FROM THE BALL-ROOM TO THE GRAVE.
Let me tell you a true story which will illustrate this point.
It was a Saturday night in the month of December, in the year '91. The
girls who toil daily in the stores and shops on Spring street were
hastening to their homes after the long week of toil. As they pass along
we notice among them the tall, graceful figure of a young woman who
seems to be the favorite of the group of girls about her. She is a
handsome blonde of nineteen years, with a face as sweet and loving as
that of an angel.
She was born in a country town in New England, of respectable parents.
Her mother died while she was yet but a little girl, leaving her to the
care of a devoted father, who, with loving interest, reared and educated
her.
After the completion of her education she entered a printing office, to
serve an apprenticeship, but the close confinement, following, as it
did, in close proximity to the confinement of the school room, soon
undermined her health and a change of climate was prescribed. The father
felt he could not part from her even for a few months, but as it seemed
for her good, he reluctantly consented to her going to Los Angeles, the
"City of the Angels," for a year.
It was a sad day for both when that father and his only daughter parted.
Little could he know of the fate that was in store for his pure and
loving child in the far West. Little did he think when she kissed him an
affectionate farewell, and told him she would return in just one year,
that he would never see her smiling face again. Nor did she dream that
she was journeying to her doom; that far beyond the mountains she should
be laid to rest 'neath the sod of mother earth.
But to return to the scene on Spring street.
As the little group pass up the street her very beautiful face does not
escape the notice of the crowd of idlers gathered on the corners gazing
impudently at the passers by.
Among these idlers is one of the city's most popular society gentlemen
and ball-room devotees, and we hear him mutter to himself as he stares
impudently at her pretty face: "Ah, my beauty, I shall locate _your_
dwelling place later on. You are too fine a bird to be lost sight of."
He follows her to her lodging, and day by day studies her habits.
He discovers that she goes nowhere except to her daily toil and to
church. He visits the church, and finding no opportunity to approach her
there, is about to give up the chase when he finds out that the
denomination does not condemn dancing.
"Ah, now," he says, "I have you."
He goes to one of the most fashionable dancing schools, where he is well
known, and explains his difficulties to the dancing master, who is ever
ready to take part in just such dirty work, for it is from the pay for
such work that he derives much of the profit of his school.
He sends her a highly colored, gilt-edged card containing a pressing
invitation to attend his _select_ school.
She does not respond, so he finally sends his wife to press the
invitation. The girl, not dreaming of the net that is being woven about
her, promises that if her pastor does not disapprove she will attend.
Her pastor _does not disapprove_. He tells her that he sees no harm in
dancing.
Why does he not see harm in dancing? Has he never been where he _could_
see?
She takes it for granted that he _knows_, and acting on his advice
attends the school. She is met at the door by the dancing master, who is
very polite and so kindly attentive.
The society man who is plotting her ruin is the first person presented
to her. He is a graceful dancer and makes the evening pass pleasantly
for her, by his kind attentions and praise of her grace in dancing, and
when the school is dismissed he escorts her home, which courtesy she
accepts, because the dancing master vouches for him, and she thinks that
is sufficient. He continues his attentions, and finally invites her to
attend, with him, a grand full dress ball to be given at one of the
principal hotels. She has never attended a grand ball in her life, and
looks forward to this with the greatest pleasure.
The evening at last arrives. Her escort calls for her in an elegant
carriage. She looks more beautiful than ever in her pretty, modest
evening dress, and he says to himself, "Ah, my Greek Goddess, I shall
have the 'belle of the ball' for my victim to-night."
As they enter the ball-room she is quite charmed and dazzled by its
splendor and the gaiety of the scene, which is so novel to her.
During the first of the evening her companion finds her more reserved
than is to his taste, but he says to himself, only wait, my fair one,
until supper time, and the wine will do the work desired.
Twelve o'clock at last comes, and with it the summons to the supper
room. Here the well-spread table, the brilliant lights, the flowers, the
music and the gay conversation are all sources of the greatest pleasure
to the unaccustomed girl, but there is one thing which does not please
her. It is the fact that wine is flowing freely and that all are
partaking of it. She feels that she can never consent to drink. It is
something she has never done in her life. Yet she dares not refuse, for
all the others are drinking, and she knows that to refuse would bring
upon herself the ridicule of all the party.
She hears her companion order a bottle of wine opened. He pours and
offers it, saying, "Just a social glass, it will refresh you." She
looks at him as if to protest, but he returns the gaze and hands her the
fatal glass, and she has not the moral courage to say no.
As they raise their glasses he murmurs softly, "Here's hoping we may be
perfectly happy in each other's love, and that the cup of bliss now
raised to our lips may never spill."
One glass and then another and the brain unaccustomed to wine is
whirling and giddy. The vile wretch sees that his game is won.
He whispers in her ear many soft and foolish lies, tells her that he
loves her, and that if she can return that love, he is hers, and hers
alone, so long as life shall last.
She sits tipped back in one chair, with her feet in another, laughs
loudly at every poor little joke, and responds, in a silly affectionate
manner, to all his words of love, and when he makes proposals to which
she would have scorned to listen at any other time, she not only
listens but gives consent to all, and does not leave the house that
night.
When she awakens next morning, it is in a strange room. Her head whirls,
she gazes abstractedly about her and tries to shake off what seems to
her to be a horrid dream, but she is brought suddenly to realize that it
is no sleeping fancy, but a steam reality, as a low voice by her side
says,
"Did you rest easy, my dear?"
"My God!" she fairly shrieks, as the awful truth bursts upon her, "is it
possible, or am I dreaming?" and she passes her hand wildly across her
face.
"Do not excite yourself, my dear; you are not well. You will feel better
presently."
"Better!" she cries, bursting into tears. "Better!! What is life to me
now that you have robbed me of my virtue? Oh! that I should have sunken
into such depths of sin, and that you, vile man, whom I trusted, should
have led me to it."
She tries to rise, but finds herself too weak and dizzy, and falls back
heavily upon her pillow.
"Lie still, my love, and when you are able I will let you go. But do not
blame me for what has occurred, it was by your own consent. You know I
am going to marry you, and all will be well."
"No," she sobs, "all will not be well; nothing will ever be well with
me again," and she returns to the room which she has left a few hours
before as a bright and happy girl, now broken hearted and on the verge
of despair, with a blot upon her young life which nothing on earth can
efface. To be sure, he who has brought all this upon her has promised to
right the wrong by marriage, but poor consolation it seems to her to
have to marry a man whom she feels to be worse than a murderer; even
this poor consolation is denied her, however, for the wretch, when he
gave the promise, had no thought of fulfilling it. Such trifles as this
_he_ thinks nothing of. It is the way of most high society men, and when
he comes to her again it is not to marry her, but to seek to drag her
lower down. She repels him and he is seen by her no more. He has no
further use for her.
Days grow to months, and now added sorrow fills her cup of grief to
overflowing. She is to become a mother, and the poor girl cries out in
bitter anguish: "My God, what shall I do, must I commit murder. Oh, that
I had never entered a ball-room."
All her old companions shun her, every one shuns her, even he who led
her to her ruin shuns her. She goes to him, hoping he will have
compassion upon her, but he meets her with a sneer, calls her a fool,
and tells her to commit a yet greater crime than the first, which in her
despair she does and "seals the band of death."
She soon became very ill and sank rapidly, and then came a time when she
felt that life was short, and that if she wished to leave a message on
earth it must be delivered quickly. Having heard of my conversion and
that I intended exposing the evils which germinate in the ball-room she
sent a messenger requesting me to call immediately.
On entering the house I was led to a couch in a cosy room where lay the
beautiful young woman whose pale face showed all to plainly, an amount
of sorrow and suffering unwarranted by her years. The countenance of the
sufferer brightened as I entered, and she extended her hand saying: "I
am so glad you came to see me, so glad to know that you are to expose
the evil which buds in the dance hall. Do not delay your work. I have
prayed God to spare my life that I might go and warn young girls against
that which has made such a sad wreck of my once pure and happy life,
for, when I entered dancing school, I was as innocent as a child and
free from sin and sorrow, but under its influence and in its association
I lost my purity, my innocence, my _all_, but I know that God has
forgiven the sin which is sending me to my early grave, where I shall
soon be forgotten by all earthly friends.
"Do not grieve for me. I am leaving this dark world for a bright and
happy one where sin and sorrow are unknown. Mother is waiting for me
there and I am not afraid to go."
We spoke of a hope that she might yet recover, but she only closed her
eyes and shook her head slowly.
"No," she said, with considerable effort, "I shall never leave this room
alive, never see the green hills of home, never see my father's face,
but tell him not to mourn for me, I shall be happy in the arms of
Jesus."
"Is there nothing I can do for you?" I asked. "Yes," said she faintly,
looking earnestly into my face, "Yes, there is one thing; that which I
had hoped I might live to do myself. Promise me that you will do that
and I shall die content. Promise me that you will go before the world
and speak out a warning against the awful dangers of the dance hall, and
try to save young girls from the sin, disgrace and destruction dancing
has brought upon me."
I made a solemn promise before God that her request should be complied
with.
The dying girl showed unmistakable signs of pleasure at having my
faithful promise.
She pressed my hand and said in a voice scarcely audible, "You have seen
ball-rooms as they are, my friend, and there is a great and good work
before you. May God bless you in it. I seal your promise with death,"
and before I could speak she was dead and her soul had winged its flight
to a heaven of love and peace, where weary hearts shall find perfect
love and perfect justice--where not man, but God, judges his children.
I know the man who was the perpetrator of the crime which was the cause
of this sad death.
He, to-day, instead of being hung for murder, as he so richly deserved,
is a leader in society. His name often appears in the social columns of
the daily papers of Los Angeles, as the leader of some fashionable
dancing party or Kirmess.
He has been the winner of several prizes in dancing, in fact, is an
elegant dancer and is wealthy. These facts gain for him admission to
whatsoever society he chooses to enter.
Think, ye parents who have daughters who dance, of their being night
after night in the embrace of such men as he, as they most certainly are
if they dance much. Such men as he flock to places of dancing for that
very purpose.
Some may say that places of dancing are not the only places where such
men are to be found. True, but at no other place would they be allowed
to take such liberties with your daughters that they may there. This
they well know and consequently there are more of them to be found in
places of dancing than elsewhere, and it is not the whirling that they
go for and enjoy.
How long would dancing be kept up if they were to whirl alone, or if men
were to dance with men and women with women? Ah, no; it is not the
whirling, but the liberties the waltz affords, which forms its chief
attraction.
You, perhaps, think your daughter is in the most select society, and
only in such, and will accept only the most respectable gentlemen as
partners. But, how are you to know this? How can you be sure that this
very man of whom I have been speaking, or another of the same type, is
not among those considered the most respectable in the select parlor
dances?
You may be perfectly certain that _he_ will never publish his own
misdeeds, and the girl cannot expose him without making public her own
disgrace, so his base deeds go undiscovered and he may still be found at
dancing parties or on the street corners engaged in the occupation in
which we first met him, viz.: seeking whom he might destroy.
What decent woman, if she knew his real character, would wish to throw
herself into the arms of such a man. If she were a true women she would
almost rather die than have such a man even touch her, to say nothing of
being in his close embrace for the space of a waltz.
Or, what lady would allow any man, in any other public place, except the
ball-room, to take the liberties with her that he takes there? Would a
lady with a spark of self-respect, at any other place, lay her head upon
his shoulder, place her breast against his, and allow him to encircle
her waist with his arm, place his foot between hers and clasp her hands
in his?
This is the position assumed in waltzing, and I tell you, my friends,
that such a position tends, in a greater or less degree, to develop the
lower nature of sexes. It cannot be otherwise. It is in perfect
accordance with nature. I have heard girls express utter innocence of
having any improper emotion aroused by the waltz, but I do not believe
this to be strictly true of any girl. If it is, I am sorry for that
girl, for she has a sad lack in her nature.
"Male and female, God created them" and placed within them emotions
intended to be shared only by man and wife, and if others indulge in
those emotions, and continually arouse them by assuming the waltz
position, which is only fit for man and wife, they commit a sin against
God and nature.
Against God because He has said "Thou shalt not commit adultery," and "I
say unto you that whosoever looketh on a woman, to lust after her, hath
committed adultery with her already in his heart."
And against nature, because a girl thus constantly aroused, soon breaks
her health.
One may work six days in the week and arise fresh every morning, but let
him attend a dance for only a few hours each evening and see what will
occur. Health and vigor vanish like the dew before the sun.
It is not the exercise which harms the dancer in mind and body, but the
coming in such close contact with the opposite sex. Did you ever know a
lady who danced to excess to live to be over twenty-five years of age?
If she does she is, in most instances, broken in health physically and
morally. Doctors claim it to be a most harmful exercise physically for
both sexes. The average age of the excessive male dancer is thirty-one.
Beside the harmful exercise there is great danger from the exposure, a
girl is so often subjected to in a ball room. She gets in a perspiration
during the dance, and as soon as it is over rushes to an open door or
window with arms and chest exposed. Is there any wonder that so many
women of to-day are unhealthy?