Chapter III (4)

“That kiss was an era in her life. Innocence itself, she had put up her delicious lips to her lover in pure, though earnest, affection; but the male fire with which his met them made her blush as well as thrill, and she drew back a little, abashed and half scared, and nestled on his shoulder, hiding a face that grew redder and redder.”

* * * * *

Burton, in his “Anatomy of Melancholy,” notices those irritating coquettes, Aretine’s Lucretia, and Philinna, in Lucian, the former of whom boasted that she had a suitor who loved her dearly, but the more eagerly he wooed the more she seemed to neglect and to scorn him, and what she commonly accorded to others—freedom in social intercourse, even to the extent of osculation—she refused to him; while the latter, in the presence of her sweetheart Diphilus, kissed Lamprius, his co-rival, in order to whet the jealousy of the favorite. Our modern novelists give very little space to character and conduct of this sort, but in the way of provokingly cool indifference in the sterner sex to the charms and fascinations of the fair, we find such instances as this, which occurs in Mühlbach’s “Joseph the Second and his Court,” in an interview between Kaunitz, the prime minister, and La Foliazzi:

“‘_Vraiment_, you are very presuming to suppose that I shall trouble myself to come in the carriage’ replied Kaunitz, contemptuously. ‘It is enough that, the coach being there, the world will suppose that I am there also. A man of fashion must have the name of possessing a mistress; but a statesman cannot waste his valuable time on women. You are my mistress, _ostensibly_, and therefore I give you a year’s salary of four thousand guilders.’

“‘You are an angel—a god!’ cried La Foliazzi, this time with genuine rapture. ‘You come upon one like Jupiter, in a shower of gold.’

“‘Yes, but I have no wish to fall into the embraces of my Danaë. Now, hear my last words. If you ever dare let it transpire that you are not really my mistress, I shall punish you severely. I will not only stop your salary, but I will cite you before the committee of morals, and you shall be forced into a marriage with somebody.’

“The singer shuddered and drew back. ‘Let me go at once into my boudoir. Is my breakfast ready?’

“‘No; your morning visits there begin to-morrow. Now go home to Count Palffy, and do not forget our contract.’

“‘I shall not forget it, prince,’ replied the signora, smiling. ‘I await your coach this evening. You may kiss me if you choose.’ She bent her head to his and held out her delicate cheek, fresh as a rose.

“‘Simpleton,’ said he, slightly tapping her beautiful mouth, ‘do you suppose that the great Kaunitz would kiss any lips but those which, like the sensitive mimosa, shrink from the touch of man? Go away. Count Palffy will feel honored to reap the kisses I have left.’

“He gave her his hand, and looked after her, as with light and graceful carriage she left the room.”

* * * * *

Sir Walter Scott, in his “Rob Roy,” tells us how Frank Osbaldistone, in a moment of confusion and hesitancy, failed to return the half-proffered embrace of Diana Vernon, as she took leave of him on her way to the seclusion of conventual life, and how his absence of mind cost him many a bitter pang afterwards. It reminds one of Michael Angelo, who, at sixty, was enamored of a beautiful widow who died. The great painter and sculptor ever afterwards repented that he had not kissed her forehead and cheeks, as well as her hand, at the hour of parting:

“Miss Vernon had in the mean time taken out a small case, and, leaning down from her horse towards me, she said, in a tone in which an effort at her usual quaint lightness of expression contended with a deeper and more grave tone of sentiment, ‘You see, my dear coz, I was born to be your better angel. Rashleigh has been compelled to yield up his spoil, and had we reached this same village of Aberfoil last night, as we purposed, I should have found some Highland sylph to waft to you all these representatives of commercial wealth. But there were giants and dragons in the way; and errant knights and damsels of modern times, bold though they be, must not, as of yore, run into useless danger. Do not you do so either, my dear coz.’

“‘Diana,’ said her companion, ‘let me once more warn you that the evening waxes late, and we are still distant from our home.’

“‘I am coming, sir, I am coming. Consider,’ she added, with a sigh, ‘how lately I have been subjected to control; besides, I have not yet given my cousin the packet, and bid him farewell—forever. Yes, Frank,’ she said, ‘_forever_! There is a gulf between us,—a gulf of absolute perdition; where we go you must not follow; what we do you must not share in. Farewell,—be happy!’

“In the attitude in which she bent from her horse, which was a Highland pony, her face, not perhaps altogether unwillingly, touched mine. She pressed my hand, while the tear that trembled in her eye found its way to my cheek instead of her own. It was a moment never to be forgotten,—inexpressibly bitter, yet mixed with a sensation of pleasure so deeply soothing and affecting as at once to unlock all the floodgates of the heart. It was _but_ a moment, however; for, instantly recovering from the feeling to which she had involuntarily given way, she intimated to her companion she was ready to attend him, and, putting their horses to a brisk pace, they were soon far distant from the place where I stood.

“Heaven knows, it was not apathy which loaded my frame and my tongue so much that I could neither return Miss Vernon’s half embrace, nor even answer her farewell. The word, though it rose to my tongue, seemed to choke in my throat, like the fatal _guilty_, which the delinquent who makes it his plea knows must be followed by the doom of death. The surprise, the sorrow, almost stupefied me. I remained motionless, with the packet in my hand, gazing after them, as if endeavoring to count the sparkles which flew from the horses’ hoofs. I continued to look after even these had ceased to be visible, and to listen for their footsteps long after the last distant trampling had died in my ears. At length, tears rushed to my eyes, glazed as they were by the exertion of straining after what was no longer to be seen. I wiped them mechanically and almost without being aware that they were flowing, but they came thicker and thicker; I felt the tightening of the throat and breast,—the _hysterica passio_ of poor Lear,—and, sitting down by the wayside, I shed a flood of the first and most bitter tears which had flowed from my eyes since childhood.”

* * * * *

The admirers of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter” will not forget the caprices of little Pearl.

“‘Dost thou know thy mother now, child?’ asked Hester, reproachfully, but with a subdued tone. ‘Wilt thou come across the brook and own thy mother, now that she has her shame upon her, now that she is sad?’

“‘Yes, now I will!’ answered the child, bounding across the brook and clasping Hester in her arms. ‘Now thou art my mother indeed! and I am thy little Pearl!’

“In a mood of tenderness that was not usual with her, she drew down her mother’s head and kissed her brow and both her cheeks. But then, by a kind of necessity that always impelled this child to alloy whatever comfort she might chance to give with a throb of anguish, Pearl put up her mouth and kissed the scarlet letter too!

“‘That was not kind,’ said Hester. ‘When thou hast shown me a little love, thou mockest me!’”

“Whether influenced by the jealousy that seems instinctive with every petted child towards a dangerous rival, or from whatever caprice of her freakish nature, Pearl would show no favor to the clergyman. It was only by an exertion of force that her mother brought her up to him, hanging back, and manifesting her reluctance by odd grimaces, of which, ever since her babyhood, she had possessed a singular variety, and could transform her mobile physiognomy into a series of different aspects, with a new mischief in them, each and all. The minister, painfully embarrassed, but hoping that a kiss might prove a talisman to admit him into the child’s kindlier regards, bent forward and impressed one on her brow. Hereupon Pearl broke away from her mother, and, running to the brook, stooped over it and bathed her forehead until the unwelcome kiss was quite washed off and diffused through a long lapse of the gliding water.”

“Pearl either saw and responded to her mother’s feelings, or herself felt the remoteness and intangibility that had fallen around the minister. While the procession passed, the child was uneasy, fluttering up and down like a bird on the point of taking flight. When the whole had gone by, she looked up into Hester’s face.

“‘Mother,’ said she, ‘was that the same minister that kissed me by the brook?’

“‘Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl,’ whispered her mother. ‘We must not always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest.’

“‘I could not be sure that it was he, so strange he looked,’ continued the child: ‘else I would have run to him and bid him kiss me now before all the people, even as he did yonder among the dark old trees. What would the minister have said, mother? Would he have clapped his hand over his heart, and scowled on me, and bid me begone?’

“‘What should he say, Pearl,’ answered Hester, ‘save that it was no time to kiss, and that kisses are not to be given in the market-place? Well for thee, foolish child, that thou didst not speak to him.’”

“The minister withdrew his dying eyes from the old man and fixed them on the woman and the child.

“‘My little Pearl,’ said he, feebly,—and there was a sweet and gentle smile over his face, as of a spirit sinking into deep repose; nay, now that the burden was removed it seemed almost as if he would be sportive with the child,—‘dear little Pearl, wilt thou kiss me now? Thou wouldst not yonder in the forest; but now thou wilt?’

“Pearl kissed his lips. A spell was broken. The great scene of grief in which the wild infant bore a part had developed all her sympathies, and as her tears fell upon her father’s cheek they were the pledge that she would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor forever do battle with the world, but be a woman in it. Towards her mother, too, Pearl’s errand as a messenger of anguish was all fulfilled.

“‘Hester,’ said the clergyman, ‘farewell!’

“‘Shall we not meet again?’ whispered she, bending her face down close to his. ‘Shall we not spend our immortal life together? Surely, surely, we have ransomed one another, with all this woe! Thou lookest far into eternity with those bright, dying eyes!’”

* * * * *

In the endless recurrence of “the old story,” the consecutive and unintermitting reproduction of the pictures

“of the primitive, pastoral ages,
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac,
Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,
Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers,”

we can find no touches more exquisite than these from Rev. Charles Kingsley’s “Yeast;”

“They parted with a long, lingering pressure of the hand, which haunted her young palm all night in dreams. Argemone got into the carriage, Lancelot jumped into the dog-cart, took the reins and relieved his heart by galloping Sandy up the hill and frightening the returning coachman down one bank and his led horses up the other.

“‘_Vogue la Galère_, Lancelot! I hope you have made good use of your time?’

“But Lancelot spoke no word all the way home, and wandered till dawn in the woods around his cottage, kissing the hand which Argemone’s hand had pressed.” [Ch. vii.]

“Entranced in wonder and pleasure, Argemone let her eyes wander over the drawing. And her feelings for Lancelot amounted almost to worship, as she apprehended the harmonious unity of the manifold conception, the rugged boldness of the groups in front, the soft grandeur of the figure which was the lodestar of all their emotions, the virginal purity of the whole. And when she fancied that she traced in those bland aquiline lineaments, and in the crisp ringlets which floated like a cloud down to the knees of the figure, some traces of her own likeness, a dream of a new destiny flitted before her, she blushed to her very neck; and as she bent her face over the drawing and gazed, her whole soul seemed to rise into her eyes, and a single tear dropped upon the paper. She laid her hand over it and then turned hastily away.

“‘You do not like it? I have been too bold,’ said Lancelot, fearfully.

“‘Oh, no, no! It is so beautiful, so full of deep wisdom! But—but—You may leave it.’

“Lancelot slipped silently out of the room, he hardly knew why; and when he was gone, Argemone caught up the drawing, pressed it to her bosom, covered it with kisses, and hid it, as too precious for any eyes but her own, in the furthest corner of her secrétaire.

“And yet she fancied that she was not in love!” [Ch. x.]

“‘Argemone! speak; tell me, if you will, to go forever; but tell me first the truth. You love me!’

“A strong shudder ran through her frame, the ice of artificial years cracked, and the clear stream of her woman’s nature welled up to the light, as pure as when she first lay on her mother’s bosom. She lifted up her eyes, and with one long look of passionate tenderness she faltered out,—

“‘I love you!’

“He did not stir, but watched her with clasped hands, like one who in dreams finds himself in some fairy palace and fears that a movement may break the spell.

“‘Now, go,’ she said; ‘go and let me collect my thoughts. All this has been too much for me. Do not look sad; you may come again to-morrow.’

“She smiled, and held out her hand. He caught it, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to his heart. She half drew it back, frightened. The sensation was new to her. Again the delicious feeling of being utterly in his power came over her, and she left her hand upon his heart, and blushed as she felt its passionate throbbings.

“He turned to go,—not as before. She followed with greedy eyes her new-found treasure; and as the door closed behind him she felt as if Lancelot was the whole world and there was nothing beside him, and wondered how a moment had made him all in all to her; and then she sunk upon her knees and folded her hands upon her bosom, and her prayers for him were like the prayers of a little child.”

The colors of these pictures are painfully heightened by contrast with the gloom of the valley of the shadow of death, through which Argemone was soon afterwards summoned to pass.

* * * * *

The treatment of this theme—a theme which is unfailingly attractive to both sexes, to youth with its yearnings and promptings, to age with its retrospects and reminiscences—deserves further selections.

In “The Broken Pitcher” of Zchokke, the delightful German story-teller, is a pleasing scene which shows how the current of love ran smoothly at last, and how the ambitious plans of a match-making parent were defeated:

“As they entered the parsonage she looked at him affectionately, and, seeing his bright eyes moistened with tears, she whispered in his ear, ‘_Dear Colin_.’ Then he bent down and kissed her hand. At this, the door of a room was opened, and the venerable form of Father Jerome stood before them. Just then the young folks seemed seized with giddiness, for they held fast to each other for support. I do not know whether it was the effect of the hand-kissing, or of their veneration for the good Father.

“Mariette handed him the myrtle-wreath. He placed it around her brow, and said, ‘_Children, Love one another!_’ beseeching Mariette in the most tender and touching manner to love Colin. It seems that the old gentleman had either misunderstood the bridegroom’s name on account of his deafness, or had forgotten it in consequence of his failing memory, and thought of course that Colin must be the bridegroom.

“Mariette’s heart was softened by the exhortation of the pious priest, and with tears and sighs she said, ‘I love him already, and have long loved him, but he always hated me.’

“‘I hated you, Mariette?’ exclaimed Colin; ‘ever since you came to La Napoule my soul has lived in you alone. Oh, Mariette! how could I ever entertain the hope that you had any regard for me?’

“‘Why did you avoid me, Colin, and prefer the society of my companions to mine?’

“‘Oh, Mariette! I was tossed about on a sea of fear and trembling, of anxiety and love, whenever I saw you. I had not the courage to approach you, and if I was not near you I was most miserable.’ As they talked so earnestly, the good father thought they were quarrelling: so he put his arms around them, brought them gently together, and said, in an imploring tone, ‘My dear, dear children, love one another!’

“Then sank Mariette upon Colin’s breast; Colin threw his arms around her, and both faces beamed with unspeakable delight. They forgot the priest, forgot everything. Colin’s lips were pressed to Mariette’s sweet mouth. It was only a kiss, yet a kiss of loveliest forgetfulness. Both were completely wrapped up in each other. Both had so entirely lost their recollection that, without knowing what they did, they involuntarily followed the delighted Father Jerome into the church, and before the altar.”

* * * * *

In “Fair Harvard” is another narrow escape of two loving hearts from separation:

“The sight of Miss Campbell’s grief recalled Wentworth to his senses.

“‘Forgive me!’ he cried, passionately. ‘I knew not what I said. My love for you has made me beside myself. It was my wounded vanity that spoke. It is my misfortune, not your fault, that you did not love me. Tell me that you forgive me. Though I love you more than all the world besides, I will never see you again.’

“‘Never again, Wentworth?’ The girl raised her head, a smile broke through her tears, her lips quivered with tenderness.

“‘Darling, I will never leave you!’ cried her happy lover, and caught her half reluctant in his arms, and set love’s sweet seal upon his vow.

“A diviner beauty shone from the girl’s fair face; a tenderer light beamed from her sunny eyes.

“‘Dearest!’ she whispered,—the magic of her voice unlocked the gates of sense, filled the air with visions of beauty, and called over the laughing waves the music of heavenly choirs,—‘Dearest, tell me again that you love me.’ She sank upon her lover’s breast transfigured.

“‘Dearest!’ she again whispered, ‘will you love me always as now?’

“‘Always, darling, always! Would that now were forever? Nay, love, I would give my hope of immortal life to win this moment of delight!’

“‘Hush! hush!’ the girl clung closer to her lover.

“‘Not such love, but that you will always be noble and true, and—and will love no one else so well.’”

* * * * *

In Charlotte Brontë’s masterpiece, Jane Eyre returns to Thornfield after the long separation enforced by a painful adventure. She learns, upon revisiting the old familiar scenes, of the destruction of Thornfield Hall by fire, and of the violent death of the maniac wife. She finds that the lonely and sightless Rochester is an occupant of Ferndean manor-house, and she glides quietly into his parlor unannounced:

“‘This is you, Mary, is it not?’

“‘Mary is in the kitchen,’ I answered.

“He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but, not seeing where I stood, he did not touch me. ‘Who is this? who is this?’ he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to _see_ with those sightless eyes,—unavailing and distressing attempt! ‘Answer me,—speak again!’ he ordered, imperiously and aloud.

“‘Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilled half of what was in the glass,’ I said.

“‘_Who_ is it? _What_ is it? Who speaks?’

“‘Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here; I came only this evening,’ I answered.

“‘Great God! what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has seized me?’

“‘No delusion, no madness; your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.’

“‘And where is this speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I _cannot_ see, but I must feel, or my heart will stop, and my brain burst. Whatever—whoever you are—be perceptible to the touch, or I cannot live.’

“He groped; I arrested his wandering hand and prisoned it in both mine.

“‘Her very fingers!’ he cried; ‘her small slight fingers! If so, there must be more of her.’

“The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder, neck, waist—I was entwined and gathered to him.

“‘Is it Jane? _What_ is it? This is her shape,—this is her size——’

“‘And this is her voice,’ I added. ‘She is all here; her heart, too. God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again.’

“‘Jane Eyre! Jane Eyre!’ was all he said.

“‘My dear master,’ I answered, ‘I am Jane Eyre; I have found you out. I am come back to you.’

“‘In truth? In the flesh? My living Jane?’

“‘You touch me, sir,—you hold me, and fast enough; I am not cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?’

“‘My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her features; but I cannot be so blessed after all my misery. It is a dream; such dreams as I have had at night, when I clasped her once more to my heart, as I do now; and kissed her as thus—and felt that she loved me, and trusted she would not leave me.’

“‘Which I never will, sir, from this day.’

“‘Never will, says the vision! But I always woke and found it an empty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned,—my life dark, lonely, hopeless,—my soul athirst and forbidden to drink,—my heart famished and never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you; but kiss me before you go,—embrace me, Jane.’

“‘There, sir; and there!’

“I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes,—I swept his hair from his brow, and kissed that, too. He suddenly seemed to rouse himself; the conviction of the reality of all this seized him.

“‘It is you,—is it, Jane? You are come back to me, then?’

“‘I am.’”

* * * * *

In “Lothair,” Mr. Disraeli does not leave his hero and heroine until they start to “walk the long path in peace together:”

“‘Where can they have all gone?’ said Lady Corisande, looking round. ‘We must find them.’

“‘And leave this garden?’ said Lothair. ‘And I without a flower, the only one without a flower? I am afraid that is significant of my lot.’

“‘You shall choose a rose,’ said Lady Corisande.

“‘Nay; the charm is, that it should be your choice.’

“But choosing the rose lost more time, and, when Corisande and Lothair reached the arches of golden yew, there were no friends in sight.

“‘I think I hear sounds this way,’ said Lothair, and he led his companion farther from home.

“‘I see no one,’ said Corisande, distressed, and when they had advanced a little way.

“‘We are sure to find them in good time,’ said Lothair. ‘Besides, I wanted to speak to you about the garden at Muriel. I wanted to induce you to go there and help me to make it. Yes,’ he added, after some hesitation, ‘on this spot—I believe on this very spot—I asked the permission of your mother two years ago to express to you my love. She thought me a boy, and she treated me as a boy. She said I knew nothing of the world, and both our characters were unformed. I know the world now. I have committed many mistakes, doubtless many follies; have formed many opinions, and have changed many opinions; but to one I have been constant, in one I am unchanged, and that is my adoring love to you.’

“She turned pale, she stopped, then, gently taking his arm, she hid her face in his breast.

“He soothed and sustained her agitated frame, and sealed with an embrace her speechless form. Then, with soft thoughts and softer words, clinging to him, he induced her to resume their stroll, which both of them now wished might assuredly be undisturbed. They had arrived at the limit of the pleasure-grounds, and they wandered into the park and its most sequestered parts. All this time Lothair spoke much, and gave her the history of his life since he first visited her home. Lady Corisande said little, but, when she was more composed, she told him that from the first her heart had been his, but everything seemed to go against her hopes. Perhaps at last, to please her parents, she would have married the Duke of Brecon, had not Lothair returned; and what he had said to her that morning at Crecy House had decided her resolution, whatever might be her lot, to unite it to no one else but him. But then came the adventure of the crucifix, and she thought all was over for her, and she quitted town in despair.”

But not always is the ending thus smoothed and harmonized, mutual consecration thus rewarded, mutual trust thus irradiated. Sometimes for the diadem of love is substituted a crown of thorns, and for the aureole of faith and hope the gloom and shadow of despair; sometimes the steps which together had been peaceful and happy are made to diverge into the pathways which lead through dreary interpretation of duty, or fateful compulsion, to that abiding sorrow which only finds rest in the grave.

* * * * *

Here is a sad picture from Anne M. Crane’s “Opportunity:”

“Gazing upon this agony of despair, an uncontrollable impulse swept over the woman, seized upon her, to stretch out her hands and cry to him,—

“‘Douglas, your only mistake has been in not seeing that my heart is not dead, but sleeping; that you could still teach me to love you; that we might yet be supremely happy.’

“How mighty was the temptation would never be known except to Harvey Berney and her God; but its power culminated and passed before he found strength to speak again. No, he had voluntarily pledged his word and promise to another, and that pledge must be redeemed; he must bear his hard fate as best he might. She thought of the utter desolation which would descend on another woman’s life, were she now to take from it what it had rightfully won. For herself it was the surrender of a future bliss, of a joy which would have come forth in the fulness of time; to that other it would be annihilation of happiness now and forever. Broken heart on the woman’s side, broken faith on the man’s,—that price must not be paid for any earthly good. For his own sake she did not dare to grant his heart’s desire; ah, yes! and the desire of her own. Better misery, failure, and disappointment than that they should willingly sink to false degeneracy.

“Swiftly but surely she had counted the cost, when, after a moment, the man’s voice again broke the stillness:

“‘From that night I should have gone down to destruction if Rose had not put out her hand to me. I clung to it then, and my one chance for heaven and earth is to cling to it until I die. You women, who lead such quiet, sheltered lives, can never know or comprehend a man’s terrible necessity for some semblance of hope and happiness. Rose takes me just as I am, and I pray, for her sake, that she may save me.’

“‘And I pray the same prayer for your sake, and I know that it will be answered,’ cried Harvey’s quivering voice, as the hot tears sprang to her eyes.

“The man gazed straight into them.

“I shall remember that,’ he said, in a different tone from that which he had been using. ‘I shall always remember that, though we part now perhaps forever. My love is a love for life and death, for time and eternity, yet for this world we die to each other from to-night. But, Harvey,’ he said, coming close to her and speaking with a horrible breathlessness, as though soul and body were being torn asunder, ‘dying men gain their own rights and privileges.’ He took that noble, tender face within his hands, and raised it for one last long look. But he could not, he would not go, taking with him only that. Suddenly the strong arms were about her, holding her, straining her to that madly-throbbing heart, while upon lips and cheeks and brow fell long burning kisses, each one of which seemed to claim and seal her as his own. Suddenly again she felt herself released, and after a moment knew that he was gone. Then she sank down before the fire, heart-sick and desolate, knowing that she had surrendered forever the man who loved her and whom she might have loved.”

But both remembered the words of Robert Browning, “This life of mine must be lived out, and a grave thoroughly earned,” and both bravely and patiently endured unto the end. Far different was the tragic fate of the “Bride of Lammermoor:”

“Lucy covered her face with her hands, and the tears, in spite of her, forced their way between her fingers. ‘Forgive me,’ said Ravenswood, taking her right hand, which, after slight resistance, she yielded to him, still continuing to shade her face with the left; ‘I am too rude—too rough—too intractable to deal with any being so soft and gentle as you are. Forget that so stern a vision has crossed your path of life, and let me pursue mine, sure that I can meet with no worse misfortune after the moment it divides me from your side.’

“Lucy wept on, but her tears were less bitter. Each attempt which the master made to explain his purpose of departure only proved a new evidence of his desire to stay; until, at length, instead of bidding her farewell, he gave his faith to her forever and received her troth in return. The whole passed so suddenly, and arose so much out of the immediate impulse of the moment, that ere the master of Ravenswood could reflect upon the consequences of the step which he had taken, their lips as well as their hands had pledged the sincerity of their affection.”

Every reader of this sorrowful story will remember how Lucy was forced by her mother into an agreement to marry a detested wretch on account of his wealth; how Ravenswood confronted the family and poured out the terrors of his wrath and indignation; how he closed his scathing invectives by turning to Lucy with the words, “And to you, madam, I have nothing further to say, except to pray to God that you may not become a world’s wonder for this act of wilful and deliberate perjury;” how Lucy, in a paroxysm of insanity, attempted to murder Bucklaw in the bridal chamber; and how, soon after, death closed for her the tragic scenes of earth.

* * * * *

How a loving kiss enfeebled and finally paralyzed the arm of a murderess is told by Bulwer-Lytton in his “Lucretia:”

“Late in the evening, before she retired to rest, Helen knocked gently at her aunt’s door. A voice quick and startled bade her enter. She came in with her sweet, caressing look, and took Lucretia’s hand, which struggled from the clasp. Bending over that haggard brow, she said, simply, yet to Lucretia’s ear the voice seemed that of command, ‘Let me kiss you this night!’ and her lips pressed that brow. The murderess shuddered, and closed her eyes; when she opened them, the angel visitor was gone.”

What followed was the theme of a conference with a fellow-conspirator, from which we extract the following dialogue:

“Shutting the door with care, and turning the key, Gabriel said, with low, suppressed passion,—

“‘Well, your mind seems wandering. Speak!’

“‘It is strange,’ said Lucretia, in hollow tones. ‘Can Nature turn accomplice, and befriend us here?’

“‘Nature! did you not last night administer the——’

“‘No,’ interrupted Lucretia. ‘No; she came into the room; she kissed me here, on the brow that even then was meditating murder. The kiss burned; it burns still;—it eats, into the brain like remorse. But I did not yield; I read again her false father’s protestation of love; I read again the letter announcing the discovery of my son, and remorse lay still; I went forth as before; I stole into her chamber; I had the fatal crystal in my hand——’

“‘Well! well!’

“‘And suddenly there came the fearful howl of a dog: and the dog’s fierce eyes glared on me; I paused, I trembled; Helen started, woke, called aloud; I turned and fled. The poison was not given.’”

And afterwards she said,—

“‘That kiss still burns; I will stir in this no more.’”

* * * * *

When it comes to the “last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history,” few can equal in power and pathos the popular writer, Samuel Warren, as witness one or two passages in the “Diary of a Physician.”

In “The Wife,” which is a record of incredible atrocities on the part of a brutal husband, and of patient endurance and endless forgiveness on the part of the wife, we come to the closing scene:

“‘Well, George, we must part!’ said she, closing her eyes and breathing softly, but fast. Her husband sobbed like a child, with his face buried in his handkerchief. ‘Do you forgive me?’ he murmured, half choked with emotion.

“‘Yes, dear—dear—dearest husband! God knows how I do from my heart! I forgive all the little you have ever grieved me about.’

“‘Oh, Jane—Jane—Jane!’ groaned the man, suddenly stooping over the bed and kissing her lips in an apparent ecstasy. He fell down on his knees and cried bitterly.

“‘Rise, George, rise,’ said his wife, faintly. He obeyed her, and she again clasped his hand in hers.

“‘George, are you there—are you?’ she inquired, in a voice fainter and fainter.

“‘Here I am, love!—oh, look on me! look on me!’ he sobbed, gazing steadily on her features. ‘Say once more that you forgive me! Let me hear your dear, blessed voice again—or—or—’

“‘I do! kiss me—kiss me,’ she murmured, almost inaudibly; and her unworthy, her guilty husband kissed away the last expiring breath of one of the loveliest and most injured women whose hearts have been broken by a husband’s brutality.”

In that singular instance of premonstration, “The Broken Heart,” we follow with eager interest to its natural and most sorrowful conclusion the sorrowful revelation so unexpectedly made to a gentle and pensive girl, in the midst of her song at a brilliant party, of the death of her affianced on the battle-field. There was nothing left for her then but to welcome the peace of the grave,—

“Like a lily drooping,
Bow her head and die.”

On the family’s being summoned into the chamber of death,—

“Her sister Jane was the first that entered, her eyes swollen with weeping, and seemingly half suffocated with the effort to conceal her emotions.

“‘Oh, my darling, precious,—my own sister Annie!’ she sobbed, and knelt down at the bedside, flinging her arms round her sister’s neck, kissing the gentle sufferer’s cheeks and mouth.

“‘Annie! love! darling!—don’t you know me?’ she groaned, kissing her forehead repeatedly. Could I help weeping? All who had entered were standing around the bed, sobbing, and in tears. I kept my fingers at the wrist of the dying sufferer, but could not feel whether or not the pulse beat, which, however, I attributed to my own agitation.

“‘Speak—speak—my darling Annie! speak to me; I am your poor sister Jane!’ sobbed the agonized girl, continuing fondly kissing her sister’s cold lips and forehead. She suddenly started, exclaimed, ‘Oh, God! _she’s dead!_’ and sank instantly senseless on the floor. Alas, alas! it was too true; my sweet and broken-hearted patient was no more.”

* * * * *

The author of “Guy Livingstone” gives us these noteworthy passages:

“He bent down his lofty head, and instantly their lips met, and were set together fast.

“A kiss! Tibullus, Secundus, Moore, and a thousand other poets and poetasters have rhymed on the word for centuries, decking it with the choicest and quaintest conceits. But, remember, it was with a kiss that the greatest of all criminals sealed the unpardonable sin; it was a kiss which brought on Francesca punishment so unutterably piteous that he swooned at the sight who endured to look on all the other horrors of nine-circled hell.”

“He laid the light burden, that scarcely weighed upon his arm, down on the pillows, very softly and gently, smoothing them mechanically with his hand. Then he stooped and pressed one kiss more on the pale lips: they never felt it, though the passion of that lengthened caress might almost have waked the dead. And so those two parted, to meet again upon earth never more.

“The next time woman’s lips touched Guy Livingstone’s, they were his mother’s, and he had been a corpse an hour.”

THE KISS IN HUMOROUS STORY AND ANECDOTE.

FATHER TOM AND THE POPE.

Every one who knows anything of the humorous literature of the century has laughed a hundred times over that wonderful story of “Father Tom and the Pope; or, A Night at the Vatican,” which has been attributed to so many of the leading Irish humorists, and is enough of itself to have made the reputation of the best of them. From its first appearance, in “Blackwood,” Catholics and Protestants alike have enjoyed its marvellous and abounding fun, and it is one of the few things written in our time which people do not refuse to read to-day because of having read them yesterday and the day before.

Those who know the story will remember that the reverend Father being “in Room, ov coorse the Pope axed him to take pot-look wid him,” and they proceeded together to “invistigate the composition of distilled liquors.” As sociability grew warm between them, Father Tom volunteered to astonish his Holiness with a new “preparation ov chymicals,” after the manner of the “ould counthry.” To make this “miraculous mixthir” exactly what it ought to be, his reverence insisted that “a faymale hand was ondispinsably necessary to produce the adaptation ov the particles,” and the butler of the Vatican had accordingly brought up “Miss Eliza,” one of the fairest maids of the household, that she might stir the milk in the skillet with the little finger of her right hand. Miss Eliza is described as “stepping like a three-year-old, and blushing like the brake of day,” and the Pope had very early to rebuke his reverence with some sternness for his “deludhering talk to the young woman.” Nothing daunted, however, the gallant Father managed somehow to upset the candle and put the “windy-curtains” in peril of fire, and while the rest of the company were engaged in “getting things put to rights,” the incident, or accident, occurred which can only be told in the words of the story.

“And now,” says Mickey Hefferman, the story-teller, “I have to tell you ov a raally onpleasant occurrence. If it was a Prodesan that was in it, I’d say that while the Pope’s back was turned, Father Tom made free wid the two lips ov Miss Eliza; but, upon my conscience, I believe it was a mere mistake that his Holiness fell into, on account ov his being an ould man and not having aither his eyesight or his hearing very parfect. At any rate it can’t be denied but that he had a sthrong imprission that sich was the case; for he wheeled about as quick as thought jist as his riv’rence was sitting down, and charged him wid the offince plain and plump. ‘Is it kissing my housekeeper before my face you are, you villain?’ says he. ‘Go down out o’ this,’ says he to Miss Eliza, ‘and do you be packing off wid you,’ he says to Father Tom, ‘for it’s not safe, so it isn’t, to have the likes ov you in a house where there’s timptation in your way.’

“‘Is it me?’ says his riv’rence; ‘why, what would your Holiness be at, at all? Sure I wasn’t doing no sich thing.’

“‘Would you have me doubt the evidence ov my sinses?’ says the Pope; ‘would you have me doubt the testimony ov my eyes and ears?’ says he.

“‘Indeed I would so,’ says his riv’rence, ‘if they pretind to have informed your Holiness ov any sich foolishness.’

“‘Why,’ says the Pope, ‘I seen you afther kissing Eliza as plain as I see the nose on your face; I heard the shmack you gave her as plain as ever I heard thundher.’

“‘And how do you know whether you see the nose on my face or not?’ says his riv’rence; ‘and how do you know whether wrhat you thought was thundher was thundher at all? Them operations ov the sinses,’ says he, ‘comprises only particular corporayal emotions, connected wid sartin confused perciptions called sinsations, and isn’t to be depended upon at all. If we were to follow them blind guides, we might jist as well turn heretics at ons’t. ’Pon my secret word, your Holiness, it’s naither charitable nor orthodox ov you to set up the testimony ov your eyes and ears agin the characther of a clargyman. And now see how aisy it is to explain all them phwenomena that perplexed you. I ris and went over beside the young woman because the skillet was boiling over, to help her to save the dhrop ov liquor that was in it; and as for the noise you heard, my dear man, it was naither more nor less nor myself dhrawing the cork out ov this blessed bottle.’

“‘Don’t offer to thrape that upon me!’ says the Pope; ‘here’s the cork in the bottle still, as tight as a wedge.’

“‘I beg your pardon,’ says his riv’rence; ’that’s not the cork at all,’ says he. ‘I dhrew the cork a good two minits ago, and it’s very purtily spitted on the end ov this blessed cork-shcrew at this prisint moment; howandiver you can’t see it, because it’s only its raal prisince that’s in it. But that appearance that you call a cork,’ says he, ‘is nothing but the outward spacies and external qualities of the cortical nathur. Them’s nothing but the accidents of the cork that you’re looking at and handling; but, as I tould you afore, the raal cork’sdhrew, and is here prisint on the end ov this nate little insthrument, and it was the noise I made in dhrawing it, and nothing else, that you mistook for the sound ov the _pogue_.’

“You know there was no conthravaning what he said, and the Pope couldn’t openly deny it. Howandiver he thried to pick a hole in it this way.

“‘Granting,’ says he, ‘that there is the differ you say betuxt the raality ov the cork and them cortical accidents, and that it’s quite possible, as you allidge, that the thrue cork is raaliy prisint on the end ov the shcrew, while the accidents keep the mouth of the bottle stopped; still,’ says he, ‘I can’t undherstand, though willing to acquit you, how the dhrawing ov the raal cork, that’s onpalpable and widout accidents, could produce the accident ov that sinsible explosion I heard jist now.’

“‘All I can say,’ says his riv’rence, ‘is that I’m sinsible it was a raal accident, anyhow.’

“‘Ay,’ says the Pope, ‘the kiss you gev Eliza, you mane.’

“‘No,’ says his riv’rence, ‘but the report I made.’”

THE STUDENT OF UPSALA.

Mary Howitt, in her “Frederika Bremer and her Swedish Sisters,” repeats the pleasant story of a university student at Upsala in the early part of the present century. He was the son of a poor widow, and was standing with some of his college companions in one of the public walks on a fine Sunday morning. As they were thus standing, the young daughter of the governor, a good and beautiful girl, was seen approaching them on her way to church, accompanied by her governess.

Suddenly the widow’s son exclaimed, “I am sure that young girl would give me a kiss!”

His companions laughed, and one of them, a rich young fellow, said, “It is impossible! Thou an utter stranger, and in a public thoroughfare! It is too absurd to think of.”

“Nevertheless, I am confident of what I say,” returned the other.

The rich student offered to lay a heavy wager that, so far from succeeding, he would not even venture to propose such a thing.

Taking him at his word, the poor student, the moment the young lady and her attendant had passed, followed them, and politely addressing them, they stopped, on which, in a modest and straightforward manner, he said, speaking to the governor’s daughter, “It entirely rests with Fröken to make my fortune.”

“How so?” demanded she, greatly amazed.

“I am a poor student,” said he, “the son of a widow. If Fröken would condescend to give me a kiss, I should win a large sum of money, which, enabling me to continue my studies, would relieve my mother of a great anxiety.”

“If success depend on so small a thing,” said the innocent girl, “I can but comply;” and therewith, sweetly blushing, she gave him a kiss, just as if he had been her brother.

Without a thought of wrong-doing, the young girl went to church, and afterwards told her father of the encounter.

The next day the governor summoned the bold student to his presence, anxious to see the sort of person who had thus dared to accost his daughter. But the young man’s modest demeanor at once favorably impressed him. He heard his story, and was so well pleased that he invited him to dine at the castle twice a week.

In about a year the young lady married the student whose fortune she had thus made, and who is at the present day a celebrated Swedish philologist. His amiable wife died a few years since.

TUNNEL STORIES.

The well-known court-plaster incident is said to have occurred in one of the tunnels of the Hudson River Railroad. A very pretty lady was seated opposite to a good-looking gentleman who was accompanying a party to Saratoga Springs. It was observed that this exceedingly handsome young woman had the smallest bit of court-plaster on a slight abrasion of the surface of her red upper lip. As the cars rumbled into the darkness of the tunnel, a slight exclamation of “Oh!” was heard from the lady, and when the cars again emerged into the light, the little piece of court-plaster aforesaid had become in some mysterious manner transferred to the upper lip of the young gentleman! Curious, was it not?

A Western youth played a trick on two school-girls returning home for vacation, which is thus reported:

Occupying a seat on the train just back of them, he entered into a flirtation which was in no way discouraged. The train came to a dark tunnel, and when it got midway he kissed the back of his own hand audibly,—gave it a regular buss. Each girl, of course, charged the other with guilt, and the passengers thought possibly the youth had kissed both. When they got home, each told the joke on the other, and for the first time two girls have the credit of having been kissed without having enjoyed that pleasure.

A similar story, but with an improvement, is told of Horace Vernet, the eminent painter.

The artist was going from Versailles to Paris by railway. In the same compartment with him were two ladies whom he had never seen before, but who were evidently acquainted with him. They examined him minutely, and commented freely upon his martial bearing, his hale old age, the style of his dress, etc. They continued their annoyance until finally the painter determined to put an end to the persecution. As the train passed through the tunnel of St. Cloud, the three travellers were wrapped in complete darkness. Vernet raised the back of his hand to his mouth, and kissed it twice violently. On emerging from the obscurity, he found that the ladies had withdrawn their attention from him, and were accusing each other of having been kissed by a man in the dark!

Presently they arrived at Paris; and Vernet, on leaving them, said, “Ladies, I shall be puzzled all my life by the inquiry, _Which_ of these two ladies was it that kissed me?”

A correspondent of one of the London morning papers writes, “The following little incident which happened the other day illustrates the necessity of providing more light in the carriages of the Metropolitan Underground Railway. A gentleman had taken his seat in a second-class carriage which had already nine occupants. On the side opposite to him sat one of the prettiest women he had ever seen. She had entered the carriage accompanied by an elderly gentleman, who seated himself opposite to her, and whose attentions to the lady left little doubt that they stood to one another in the relation of husband and wife. The light was exceedingly dim when they started. At Victoria Station, a boy, who sat next to the elderly gentleman, got out. In consequence of the departure of the boy there was a moving up of the tightly-wedged passengers on that side of the carriage, and the gentleman whom I first mentioned was thus brought right opposite to the lady whose beauty had already attracted his attention, and sat in the position originally occupied by her elderly companion. From Victoria to South Kensington they were left in total darkness, and this is what happened, in the words of the narrator: ‘A light little hand was laid on my shoulder; I felt a sweet warm breath fan my face; a pair of the softest, most perfect lips were pressed to mine with a delicious sensation which I cannot describe. Then a little hand slid down my arm, thrilling every nerve in my body, and finally deposited three lozenges in my hand. As we neared the lights of South Kensington Station, the hand was withdrawn. May the gentleman on my left ever remain in blissful ignorance of the mistake made by his better half in the darkness of that tunnel.’ Let us echo that wish, and hope that the secret of three lozenges was never divulged. Under certain circumstances darkness has its advantages,—that is to say, if you are not travelling with your wife.”

Those who have read “The Newcomes” will probably remember the following passage:

“A young gentleman and a young lady a-kissing of each other in the railway coach,” says Hannah, jerking up with her finger to the ceiling, as much as to say, “There she is! Lar, she be a pretty young creature, that she be! and so I told Miss Martha.” Thus differently had the news which had come to them on the previous night affected the old lady and her maid.

The news was that Miss Newcome’s maid (a giddy thing from the country, who had not even learned as yet to hold her tongue) had announced with giggling delight to Lady Ann’s maid that Mr. Clive had given Miss Ethel a kiss in the tunnel, and she supposed it was a match.

Clive, we are told, did not know whether to laugh or to be in a rage over this report. He evidently felt called upon, however, to swear that he was as innocent of all intention of kissing Miss Ethel as of embracing Queen Elizabeth.

AN AMOROUS WESTERN YOUTH.

A young Montana chap upon stepping aboard of a sleeping-car thus addressed the conductor: