Have the white, polished, glistening boards ever been the road to
heaven? Who at the flash of those chandeliers hath kindled a torch
for eternity? From the table spread at the close of that excited and
besweated scene, who went home to say his prayers?
To many, alas! this life is a masquerade ball. As, at such
entertainments, gentlemen and ladies appear in the dress of kings
or queens, mountain bandits or clowns, and at the close of the dance
throw off their disguises, so, in this dissipated life, all unclean
passions move in mask. Across the floor they trip merrily. The lights
sparkle along the wall, or drop from the ceiling--a very cohort of
fire! The music charms. The diamonds glitter. The feet bound. Gemmed
hands, stretched out, clasp gemmed hands. Dancing feet respond to
dancing feet. Gleaming brow bends low to gleaming brow. On with the
dance! Flash, and rustle, and laughter, and immeasurable merry-making!
But the languor of death comes over the limbs, and blurs the sight.
_Lights lower!_ Floor hollow with sepulchral echo.
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