remain have better work to do than talking. We push the great doors asunder and enter.

Ha! the air is hot and heavy here; it breathes upon us in sensuous gusts of varying perfumes. And no wonder. A score of whirling scented robes stir it into fragrance. How beautiful—but you look aghast, my friend. Ah, I forgot; these are not the rude countryfolk of your youth. You are dazzled—bewildered. Then let me try to enliven your dulled senses with a description of what we see.

A score of forms whirl swiftly before us under the softened gaslight. I say a score of forms—but each is double—they would have made two score before the dancing began. Twenty floating visions—each male and female. Twenty women knit and growing to as many men, undulate, sway, and swirl giddily before us, keeping time with the delirious melody of piano, harp, and violin.

But draw nearer—let us see how this miracle is accomplished. Do you mark yonder tall couple who seem even to excel the rest in grace and ardor. Do they not make a picture which might put a soul under the ribs of Death? Such must have been the sight which made Speusippas incontinently rave: "O admirable, O divine Panareta! Who would not admire her, who would not love her, that should but see her dance as I did? O how she danced, how she tripped, how she turned! With what a grace! Felix qui Panareta fruitur! O most incomparable, only, Panareta!" Let Us take this couple for a sample. He is stalwart, agile, mighty; she is tall, supple, lithe, and how beautiful in form and feature! Her head rests upon his shoulder, her face is upturned to his; her naked arm is almost around his neck; her swelling breast heaves tumultuously against his; face to face they whirl, his limbs interwoven with her limbs; with strong right arm about her yielding waist, he presses her to him till every curve in the contour of her lovely body thrills with the amorous contact. Her eyes look into his, but she sees nothing; the soft music fills the room, but she hears nothing; swiftly he whirls her from the floor or bends her frail body to and fro in his embrace, but she knows it not; his hot breath is upon her hair, his lips almost touch her forehead, yet she does not shrink; his eyes, gleaming with a fierce intolerable lust, gloat satyrlike over her, yet she does not quail; she is filled with a rapture divine in its intensity—she is in the Maelstrom of burning desire—her spirit is with the gods.

With a last, low wail the music ceases.

Her swooning; senses come back to life.

Ah, must it be? Yes; her companion releases her from his embrace. Leaning wearily upon his arm, the rapture faded from her eye, the flush dying from her cheek—enervated, limp, listless, worn out—she is led to a seat, there to recover from her delirium and gather her energies as best she may in the space of five minutes, after which she must yield her body to a new embrace.

But did you not notice a faint smile upon the lips of her late companion as he turned and left her? a smile of triumph, an air of sated appetite, it seemed to me; and see, as he joins his cronies yonder he laughs, rubs his hands together, chuckles visibly, and communicates some choice scrap of news which makes them look over at our jaded beauty and laugh too; they appreciate the suggestion of the ancient:

"Tenta modo tangere corpus,

Jam tua mellifluo membra calore fluent."

But she can keep her secret better than they, it is evident.

And now tell me, friend of mine, did you not recognize an old acquaintance in the lady we have been watching so closely? No! Then believe me she is no other than the "pure and lovely girl" you so much admired earlier in the evening, the so desirable wife, the angel who was to "haunt your dreams."

"What!thatharlot——-

Hush—a spade is not called a spade here; but I assure you again that the sensuous, delirious Bacchante whose semi-nakedness was so apparent as she lay swooning in the arms of her param—partner just now, was one and the same with the chaste and calm Diana—virgo virginissima—whose modest mien concealed her nudity so well. Moreover the satyr who was her accomplice—I can find no better word—the coward who pastured upon her and then boasted of his lechery, was the Apollo who first saluted her; the little promise which she gave so gracefully, and which he recorded so eagerly, was a deliberate surrender of her body to his use and their mutual enjoyment. Furthermore, the old man who, filled with wine, sits asleep before the fire in the card-room, dreaming he holds thirteen trumps in his hand, is the proud father of our fair friend. Unselfish old man! he, like you, knows no dances but reels and minuets. "Why should not the dear girl enjoy herself?" he says; besides, if he grows tired he can go; Apollo will be glad to see her home. Apollo being rich, the old gentleman has no objection to see him chasing his Daphne; Cupio, Cupid, Cupidity—the Latin always knows what it is about.

But, hark! The music begins again. Le jeu est fait, faites votre jeu messieurs! Gentlemen croupiers, prepare to rake in lost souls! All stakes are yours that come within your reach.

With energies recuperated by stimulating refreshments, matron and maiden rise to the proffered embrace; with lusty vigor the Bulls of Bashan paw their fresh pastures. This is the last dance, and a furious one.

Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep,

Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap;

The first in lengthened line majestic swim,

The last display the free, unfettered limb."

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