Chapter III (6)

Reference having been made to the basial diversities mentioned in the Bible, it was incidentally remarked that there is another kind of kiss which young ladies receive on the sofa in the parlor after the gas is turned low, which the Scriptures don’t mention,—nor the young ladies either.

* * * * *

An Indiana editor advises people against using a hard pencil, and goes on to tell why. His wife desired him to write a note to a lady, inviting her to meet a party of friends at her house. After “Hubby” had done as his wife desired, and started to post the note, she saw on another piece of paper an impression of what he had written. It was:

“Sweet Mattie—Effie desires your company on Wednesday, to meet the Smithsons. Don’t fail to come; and, my darling, I shall have the happiness of a long walk home with you, and a sweet good-night kiss. I dare not see you often, or my all-consuming love would betray us both. But, Mattie dear, don’t fail to come.”

* * * * *

Harriet McEwen Kimball is responsible for this description of a paroxysmal kiss:

“Only the roses will hear;
Dear,
Only the roses will see!
This once—just this!
Ah, the roses, I wis,
They envy me!”

That kiss was clearly _sub rosa_.

* * * * *

The incongruities in the repetitious mode of singing hymns are shown in such illustrations as these: “Send down salvation from on high” became “Send down sal-.” A soprano in one case sang “Oh for a man,” and the chorus responded, “Oh for a mansion in the skies.” In another case the soprano modestly sang, “Teach me to kiss;” the alto took up the strain, “Teach me to kiss;” while the bass rendered it quite prosaic by singing, “Teach me to kiss the rod.”

* * * * *

“Punch” publishes the following from its sensational reporter: An appalling tragedy in domestic life has lately scattered consternation in the neighborhood of Bayswater. A newly-married couple, in possession of ample fortune, and moving, it is rumored, in extremely good society, had been observed to live together upon very loving terms, and no suspicion as to their affection was entertained among their friends. It appears, however, that on Monday morning last the young husband left his wife in considerable agitation, having, as he alleged, some business in the city. It has since transpired that he had previously secured himself a stall at Drury Lane for Salvini in “Othello;” and there seems reason to believe that the tragical event which subsequently happened was first suggested to his mind by this most masterly performance. It was noticed by the footman that he did not return until a few minutes before his usual dinner-hour, when, rushing in abruptly, without one word of warning, he proceeded to the bed-chamber where his wife was in the act of dressing for the evening, and before her startled maid could even scream for help, he caught his wife up in his arms in a frenzy of excitement and deliberately proceeded to smother her—with kisses!

* * * * *

In that very amusing sketch, “Johnny Beedle’s Courtship,” occurs the following droll scene:

“It is a good sign to find a girl sulky. I knew where the shoe pinched: it was that ’are Patty Bean business. So I went to work to persuade her that I had never had any notion after Patty, and, to prove it, I fell to running her down at a great rate. Sally could not help chiming in with me; and I rather guess Miss Patty suffered a few. I now not only got hold of her hand without opposition, but managed to slip my arm round her waist. But there was no satisfying me; so I must go to poking out my lips after a kiss. I guess I rued it. She fetched me a slap in the face that made me see stars, and my ears rung like a brass kettle for a quarter of an hour. I was forced to laugh at the joke, though out of the wrong side of my mouth, which gave my face something the look of a gridiron. The battle now began in the regular way.

“‘Come, Sally, give me a kiss, and ha’ done with it now?’

“‘I won’t! so there, you’—

“‘I’ll take it, whether or no.’

“‘Do it, if you dare!’

“And at it we went, rough and tumble. An odd destruction of starch now commenced; the bow of my cravat was squat up in half a shake. At the next bout, smash went shirt-collar; and at the same time some of the head-fastenings gave way, and down came Sally’s hair in a flood like a mill-dam let loose, carrying away half a dozen combs. One dig of Sally’s elbow, and my blooming ruffles wilted down to a dish-cloth. But she had no time to boast. Soon her neck-tackling began to shiver; it parted at the throat, and away came a lot of blue and white beads, scampering and running races every which way about the floor.

“By the hookey, if Sally Jones is not real grit, there is no snakes. She fought fair, however, I must own, and neither tried to bite or scratch; and when she could fight no longer she yielded handsomely. Her arms fell down by her sides, her head back over her chair, her eyes closed, and there lay her plump little mouth, all in the air. Lord, did ye ever see a hawk pounce upon a young robin, or a bumble-bee upon a clover-top? I say nothing.

“Consarn it, how a buss will crack of a still frosty night! Mrs. Jones was about half-way between asleep and awake.

“‘There goes my yeast-bottle,’ says she to herself, ‘bust into twenty hundred pieces, and my bread is all dough again.’”

* * * * *

In “The Tour of Dr. Syntax,” Combe gives us the following amusing passages:

_Squire._ This, Doctor Syntax, is my sister;
Why, my good sir, you have not kissed her.

_Syntax._ Do not suppose I’m such a brute
As to disdain the sweet salute.

_Squire._ And this, sir, is my loving wife,
The joy and honor of my life.

_Syntax._ A lovely lady to the view!
And with your leave, I’ll kiss her too.

...

With heart of joy and look of woe,
The Doctor now prepared to go;
He silent squeezed the Squire’s hands,
And asked of madam her commands.
The Squire exclaimed, “Why so remiss?
She bids you take a hearty kiss;
And if you think that one won’t do,
I beg, dear sir, you’ll give her _two_.”
“Nay, then,” said Syntax, “you shall see!”
And straight he gave the lady _three_.
The lady, blushing, thanked him too,
And in soft accents said, “Adieu.”

PRENTICEANA.

The following epigrammatic hits are from the pen of George D. Prentice, the late distinguished editor of the “Louisville Journal”:

We once had a female correspondent who wrote, “When two hearts are surcharged with love’s electricity, a kiss is the burning contact, the wild leaping flame of love’s enthusiasm.” This is certainly very pretty, but a flash of electricity is altogether too brief to give a correct idea of a truly delicious kiss. We agree with Byron that the “strength” of a kiss is generally “measured by its length.” Still, there should be a _limit_, and we really think that Mrs. Browning, strong-minded woman as she is, transcends all reasonable limits in her notion of a kiss’s duration. Why, she talks in her “Aurora Leigh” of a kiss

“As long and silent as the ecstatic night.”

That indeed must be “linked sweetness” altogether too “long drawn out.”

* * * * *

An exchange says that we have a right to take an umbrella or a kiss without permission whenever we can. Well, but if the umbrella isn’t returned the fault is ours; if the kiss isn’t, it is the lady’s.

* * * * *

Surely it is a blessed privilege to be kissed by the breeze that has kissed all the pretty women in the world.

* * * * *

“That’s very singular, sir,” said a young lady when we kissed her. “Ah, well, we’ll soon make it plural.”

* * * * *

As Claude R.’s wife sat quietly in the twilight, a fellow stole behind her and kissed her. “Is it Claude?” she asked, hurriedly. “No, dear madam.” A moment afterwards he was heard to exclaim, “Oh, yes, I am _clawed_ now, indeed I am.”

* * * * *

A female correspondent suggests a condition on which she will give us a kiss. We feel in duty bound to say to her that kissing is a thing that, at every proper opportunity, we set our face against.

* * * * *

Last evening we chanced to see a pair of interesting lovers kissing at an open lattice. Young people! that was very improper lattice-work.

* * * * *

“Is the smoke of my cigarette unpleasant to you, sir?” “Oh, no, madam: I would rather inhale smoke from your beautiful lips than taste kisses from any others.”

* * * * *

Return a kiss for a blow.—_Sunday-School Union._

Always provided the giver of the blow be a pretty girl.

* * * * *

A beautiful young girl has just sent us a basket of fruit, the very sight of which, she thinks, must make us smack our lips. We thank her, and would greatly prefer smacking hers.

* * * * *

A kiss on the forehead denotes respect and admiration; on the cheek, friendship; on the lips, love. The young men of our acquaintance have not much “respect” for young ladies.

* * * * *

According to the New York “Express,” nine thousand ladies of that city shook hands with Mr. Clay, and kissed him, or were kissed by him, in the brief space of two hours. This was just seventy-five kisses to the minute, or considerably more than one to the second. We are not altogether sure that Mr. Clay, instead of kissing nine thousand girls in two hours, would not have preferred to select the prettiest one of the whole number and kiss _her_ two hours.

* * * * *

If you doubt whether to kiss a pretty girl or not, give her the benefit of the doubt.

* * * * *

A young lady says that males are of no account from the time the ladies stop kissing them as infants till they commence kissing them as lovers.

* * * * *

We are never satisfied that a lady understands a kiss unless we have it from her own mouth.

* * * * *

A young lady’s first-love kiss has the same effect on her as being electrified. It’s a great shock, but it’s soon over.

* * * * *

A young physician asking permission of a lass to kiss her, she replied, “No, sir; I never like a doctor’s bill stuck in my face.”

MISCELLANEOUS ASPECTS AND RELATIONS.

QUALITATIVE ANALYSIS.

Kissing is not to be talked about; one practical demonstration is worth a thousand prosaic descriptions. The emotions of anger, fear, doubt, hope, and joy have been appropriately described; but no one has done justice to a warm, loving kiss. Among the attempts which have been made is one by a young lady still in the dreamy regions of girlhood. She sings,—

“Let thy arms twine
Around me like a zone of love,
And thy fond lip, so soft,
To mine be passionately pressed,
As it has been so oft.”

This is cold enough, surely. Here is something better; the heart has made advances and speaks from experience:

“Sweetest love,
Place thy dear arm beneath my drooping head,
And let me lowly nestle in thy heart;
Then turn those soul-lit orbs on me, and press
My panting lips, to taste the ecstasy
Imparted by each long and lingering kiss.”

Alexander Smith seems to have been electrified by a kiss; one made him feel as if he were “walking on thrones,”—a figure quite as remarkable as the old deacon’s, who, upon taking too much apple-brandy, likened his sensations to being on top of a meeting-house and having every shingle turned into a Jew’s-harp. But let us hear Alexander:

“My soul leaped up beneath thy timid kiss,
What then to me were groans,
Or pain, or death? Earth was a round of bliss,
I seemed to walk on thrones!”

THE PHILOSOPHY OF KISSING.

What’s in a kiss? Really, when people come to reflect upon the matter calmly, what can we see in a kiss? The lips pout slightly and touch the cheek softly, and then they just part, and the job is complete. There is a kiss in the abstract! View it in the abstract, take it as it stands, look at it philosophically, what is there in it? Millions upon millions of souls have been made happy, while millions upon millions have been plunged into misery and despair, by this kissing; and yet when you look at the character of the thing, it is simply pouting and parting of the lips. In every grade of society there is kissing. Go where you will,—to what country you will,—you are perfectly sure to find kissing. There is, however, some mysterious virtue in a kiss, after all.

There’s something in a kiss;
If nothing else would prove it,
It might be proved by this:
All honest people love it.

THE SCIENCE OF KISSING.

People will kiss, though not one in a hundred knows how to extract bliss from lovely lips, any more than they know how to make diamonds from charcoal; yet it is easy enough, at least for us. First know whom you are going to kiss; don’t make a mistake, although a mistake may be good. Don’t jump up like a trout for a fly and smack a woman on the neck, or the ear, or the corner of her forehead, or on the end of her nose. The gentleman should be a little the taller; he should have a clean face, a kind eye, and a mouth full of expression. Don’t kiss everybody; don’t sit down to it; stand up; need not be anxious about getting in a crowd. Two persons are plenty to corner and catch a kiss; more persons would spoil the sport. Take the left hand of the lady in your right; let your hat go to—any place out of the way; throw the left hand gently over the shoulder of the lady and let it fall down the right side. Do not be in a hurry; draw her gently, lovingly, to your heart. Her head will fall submissively on your shoulder, and a handsome shoulder-strap it makes. Do not be in a hurry. Her left hand is in your right; let there be an impression to that, not like the gripe of a vice, but a gentle clasp, full of electricity, thought, and respect. Do not be in a hurry. Her head lies carelessly on your shoulder; you are heart to heart. Look down into her half-closed eyes; gently, but manfully, press her to your bosom. Stand firm; be brave, but don’t be in a hurry. Her lips are almost open; lean slightly forward with your head, not the body; take good aim; the lips meet; the eyes close; the heart opens; the soul rides the storms, troubles, and sorrows of life (don’t be in a hurry); heaven opens before you; the world shoots under your feet as a meteor flashes across the evening sky (don’t be afraid); the heart forgets its bitterness, and the art of kissing is learned! No fuss, no noise, no fluttering or squirming like that of hook-impaled worms. Kissing doesn’t hurt, nor does it require an act of Congress to make it legal.

That reverend wag, Sydney Smith, says, “We are in favor of a certain amount of shyness when a kiss is proposed; but it should not be too long, and, when the fair one gives it, let it be administered with warmth and energy,—let there be soul in it. If she closes her eyes and sigh immediately after it, the effect is greater. She should be careful not to slobber a kiss, but give it as a humming-bird runs his bill into a honeysuckle, deep but delicate. There is much virtue in a kiss when well delivered. We have the memory of one we received in our youth, which lasted us forty years, and we believe it will be one of the last things we shall think of when we die.”

THE COMPOSITION OF A KISS.

Cupid, if storying legends tell aright,
Once framed a rich elixir of delight.
A chalice o’er love-kindled flames he fixed,
And in it nectar and ambrosia mixed;
With these, the magic dews which evening brings,
Brushed from the Idalian star by fairy wings,
Each tender pledge of sacred faith he joined,
Each gentler pleasure of the unspotted mind,—
Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow,
And Hope, the blameless parasite of Woe.
The eyeless chemist heard the process rise,
The streamy chalice bubbled up in sighs,
Sweet sounds transpired, as when the enamored dove
Pours the soft murmuring of responsive love.
The finished work might Envy vainly blame,
And “Kisses” was the precious compound’s name.

COLERIDGE.

THE SOUND OF A KISS.

A kiss is a difficult thing to describe on paper with only the unyielding, unimpressible materials of pen and ink; but it has been courageously attempted by a wag who had been at a wedding, “all of which he saw, and part of which he was.” Having “seen it done and performed, and heard the reverberation,” he describes a kiss as follows:

“This is the age of improvement, ladies and gentlemen; stand back and you will see _a kiss on paper_. Don’t be incredulous. I will give you the sound in types. Listen:

“When two pairs of affectionate lips are placed together to the intent of osculation, the noise educed is something like to the ensuing,

_Epe-st’ weep’ st-e’ ee!_

and then the sound tapers off so softly and so musically that no letters can do it justice.

“If any one thinks my description imperfect, let him surpass it if he can, even with a pen made from a quill out of Cupid’s wing.”

Another writer describes the acoustic phenomena of the process in the following stanzas:

Men’s fancies have long been sore tasked
Some simile meet to bestow
On that which all figures of speech
Never fail to fall vastly below.

Of the magical power of the touch,
And the odorous perfume distilled,
Already there’s written so much
That poetical books are now filled.

But a thought rather novel occurs
To my mind in regard to the sound:
It is this,—that a kiss is just like
The swell which in music is found.

Beginning most gently at first,
To the middle you gradually swell,
Then softly reduce to the close,
And, though luscious, take care not to dwell.

This gradual ascent to the swell
Prepares for the climax of bliss,
And letting one down as he rose
Will weaken a fall such as this.

This provision of nature most wise
I have studied, and sagely conclude
’Twas done by this scale of degrees
Certain death from excess to elude.

THE DANGEROUS SIDE.

THE LEGAL VIEW.

POOR ENCOURAGEMENT.

An Iowa school-teacher was discharged for the offence of kissing a female assistant. Whereupon a local paper inquired, “What inducement is there for any person to exile himself to the country districts of Iowa to direct the young idea in its musket-practice, if he is to be denied the ordinary luxuries of every-day life? If a Platonic exercise in osculation, occasionally, cannot be connived at, where are the mitigating circumstances in the dreary life of a Western schoolmaster? We give it up.”

KINDLY CAUTION.

A young fellow in a Western town was fined ten dollars for kissing a girl against her will, and the following day the damsel sent him the amount of his fine, with a note saying that the next time he kissed her he must be less rough about it, and be careful to do it when her father was not around.

RETALIATION.

The following colloquy occurred in an English divorce-case. Mr. Sergeant Tindal, “He treated her very kindly, did he not?” Atkinson, “Oh, yes, very; he kissed her several times.” Mr. Sergeant Tindal, “And how did she treat him?” Atkinson, “Well, she retaliated.”

AN EXPENSIVE KISS.

An interesting suit for damages was tried in the Circuit Court of Sauk County, Wisconsin. The title of the case was Helen Crager _vs._ The Chicago and Northwestern Railroad Company. The facts are substantially as follows. The plaintiff, who is a good-looking, interesting young lady, twenty-one years of age, and a school-teacher, on the 6th of March, 1873, bought a ticket of the company’s ticket-agent at Reedsburg, for Baraboo, and took a seat in a passenger-car attached to a mixed train. When within a few miles of her destination, the plaintiff, being at the time alone with the conductor (the only other passenger and an employé of the company having left the car), was caressed and kissed by the conductor. There being nothing in the lady’s manner to induce such familiarity, the ticket-puncher was, soon after the occurrence, arrested upon a charge of assault and battery. He pleaded guilty, was fined twenty-five dollars by the justice, and discharged by the company. The court ruled as a matter of law that the company was liable for the plaintiff for actual damage occasioned by the wrongful act of the conductor. The case was well argued, and submitted to the jury, who returned a verdict for the plaintiff, and assessed her damages at one thousand dollars.

TWENTY SHILLINGS FINE.

A noteworthy trial may be found among the proceedings of a Connecticut court held at New Haven, May 1, 1660. In this case, the kisser was Jacob M. Murline, and the kissee was Miss Sarah Tuttle. It was demonstrated that Jacob “tooke up or tooke away her gloves. Sarah desired him to give her the gloves, to which he answered he would do so if she would give him a kysse, upon which they sat down together, his arme being about her waiste, and her arme upon his shoulder or about his neck, and _he_ kyssed her and _she_ kyssed him, or they kyssed one another, continuing in this posture about half an hour.”

On examination, the amatory Jacob confusedly admitted that “he tooke her by the hand, and they both sat down upon a chest, but whether his arme were about her waiste, and her arme upon his shoulder or about his neck, he knows not, for he never thought of it since till Mr. Raymond told him of it at Mannatos, for which he was blamed, and told he had not layed it to heart as he ought.” Jacob and Sarah were each fined twenty shillings. So much for two centuries ago.

BREACH OF PROMISE.

Breach-of-promise trials are of frequent occurrence in the English courts, and any contribution to the law of the subject is received with interest. The English papers, therefore, comment with great relish upon the definition of a marriage engagement given by Judge Neilson, of Brooklyn, who, in a suit for money damages for blighted affections, charged the jury that the “gleam of the eye and the conjunction of the lips are overtures when they become frequent and protracted.” In the face of such a decision he is a rash man who would say, in the words of the song, “I know an eye both soft and bright,” and that variety of kiss known as the “lingering” is positively interdicted to gentlemen who do not mean business, or who are liable to a change of mind.

THE INGENUITY OF THIEVES.

When the Pope’s chamberlain, who was captured by Italian brigands, paid fifty thousand francs as ransom-money to the leader of the band, the sight of the money so transported him that he fell on his knees and begged to kiss the hand of his captive before he departed. The prelate stretched out his hand to him, forgetting that he wore a ring of great value, which the scoundrel, as he kissed the hand, slyly slipped over the finger and appropriated to himself.

This incident was more than paralleled by French dexterity in a case which is thus reported by a Paris correspondent:

There is a pretty little creature who has bestowed upon herself the cognomen of Diane de Bagatelle, with whom a well-known young viscount is madly in love. Mlle. Diane is a very romantic young lady, with a taste for the plays and novels of the younger Dumas, and especially for the “Dame aux Camellias.” So she was not surprised when one day the card of the Count de X——, the father of the viscount in question, was handed to her, and an elegant elderly gentleman, faultlessly dressed, and with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor at his button-hole, was ushered into her boudoir.

“My son loves Mademoiselle,” began the count, without further preface.

“I know it,” sighed Diane.

“He has——”

“A sister!” exclaimed the lady, remembering the interview between Marguerite Gautier and the elder Duval.

“No, not a sister, but a cousin,—his cousin Blanche, to whom he has been betrothed for years. She pines and weeps, and you, mademoiselle, you and your fatal charms are the cause.”

“Alas!” sighed Diane, feeling herself Doche and Blanche Pierson rolled into one and in real earnest.

“Your sensibility does you honor. Will you break with my son at once and forever? And if two hundred thousand francs——”

“Two hundred thousand francs!”

“I will draw you a check at once.”

“Sir,” exclaimed the lady, “you have not made appeal to a callous heart. I will make the sacrifice; I will give up Henri. You said, I think, two hundred thousand?”

“I did. Blessings on you, my child!” exclaimed the count, fervently. “Write the letter I shall dictate, and the check shall be yours.”

So down Diane sat, and penned the following epistle:

“Dear Henri, I love you no more. In fact, I never have loved you. I love another. Farewell forever.

“DIANE.”

The count took the letter, inspected it carefully, and placed it in his pocket-book, from which he then drew a check for the amount named, which he placed in the lady’s eager hands.

“Allow me, my child, to raise to my lips the gentle hand that has just saved my son!” A kiss and a tear fell on the dainty hand together; it was then released, and the aged nobleman departed. He had not been long gone when Mlle. Diane discovered that her diamond ring, which was valued at ten thousand francs, had disappeared from her finger; and further investigations proved that her silverware and other articles of value had also vanished. The pretended count was no other than a swindler of the very worst type. The worst of the affair was that the scamp actually mailed the letter of Mlle. Diane to the viscount, so that the lady found herself minus an adorer as well as her valuables.

THE MEDICAL VIEW.

DON’T KISS THE BABY.

The promiscuous kissing of children is a pestilent practice. We use the word advisedly, and it is mild for the occasion. Murderous would be the proper word, did the kissers know the mischief they do. Yes, madam, _murderous_; and we are speaking to you. Do you remember calling on your dear friend Mrs. Brown the other day, with a strip of flannel round your neck? And when little Flora came dancing into the room, didn’t you pounce upon her demonstratively, call her a precious little pet, and kiss her? Then you serenely proceeded to describe the dreadful sore throat that kept you from prayer-meeting the night before. You had no designs on the dear child’s life, we know; nevertheless, you killed her! Killed her as surely as if you had fed her with strychnine or arsenic. Your caresses were fatal.

Two or three days after, the little pet began to complain of a sore throat too. The symptoms grew rapidly alarming; and when the doctor came, the single word _diphtheria_ sufficed to explain them all. To-day a little mound in Greenwood is the sole memento of your visit.

Of course the mother does not suspect, and would not dare to suspect, you of any Instrumentality in her bereavement. She charges it to a mysterious Providence. The doctor says nothing to disturb the delusion; that would be impolitic, if not cruel: but to an outsider he is free to say that the child’s death was due directly to your infernal stupidity. Those are precisely the words: more forcible than elegant, it is true; but who shall say, under the circumstances, that they are not justifiable? Remember,

“Evil is wrought by want of thought
As well as by want of heart.”

It would be hard to tell how much of the prevalent sickness and mortality from diphtheria is due to such want of thought. As a rule, adults have the disease in so mild a form that they mistake it for a simple cold; and, as a cold is not contagious, they think nothing of exposing others to their breath or to the greater danger of labial contact. Taking into consideration the well-established fact that diphtheria is usually if not always communicated by the direct transplanting of the malignant vegetation which causes the disease, the fact that there can be no more certain means of bringing the contagion to its favorite soil than the act of kissing, and the further fact that the custom of kissing children on all occasions is all but universal, it is not surprising that, when the disease is once imported into a community, it is very likely to become epidemic.

It would be absurd to charge the spread of diphtheria entirely to the practice of child-kissing. There are other modes of propagation: though it is hard to conceive of any more directly suited to the spread of the infection or more general in its operation. It stands to diphtheria in about the same relation that promiscuous hand-shaking formerly did to the itch.

It were better to avoid the practice. The children will not suffer if they go unkissed; and their friends ought for their sake to forego the luxury for a season. A single kiss has been known to infect a family; and the most careful may be in condition to communicate the disease without knowing it. Beware, then, of playing Judas, and let the babies alone.

EXCESSIVE GALLANTRY.

The late Marquis de Prades-Conti, ex-officer of the body-guard of Charles X., died from the effects of what might be called an excess of gallantry. He had never been ill a day, and retained all his activity in spite of his eighty-two years, but in stooping to kiss the hand of the Dowager Countess de la Rochepeon, who came to pay him a visit, he fell dead.

THE TREACHEROUS SIDE.

MADAME DE STAEL’S HYPOCRISY.

Coleridge was a man of violent prejudices, and had conceived an insuperable aversion for France, of which he was not slow to boast. “I hate,” he would say, “the hollowness of French principles; I hate the republicanism of French politics; I hate the hostility of the French people to revealed religion; I hate the artificiality of French cooking; I hate the acidity of French wines; I hate the flimsiness of the French language.” He would inveigh with equal acrimony against the unreality and immorality of the French character of both sexes, especially of the women; and in justification of his unmeasured invective, he related that he was one day sitting _tête-à-tête_ with Madame de Staël in London, when her man-servant entered the room and asked her if she would receive Lady Davey. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders, and appeared to shudder with nausea as she turned to him and said, “Ah, ma foi! ô, mon cher ami! ayez pitié de moi! Mais quoi faire? Cette vilaine femme! Comme je la déteste! Elle est, vraiment, insupportable!” And then, on her entry, she flung her arms around her, kissed her on both cheeks, pressed her to her bosom, and told her that she was more than enchanted to behold her.

But the query arises, have the French a monopoly of such conventional duplicity? or may we find its counterpart nearer home?

A JUDAS KISS.

This time Sophronia was so much in earnest that she found it necessary to bend forward in the carriage and give Bella a kiss. A Judas order of kiss; for she thought, while she yet pressed Bella’s hand after giving it, “Upon your own showing, you vain heartless girl, puffed up by the doting folly of a dustman, I need have no relenting towards _you_.”

DICKENS: _Our Mutual Friend_.

A WIFE’S INFIDELITY.

Heaven support thee, old man! thou hast to pass through the bitterest trial which honor and affection can undergo,—household treason! When the wife lifts high the blushless front, and brazens out her guilt; when the child, with loud voice, throws off all control, and makes boast of disobedience, man revolts at the audacity; his spirit arms against his wrong; its face, at least, is bare; the blow, if sacrilegious, is direct. But when mild words and soft kisses conceal the worst foe Fate can arm,—when amidst the confidence of the heart starts up the form of Perfidy,—when out from the reptile swells the fiend in its terror,—when the breast on which man leaned for comfort has taken counsel to deceive him,—when he learns that, day after day, the life entwined with his own has been a lie and a stage mime,—he feels not the softness of grief, nor the absorption of rage; it is mightier than grief, and more withering than rage; it is a horror that appalls.

BULWER-LYTTON: _Lucretia_.

ALGERINE REVENGE.

A tragic event occurred in a divorce court at Constantine, in Algeria. The wife of Bel-Kassem appeared before the Cadi and demanded a divorce from her husband on the ground that he had ill-treated her. In spite of the strenuous opposition of the respondent, the Cadi gave judgment in favor of the lady, who, triumphantly pronouncing the orthodox formula, “I repudiate thee,” bounced out of the court. The custom of the country wills that a defeated suitor kiss the judge upon the shoulder, to show that he acknowledges the justice of his sentence. In accordance with this usage, Bel-Kassem, in apparent submission, moved toward the Cadi. But as he drew near him his manner suddenly changed. Dashing aside his burnous, he sprang upon the unfortunate judge and drove his knife into his breast. The murderer then threw down his weapon and surrendered himself to the gendarmes, saying, quietly, “I have killed the Cadi because, according to the Koran, a judge who gives an unjust sentence deserves to be put to death.”

ALL FOR SHOW.

Little Antoinette, a lonely little girl, was glad to find any companions. “Mamma kisses me on the promenade,” she told them, in her artless way. “She never kisses me at home.”

THACKERAY: _The Newcomes_.

THE KISS FULIGINOUS.

The Italian poet Francesco Gianni is the author of a remarkable sonnet, in which the avenging kiss of the demons for the kiss of treason is given with great power, following a no less powerful portraiture of Satan:

“Poi fra le braccia si reco quel tristo,
E con la bocca fumigante e neva
Gli rese il bacio che avea dato al Cristo.”

[Then the malefactor threw himself into his arms, and with mouth black and smoking—the kiss fuliginous—he gave back the kiss that he had given to Christ.]

FABULLA.

Martial in his “Epigrams” (xii. 93) makes the following hit:

“Fabulla has found out a way to kiss her lover in the presence of her husband. She has a little fool whom she kisses over and over again, when the lover immediately seizes him while he is still wet with the multitude of kisses, and sends him back forthwith, charged with his own, to his smiling mistress. How much greater a fool is the husband than the professed fool!”

Or, as Hay translates it:

“My lady Modish doth this way devise
To kiss her spark before her husband’s eyes:
She slavers o’er her little boy with kisses,
And the gallant receives the reeking blisses;
Then to the little Cupid gives a smack,
And to his laughing mother sends him back.
But if the husband is this way beguiled,
The husband is by much the greater child.”

WOMAN.

Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung,
Not she denied him with unholy tongue;
She, while apostles shrank, could danger brave,
Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave.

BARRETT.

THE DESCENT FROM THE TREE.

With that she leaped into her lord’s embrace,
With well-dissembled virtue in her face.
He hugged her close, and kissed her o’er and o’er,
Disturbed with doubts and jealousies no more;
Both, pleased and blessed, renewed their mutual vows,
A fruitful wife and a believing spouse.

POPE: _January and May_.

THE FALSE LADY.

Thy girdle-knife was keen and bright,—
The ribbons wondrous fine,—
’Tween every knot of them you knit,
Of kisses I had nine.

Fond Margaret! false Margaret!
You kissed me, cheek and chin;
Yet, when I slept, that girdle-knife
You sheathed my heart’s blood in.

_Old Ballad._

THE CONSPIRACY AGAINST EDWARD II.

Edward, this Mortimer aims at thy life:
Oh, fly him, then! But, Edmund, calm this rage;
Dissemble, or thou diest; for Mortimer
And Isabel do kiss while they conspire:
And yet she bears a face of love, forsooth!
Fie on that love that hatcheth death and hate!

MARLOWE.

PERJURY.

Sworn on every slight pretence,
Till perjuries are common as bad pence,
While thousands, careless of the damning sin,
Kiss the book’s outside who ne’er look within.

COWPER: _Expostulation_.

LADY BOTHWELL’S LAMENT.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth
That evir kist a woman’s mouth!
I wish all maides be warned by mee
Nevir to trust man’s curtesy;
For if we doe bot chance to bow,
They’le use us then they care not how.

_Scottish Song._

THE GAY DECEIVER.

Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.
All his practice is deceit;
Every gift it is a bait;
Not a kiss but poison bears;
And most treason in his tears.

BEN JONSON: _Hue and Cry after Cupid_.

THE LURES OF THE ENCHANTRESS.

She shroudeth vice in virtue’s veil,
Pretending good in ill;
She offereth joy, but bringeth grief;
A kiss—where she doth kill.

SOUTHWELL.

CUPID’S WILES.

Let not his tears thy easiness beguile,
Nor let him circumvent thee with a smile;
If he to kiss thee ask, his kisses fly;
Poison of asps between his lips doth lie.

ANACREON.

ARTIFICE.

_Amarillis._ Here, take thy Amoret; embrace, and kiss!

_Perigot._ What means my love?

_Amarillis._ To do as lovers should,
That are to be enjoyed, not to be wooed.
There’s ne’er a shepherdess in all the plain
Can kiss thee with more art; there’s none can feign
More wanton tricks.

FLETCHER: _Faithful Shepherdess_.

THE SORROWFUL SIDE.

MARGARET.

The admirers of Goethe’s immortal tragedy “Faust” will remember the passage in which poor Margaret says to her lover:

Kiss me?—canst no longer do it?
My friend, so short a time thou’rt missing,
And hast unlearned thy kissing?
Why is my heart so anxious on thy breast?
Where once a heaven thy glances did create me,
A heaven thy loving words expressed,
And thou didst kiss, as thou would suffocate me—
Kiss me!
Or I’ll kiss thee.
(_She embraces him._)
Ah, woe! thy lips are chill
And still.
How changed in fashion
Thy passion!
Who has done me this ill?

Nor can they forget the simple song in which, while seated at her spinning-wheel, she gives utterance to her grief. The closing verses are these:

And the magic flow
Of his talk, the bliss
In the clasp of his hand,
And, ah, his kiss!

My peace is gone,
My heart is sore;
I never shall find it,
Ah, nevermore!

My bosom yearns
For him alone;
Ah! dared I clasp him,
And hold, and own,

And kiss his mouth
To heart’s desire,
And on his kisses
At last expire!

THE WELCOME HOME.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

GRAY: _Elegy_.

Evidently the poet Gray had in his mind’s eye the following passage from Lucretius:

“Non domus accipiet te læta, neque uxor
Optima, nec dulces occurrent oscula nati
Præripere, et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent.”

[No joyous home shall receive thee, nor excellent wife, nor will any dear children of thine run out to meet thee and vie with each other in snatching kisses from thee, and raise a tumult of sweet but unutterable affection in thy breast.]

AFTER THE BALL.

[The sisters return from the ball to their chamber, gayly laugh and chat over the reminiscences of the night, lay aside “the robe of satin and Brussels lace,” “comb out their braids and curls,” and as the fire goes out, and the winter chill is gathering, they seek repose. “Curtained away from the chilly night, after the revel is done,” they “float along in a splendid dream,” which the poet recounts, and then addresses them thus:]

Oh, Maud and Madge, dream on together,
With never a pang of jealous fear!
For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather
Shall whiten another year,

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb,
Braided brown hair, and golden tress,
There’ll be only one of you left for the bloom
Of the bearded lips to press,—

Only one for the bridal pearls,
The robe of satin and Brussels lace,—
Only one to blush through her curls
At the sight of a lover’s face.

Oh, beautiful Madge, in your bridal white,
For you the revel has just begun;
But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night,
The revel of life is done!

But, robed and crowned with your saintly bliss,
Queen of heaven and bride of the sun,
Oh, beautiful Maud, you’ll never miss
The kisses another hath won!

AFTER THE WEDDING.

All alone in my room, at last;
I wonder how far they have travelled now?
They’ll be very far when the night is past;
And so would I, if I knew but how.
How lovely she looked in her wreath and dress!
She is queenlier far than the village girls;
Those were roses, too, in the wreath, I guess—
’Twas they made the crimson amongst her curls.

She’s good as beautiful, too, they say;
Her heart is as gentle as any dove’s;
She’ll be all that she can to him alway—
Dear! I am tearing my new white gloves.
How calm she is, with her saint-like face!
Her eyes are violet—mine are blue;
How careless I am with my mother’s lace!—
Her hands are whiter, and softer, too.

They’ve gone to the city beyond the hill,
They must never come back to this place again!
I’m almost afraid to be here so still;
I wish it would thunder! and lighten! and rain!
Oh, no! for some may not be abed,
Some few, perhaps, may be out to-night;
I hope that the moon will come instead,
And heaven be starry, and earth all light.

’Tis only a summer that she’s been here—
It’s been my home for seventeen years!—
But her name is a testament far and near,
And the poor have embalmed it in priceless tears.
I remember the day when another came—
There! at last, I have tied my hair—
Her curls and mine were nearly the same,
But hers are longer, and mine less fair.

They’re going across the sea, I know,
Across the ocean—will that be far?—
Did I have my comb a moment ago?
I seem to forget where my things all are.
When ships are wrecked, do the people drown?
Is there never a boat to save the crew?
Poor ships! If ever my ship goes down,
I’ll want a grave in the ocean, too.

Good-night, good-night—it is striking one!—
Good-night to bride, and good-night to groom.
The light of my candle is almost done—
I wish my bed was in mother’s room!
How calm it looks in the midnight shade—
Those curtains were hung there clean to-day:
They’re all too white for me, I’m afraid:
Perhaps I may soon be as white as they.

Dark!—all dark!—for the light is dead.
Father in heaven, may I have rest?
One hour of sleep for my weary head—
For this breaking heart in my poor, poor breast!
For his sweet sake do I kneel and pray,
O God! protect him from change and ill;
And render her worthier every way,
The older the purer, the lovelier still.

There! I knew I was going to cry;—
I have kept the tears in my soul too long:
Oh! let me say it, or I shall die,—
As heaven is witness, I mean no wrong.
He never shall hear from this secret room,
He never shall know in the after-years,
How seventeen summers of happy bloom
Fell dead, one night, in a moment of tears!

I loved him more than she understands.
For him I loaded my soul with truth;
For him I am kneeling, with lifted hands,
To lay at his feet my shattered youth!
I love, I adore him, still the same!
More than father, and mother, and life!
My hope of hopes was to bear his name—
My heaven of heavens to be his wife!

His _wife_—oh, name which the angels breathe,
Let it not crimson my cheek for shame—
’Tis her great glory that word to wreathe
In the princely heart from whose blood it came.
Oh, hush! again I behold them stand,
As they stood to-night, by the chancel wall:
I see him holding her white-gloved hand,
I hear his voice in a whisper fall.

I see the minister’s silver hair,
I see him kneel at the altar-stone,
I see him rise when the prayer is o’er,
He has taken their hands and made them one.
The fathers and mothers are standing near,
The friends are pressing to kiss the bride;
One of those kisses had birthplace here—
The dew of her lips has not yet dried.

His lips have touched hers before to-night—
Then I have a grain of his to keep!
This midnight blackness is flecked with light,
Some angel is singing my soul to sleep.
He knows full well why many a knave
So close to his lady’s lips would swim—
God only knows that the kiss I gave
Was set in her mouth to give to him!

W. L. KEESE.

THE BALLAD OF CHEVY-CHASE.

In this popular ballad, believed to have been written about the year 1600, occur these familiar stanzas:

Next day did many widows come,
Their husbands to bewail;
They washed their wounds in brinish tears,
But all would not prevail.

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood,
They bore with them away;
They kissed them dead a thousand times,
Ere they were clad in clay.

THE OLD LOVE.

I met her; she was thin and old,
She stooped, and trod with tottering feet;
Her locks were gray that once were gold,
Her voice was harsh that once was sweet;
Her cheeks were sunken, and her eyes,
Robbed of their girlish light of joy,
Were dim: I felt a strange surprise
That I had loved her when a boy.

But yet a something in her air
Restored me to my youthful prime:
My heart grew young, and seemed to wear
The impress of that long-lost time.
I took her wilted hand in mine,
Its touch awoke a ghost of joy;
I kissed her with a reverent sigh,
For I had loved her when a boy.

EARL MARCH’S DAUGHTER.

The earl, smitten with grief over his broken-hearted and dying Ellen, is anxious to restore the lover he had exiled. But it is too late:

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs;
Her cheek is cold as ashes;
Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.

CAMPBELL.

THE KING OF FRANCE’S DAUGHTER.

His pale lyppes, alas!
Twenty times she kissed,
And his face did wash
With her trickling teares;
Every gaping wound
Tenderlye she pressed,
And did wipe it round’
With her golden haires.
“Speake, faire love,” quoth shee,
“Speake, faire prince, to mee;
One sweete word of comfort give:
Lift up thy deare eyes,
Listen to my cryes,
Thinke in what sad griefe I live.”
All in vaine she sued,
All in vaine she wooed;
The prince’s life was fled and gone.

_Pepys Collection._

DYING INJUNCTION.

When our dear parents died, they died together;
One fate surprised them, and one grave received them.
My father with his dying breath bequeathed
Her to my love; my mother, as she lay
Languishing by him, called me to her side,
Took me in her fainting arms, wept, and embraced me;
Then pressed me close, and, as she observed my tears,
Kissed them away. Said she, Chamont, my son,
By this, and all the love I ever showed thee,
Be careful of Monimia, watch her youth,
Let not her wants betray her to dishonor;
Perhaps kind heaven may raise some friend; then sighed,
Kissed me again; so blessed us, and expired.

OTWAY: _Orphan_.

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.

’Tis she,—far off, through moonlight dim,
He knew his own betrothèd bride,
She who would rather die with him
Than live to gain the world beside!

Her arms are round her lover now,
His livid cheek to hers she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,
In the cool lake her loosened tresses.

...

One struggle, and his pain is past,
Her lover is no longer living!
One kiss the maiden gives, one last,
Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

MOORE: _Lalla Rookh_.

THE LAST OBSERVANCE.

Oh, may I view thee with life’s parting ray,
And thy dear hand with dying ardor press;
Sure thou wilt weep, and on thy lover’s clay
With breaking heart print many a tender kiss.
...
On my cold lips thy kisses thou wouldst fix,
While flowing tears with thy dear kisses mix.

TIBULLUS: _Elegy I._

THE EXILES.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear.

GOLDSMITH: _Deserted Village_.

“ORATE HIC PRO ME.”

They went with speed to the dungeon-door;
The air was chill and damp;
And the pale girl lay on the marble floor,
Beside the dying lamp;
They kissed her lips, they called her name,
No kiss returned, no answer came.
Motionless, lifeless, there she lay,
Like a statue rent from its base away.

PRAED.

JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER.

It comforts me in this one thought to dwell,
That I subdued me to my father’s will;
Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell,
Sweetens the spirit still.

TENNYSON: _Dream of Fair Women_.

THE MAY QUEEN.

I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now;
You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild;
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

TENNYSON.

ENOCH ARDEN.

My children, too! must I not speak to these?
They know me not; I should betray myself.
Never; no father’s kiss for me,—the girl
So like her mother, and the boy, my son.

TENNYSON.

ŒNONE.

Oh, mother, hear me yet before I die!
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times,
In this green valley, under this green hill,
Ev’n on this hand, and sitting on this stone?
Sealed it with kisses? watered it with tears?

TENNYSON.

QUARREL AND RECONCILIATION.

As through the land at eve we went,
And plucked the ripened ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
Oh, we fell out, I know not why,
And kissed again with tears.

For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,
There above the little grave,
Oh, there above the little grave
We kissed again with tears.

TENNYSON: _Princess_.

EVANGELINE.

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have
spoken.
Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

LONGFELLOW.

OVER THE STARRY WAY.

Gone to sleep with the tender smile
Froze on her silent lips
By the farewell kiss of the angel Death,
Like the last fair bud of a faded wreath
Whose bloom the white frost nips.

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

Oh, fairest flower, no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken primrose fading timelessly,
Summer’s chief honor, if thou hadst outlasted
Bleak Winter’s force that made thy blossom dry;
For he being amorous on that lovely dye
That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss,
But killed, alas, and then bewailed his fatal bliss.

MILTON.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND’S CHILD.

If Death
More near approaches, meditates, and clasps
Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand,
God, strengthen Thou my faith, that I may see
That ’tis Thine angel, who, with loving haste,
Unto the service of the inner shrine
Doth waken Thy beloved with a kiss.

LOWELL.

HIGHLAND MARY.