our ablest writers says: "it is a war on home, it is a war on
physical health, it is a war on man's moral nature; this is the broad
avenue through which thousands press into the brothel." The "dancing
hall is the nursery of the divorce Court, the training ship of
prostitution, the graduating school of infamy."
Olaus Magnus tells us that the young people of the North danced among
naked sword-blades and pointed weapons scattered upon the ground; _our_
young people dance among far deadlier dangers than these.
Think of it, dear reader, picture to yourself the condition to which a
young girl is reduced by the time that her carriage is announced. All
the baser instincts of her nature are aroused--to use the words of
Erasmus she has "a pound of passion to an ounce of reason." Answer me,
is she not now in a fit state to fall an easy prey to the destroyer? And
yet in this condition=
```"Hot from the hands promiscuously applied
```Round the slight waist or down the glowing side,"=
she is almost borne to her carriage by an escort, "flown with insolence
and wine" and whose condition is otherwise similar to her own, except
that the excitement of the moment makes him as bold and ardent, as it
renders her languid and compliant. He places her panting form upon the
soft cushions, and with a whispered admonition to the coachman not to
drive too fast, he ensconces himself by her side. But here, as upon an
earlier page, we must leave them. The hour, the darkness, everything is
propitious--it is little short of a miracle if she escapes.=
````"Look out, look out and see
````What object this may be
````That doth perstringe mine eye;
````A gallant lady goes
```In rich and gaudy clothes,
````But whither away God knows."=
But let us charitably suppose that the sequel is only a continuation of
the license of the waltz, and that she reaches her home with merely the
smell of the fire through which she has passed upon her garments--let us
suppose that the _Ah si liceret!_ of Caracalla has _not_ been answered
by the yielding _quic-quid libet licet_ of his mother-in-law--and what
is the result? The flame that has been aroused must be allayed. If she
is unmarried, then in God's name let us inquire no farther; but if she
is a wife then is the dear indulgent husband at home privileged to meet
a want inspired in the embrace of "the first dancer in the valley," and
to enjoy _some_ advantage, at least, from the peculiar position which he
sustains toward the matronly dancer.
And now may we not take a peep at the fair _danseuse_ as she comes
into the breakfast-room at noon next day. Is this broken-down, used-up
creature the radiant beauty of the night before? Can it be that that
"healthful recreation," the Waltz, has painted those dark circles round
her eyes and planted those wrinkles on her brow?=
```"Alas, the mother, that her bare,
````If she could stand in presence there,
```In that wan cheek and wasted air
````She would not know her child."=
She is paying now for the sweetness of "stolen waters" and the
pleasantness of bread "eaten in secret." For the next week what pleasure
will husband, father, or brother, derive from her society. She is ill
and peevish--she is damaged both in body and soul. For the next week,
did I say? Well, I meant until the next invitation to a dance arrives.
That is the magic elixir that will brighten the dull eyes and recall
the dead smiles to life. Then invoking the rejuvenating spirit of the
cosmetic-box and tricked out in the finery which those most near, but
not most dear, to her have toiled to purchase, she will sally forth to
lavish upon the lechers of the ball-room a gracious sweetness which she
never showed at home.
But where is Apollo all this time?
We left him burning with half satiated lust before the gate of his
paramour's mansion. Where will _he_ go to complete his debauch? At what
strange fountains will _he_ quench the flame that is devouring him? Go
ask the harlot! _She_ will reap the harvest that has ripened in the warm
embrace of maids and mothers. She is equally fortunate with the husband
described above. Ah, well! verily it _is_ an ill wind that blows nobody
good.
The Waltz is, therefore, in its effects, fearfully disastrous to both
sexes, but nevertheless the woman is the greater sufferer--physically,
because what is fatal excess for a woman may be only hurtful indulgence
for a man, and morally, because she loses that without which her beauty
and grace are but a curse--man's respect.
And her punishment is just, her fault being more inexcusable than his.
For woman is the natural and acknowledged custodian of morals. It is
she who fixes the standard of modesty--a variable standard, it is true,
different in different ages and countries, but always sufficiently
well-defined. She draws across the path of passion, lines limiting,
on the one hand, the license of masculine approach, on the other, the
liberty of feminine concession. To a certain extent man may blamelessly
accept whatever privileges she is pleased to accord him, without
troubling himself to consider "too curiously" their consistency with the
general tenor of her; decrees. It is her discretion in such matters
that must, in a large, way, preserve the race from fatal excess. When,
therefore, she shamelessly violates this sacred trust which nature and
society have confided to her, it is to be expected that the ball-room
_roué_ should regard her as something lower than the harlot, who at
least ministers to his lusts in a natural manner.
But, what is worse still, she also loses moral caste with those who have
more than a negative respect for honorable women. For even your
_gentleman_ is no professor of heroic virtues, and the same easy
courtesy with which he dismisses the soliciting courtesan, restrains him
from wounding, even by implication, the merely facile fair being whom
favoring fortune has as yet prevented from taking to the street. He
dissembles his disgust, begs the honor of her hand for the next dance,
flutters her pulses to her soul's satisfaction, and regards her ever
thereafter with tranquil, philosophical contempt. And so they come to
mutually despise each other; she sets no value on his flattering
praises, he no longer cares for her good opinion--the wine of woman's
approval has gone stale, and the sunshine of man's admiration is
darkened in her eyes.
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