MISCELLANEOUS ASPECTS AND RELATIONS.
Reading edition
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.
Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly, And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! Burns.
CONSUMPTION.
Oh, then, when the spirit is taking wing, How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling, As if she would blend her soul with his In a deep and long-imprinted kiss! Percival.
BARBARA.
Oh, that pallid face! Those sweet, earnest eyes of grace! When last I saw them, dearest, ’twas in another place; You came running forth to meet me, with my love-gift on your wrist, And a cursed river killed thee, aided by a murderous mist. Oh, a purple mark of agony was on the mouth I kissed When last I saw thee, Barbara! Alexander Smith.
“I WANT TO FIND MY PAPA.”
A lady while walking in a city street met a little girl between two and three years old, evidently lost, and crying bitterly. Taking her by the hand, the lady asked her where she was going.
“I am going down town to find my papa,” was the reply, between sobs, of the child.
“What is your papa’s name?” asked the lady.
“His name is papa,” replied the innocent little thing.
“But what is his other name?” queried the lady; “what does your mamma call him?”
“She calls him papa,” persisted the baby.
The lady then took the little one by the hand and led her along, saying,—
“You had better come with me; I guess you came from this way.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to go back; I want to find my papa,” replied the little girl, crying afresh as if her heart would break.
“What do you want of your papa?” asked the lady.
“I want to kiss him.”
Just then a sister of the child came along looking for her and led her away. From subsequent inquiries, it appeared that the little one’s papa, whom she was so earnestly in search of, had recently died. In her lonesomeness and love for him, she tired of waiting for him to come home, and had gone to find him and greet him with the accustomed kiss.
THE PENALTY OF HARSHNESS.
It seems a hard and cruel thing to make the affections of a child its means of punishment for slight juvenile offences. A sad occurrence may be quoted as evidence in point.
A little girl, who, although an affectionate little creature as ever lived, was very volatile and light-hearted, could not always remember to mind her mother. At the close of a winter day she had gone into the street, contrary to her mother’s injunction, to play with one of her little companions; when she came in, and was prepared to go to bed, she approached her mother for her good-night kiss.
“I cannot kiss you to-night, Mary,” said the mother; “you have been a very naughty little girl, and have disobeyed me. I cannot kiss you to-night.”
The little girl, her face streaming with tears, again begged her mother to kiss her; but she was a “strong-minded woman,” and was inexorable.
It was a sad lesson that she learned, for on that very night the child died of croup. She had asked her mother, the last thing as she went up to her little bed, if she would kiss her in the morning; but in the morning her innocent lips were cold.
VIRGINIA.
Macaulay, in his “Lays of Ancient. Rome,” includes the tragic incident which led to the downfall of the execrable government of Appius Claudius, who had made an attempt upon the chastity of a beautiful young girl of humble birth. The decemvir, unable to succeed by bribes and solicitations, resorted to an outrageous act of tyranny. A vile dependant of the Claudian house laid claim to the damsel as his slave. The cause was brought before the tribunal of Appius. The wicked magistrate, in defiance of the clearest proofs, gave judgment for the claimant; but the girl’s father, a brave soldier, saved her from servitude and dishonor by stabbing her to the heart in the sight of the whole forum. Virginius, in the course of a thrilling appeal to the people, says,—
“Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs From consuls, and high pontiffs, and ancient Alban kings? Ladies who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet, Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering street; Who in Corinthian mirrors their own proud smiles behold, And breathe of Capuan odors and shine with Spanish gold? Then leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life,— The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife, The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures, The kiss in which he half forgets even such a yoke as yours; Still let the maiden’s beauty swell the father’s breast with pride, Still let the bridegroom’s arms enfold an unpolluted bride; Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame, That turns the coward’s heart to steel, the sluggard’s blood to flame, Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair, And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare.”
Having led the devoted maiden to the spot for sacrifice, he pours out in passionate language the wealth of his affection, closing thus:
“With all his wit, he little deems that, spurned, betrayed, bereft, Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left, He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave; Yea, and from nameless evil that passeth taunt and blow,— Foul outrage which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss, And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this.’ With that he lifted high the steel and smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.”
THE KISS IN EPIGRAM.
CASUISTRY.
When Sarah Jane, the moral miss, Declares ’tis very wrong to kiss, I’ll bet a shilling I see through it: The damsel, fairly understood, Feels just as any Christian should,— She’d rather suffer wrong than do it. Saxe.
THE DIFFERENCE.
“I never give a kiss,” says Prue, “To naughty man, for I abhor it.” She will not give a kiss, ’tis true: She’ll take one, though, and thank you for it.[30] Moore.
MODESTY.
“Kiss me, dear maid, to seal the vow Of love that you have made.” “I have no right to kiss you now,” The modest maiden said. “If you can find it in your heart My first wish to refuse, Perhaps ’tis best that we should part Ere we our freedom lose.” “Although to kiss you I demur, Yet please to recollect That if you choose to kiss me, sir, Of course, I—can’t object.”
FOOLISH ROBIN.
“Come kiss me,” said Robin. I gently said, “No! For my mother forbade me to play with men so.” Abashed by my answer, he glided away, Though my looks very plainly advised him to stay. Silly swain, not at all recollecting—not he— That his mother ne’er said that he must not kiss me.
THE PRINTER’S KISSES.
Print on my lips another kiss, The picture of thy glowing passion; Nay, this won’t do—nor this—nor this— But now—Ah, that’s a proof impression! But yet, methinks, it might be mended— Oh, yes, I see it in those eyes; Our lips again together blended Will make the impression a revise.
TULIPS AND ROSES.
My Rosa from the latticed grove Brought me a sweet bouquet of posies, And asked, as round my neck she clung, If tulips I preferred to roses. “I cannot tell, sweet wife,” I sighed, “But kiss me ere I see the posies:” She did. “Oh, I prefer,” I cried, “Your two lips to a dozen roses.”
SEALING AN OATH.
“Do you,” said Fanny, t’other day, “In earnest love me as you say? Or are those tender words applied Alike to fifty girls beside?” “Dear, cruel girl,” cried I, “forbear; For by those eyes—those lips—I swear!” She stopped me as the oath I took, And cried, “You’ve sworn—now kiss the book.”
MOUSTACHES.
Kate hates moustaches; so much hair Makes every man look like a bear; But Nellie, whom no thought could fetter, Pouts out, “The more like bears the better, Because” (her pretty shoulders shrugging) “Bears are such glorious chaps for hugging.”
THE ANCIENT MAIDEN’S LAMENT.
I have a mouth for kisses, No one to give or to take; I have a heart in my bosom Beating for nobody’s sake.
THE STAKES.
The following playful lines of Strode first appeared in a little volume entitled “New Court Songs and Poems,” printed in 1672, and were reproduced in Dryden’s “Miscellany,” 1716:
My love and I for kisses played: She would hold stakes; I was content; But when I won, she would be paid; With that, I asked her what she meant. “Nay, since I see,” quoth she, “your wrangling vain, Take your own kisses; give me mine again.”[31]
DECLINING A KISS.
Said the master to Mary, a sweet-lipped lass, As she stood in her place at the head of her class, “You can decline ‘a kiss,’ no doubt?” “I can,” she replied, with a blush and a pout, And a glance to the master’s heart there shot, “But, sir, if you please, I would rather not.”
EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS.
I recollect a nurse called Ann, Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a nice young man Came up and kissed the pretty lass. She did not make the least objection! Thinks I, “Ah! When I can talk, I’ll tell mamma”— And that’s my earliest recollection. Frederick Locker.
THE DISAPPOINTMENT.
Old Birch, who taught a village school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit: He was as stubborn as a mule, And she was playful as a rabbit. Poor Kate had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker. One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Katy sadly missed him: When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him. The husband’s anger rose, and red And white his face alternate grew. “Less freedom, ma’am!”[32] Kate sighed, and said, “Oh, dear! I didn’t know ’twas you!”
NON-COMPUTATION.
Old Jealousy would count our blisses; Then give to me a thousand kisses, Quick kissing me—quick kissing thee— Oh, quick, oh, quick, the jade to trick! O Ada, kiss so many kisses, She, counting ever, ever misses. Lessing.
BIANCA’S DREAM.
Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars, Bianca did not watch these signs in vain, But turned to Julio at the dark eclipse, With words like verbal kisses on her lips. He took the hint full speedily, and, backed By love, and night, and the occasion’s meetness, Bestowed a something on her cheek that smacked (Though quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness,— That made her think all other kisses lacked Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness: Being used but sisterly salutes to feel, Insipid things—like sandwiches of veal. Hood.
THE HONEY-MOON.
Oh, happy, happy, thrice happy state, When such a bright planet governs the fate Of a pair of united lovers! ’Tis theirs, in spite of the serpent’s hiss, To enjoy the pure primeval kiss With as much of the old original bliss As mortality ever recovers. Hood.
NO DOUBT OF IT.
She felt my lips’ impassioned touch,— ’Twas the first time I dared so much; And yet she chid not, But whispered o’er my burning brow, “Oh! do you doubt I love you now?” Sweet soul! I did not.
A REBUS.
“What is a rebus?” I asked of dear Mary, As close by my side the dear maiden was seated: I saw her eye droop and her countenance vary As she said in reply, “’Tis a kiss, sir, repeated.”
THE DIFFERENCE.
My brother is shy,—I am not shy at all; So, when there’s a mistletoe hung in our hall, He manages always to miss all the kisses, While I, on the contrary, kiss all the misses.
STOLEN KISSES.
Kiss her gently, but be sly; Kiss her when there’s no one by; Steal your kiss, for then ’tis meetest— Stolen kisses are the sweetest.
THE REASON WHY.
An impertinent youth at Saratoga amused himself by exhibiting the following lines to some of the ladies at a hotel:
Men scorn to kiss among themselves, And scarce would kiss a brother; But women want to kiss so bad, They kiss and kiss each other.
Whereupon a young lady pencilled this retort on the back of an envelope, and left it for the fool’s instruction:
Men do not kiss among themselves, And it’s well that they refrain: The bitter dose would vex them so, They would never kiss again. As sometimes on poor woman’s lip Is applied this nauseous lotion, We have to kiss among ourselves As a counteracting potion.
THE INVENTOR OF KISSING.
When we dwell on the lips of the girl we adore, What pleasure in Nature is missing? May his soul be in heaven—he deserves it, I’m sure— Who was first the inventor of kissing. Master Adam, I verily think, was the man Whose discovery can ne’er be surpast; Then, since the sweet game with creation began, To the end of the world may it last. Wolcot.
FORGIVENESS.
Forgive thy foes; nor that alone; Their evil deeds with good repay; Fill those with joy who leave thee none, And kiss the hand upraised to slay. So does the fragrant sandal bow, In meek forgiveness, to its doom, And o’er the axe at every blow Sheds in abundance rich perfume.
THE RIGHTS OF MEN.
While others, Delia, use their pen To vindicate the rights of men, Let us, more wise, to bliss attend: Be ours the rights which they defend. Those eyes that glow with love’s own fire, And what they speak so well inspire; That melting hand, that heaving breast, That rises only to be prest; That ivory neck, those lips of bliss Which half invite the offered kiss; These, these—and Love approves the plan— I deem the dearest rights of man.
TO A PAINTED LADY IN THE OLDEN TIME.
Is’t for a grace, or is’t some dislike, Where others give ye lippe you give the cheeke; Some houlde it for a pride of your behaviour, But I do rather count it as a favour. Wherefore to shew my kindnesse and my love, I leave both lippes and cheekes, and kisse your glove. Now what’s the cause? To make you full acquainted, Your glove’s perfumed, your lippes and cheekes bepainted.
THE SOURCE ALIKE OF LIFE AND DEATH.
Nature that gave the bee so feate a grace To find honey of so wondrous fashion, Hath taught the spyder out of the same place To fetch poyson by strange alteration, Though this be strange, it is a stranger case With one kiss, by a secret operation, Both these at once in those your lips to finde, In change whereof I leave my heart behinde. Sir Thomas Wyatt.
ON A LADY STUNG BY A BEE.
To heal the wound the bee had made Upon my Delia’s face, Its honey to the wound she laid, And bid me kiss the place. Pleased, I obeyed, and from the wound Sucked both the sweet and smart: The honey on my lips I found, The sting went through my heart.
THE KISS IN METAPHOR.
MORNING SONG.
Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower, Its fragrant spirit make thine own, Then wing thy way to Rosa’s bower,’ Ere her light sleep is flown. There, o’er her downy pillow fly, Wake the sweet maid to life and day: Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh, And o’er her bosom play. Mrs. Hemans.
SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.
I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s wide arch Was glorious with the sun’s returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. Longfellow.
SPRING.
No icy fetters hold the stream; The sun’s bright beam Comes dancing o’er it to my feet; The violets that skirt the bank Bend down to thank The laughing stream with kisses sweet.
SPRING FLOWERS
Spring has come with a smile of blessing, Kissing the earth with her soft warm breath, Till it blushes in flowers at her gentle caressing, And wakes from the winter’s dream of death.
THE VIOLETS.
Close by the roots of moss-grown stumps,— The sweetest and the first to blow,— The blue-eyed violets, in clumps, Kiss one another as they grow; And, kissing one another, blend Their dewy tears upon the earth, And purest fragrance upward send, Unconscious types of modest worth!
SPRING SONG.
When the soft winds blow, And kiss away the snow,— When the bluebirds sing, For the dear warm spring,— Then we’ll go a-Maying, Through the meadows straying. Rose Terry.
AUTUMN.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved. Longfellow.
THE EVENING WIND.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep. Bryant.
THE CRIMSON SUNSET.
Fall on her, tell her dying glow, How I am dreaming of her here, And kiss for me her snowy brow; Love, I am weak with hope and fear, Thinking of thee. Hone.
THE MOON-BEAM.
The silver light, so pale and faint, Showed many a prophet, and many a saint, Whose image on the glass was dyed; Full in the midst, his cross of red Triumphant Michael brandishèd, And trampled the Apostate’s pride. The moon-beam kissed the holy pane, And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. Scott.
THE LIGHT FROM THE TOMB.
No earthly flame blazed e’er so bright: It shone like heaven’s own blessed light, And, issuing from the tomb, Showed the monk’s cowl, and visage pale, Danced on the dark-browed warrior’s mail, And kissed his waving plume. Scott.
TIME AND TIDE.
The bridegroom sea Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, And in the fulness of his marriage joy He decorates her tawny brow with shells, Retires a pace to see how fair she looks, Then, proud, runs up to kiss her.
THE LIGHT-HOUSE.
It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace; It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. Longfellow.
THE GROWING CORN.
Then, like a column of Corinthian mould, The stalk struts upward and the leaves unfold; The bushy branches all the ridges fill, Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill to hill. Barlow.
FROM THE PSALMS OF DAVID.
Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other.—lxxxv. 10.
PARAPHRASE.
In the book of Deuteronomy, ch. xxxiv. v. 5, occurs the sentence, “So Moses, the servant of the Lord, died there in the land of Moab, according to the word of the Lord.” The literal rendering of the last words is, “by the mouth of the Lord,” or, as the Hebrews express it, “with a kiss from the mouth of God.” It is thus paraphrased by an old English poet:
Softly his fainting head he lay Upon his Maker’s breast; His Maker kissed his soul away, And laid his flesh to rest.
TO CELIA.
Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not look for wine. Ben Jonson.
FROM ANACREON.
The shadowy grove, Where, in the tempting guise of love, Reclining sleeps some witching maid, Whose sunny charms, but half displayed, Blush through the bower, that, closely twined, Excludes the kisses of the wind. Ode 59.
LOVE’S PHILOSOPHY.
The fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix forever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In one another’s being mingle— Why not I with thine? See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother: And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea; What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me? Shelley.
FROM PLATO.
Kissing Helena, together With my kiss, my soul beside it Came to my lips, and there I kept it,— For the poor thing had wandered thither, To follow where the kiss should guide it; Oh, cruel I, to intercept it! Shelley.
FROM “THE LOVER’S CREED.”
I believe if I should die, And you should kiss my eyelids when I lie Cold, dead, and dumb to all the world contains, The folded orbs would open at your breath, And, from its exile in the Isles of Death, Life would come gladly back along my veins.
NATURE’S MINISTRATIONS.
Nature’s voice Bids thee hie fieldward and rejoice; She calls thee from unhallowed mirth To walk with beauty o’er the earth; Proudly she calls thee forth, and now Prints blandest kisses on thy brow; On lip, on cheek, on bosom bare, She pours the balmy morning air. Motherwell.
“GENTLEST OF MY FRIENDS.”
The branches of the trees Bend down thy touch to meet, The clover-blossoms in the grass Rise up to kiss thy feet. Longfellow.
THE RELEASED CAPTIVE.
The hour which back to summer’s light Calls the worn captive, with the gentle kiss Of winds, and gush of waters, and the sight Of the green earth. Mrs. Hemans.
FROM “PHILASTER.”
Let me love lightning, let me be embraced And kissed by scorpions, or adore the eyes Of basilisks, rather than trust the tongues Of hell-bred women. Beaumont and Fletcher.
FROM “THE TRAITOR.”
Does not That death’s head look most temptingly? the worms Have kissed the lips off. Shirley.
FROM “THE DYING SOLDIER.”
And here upon the battle ground, Exhausted with the march and fight, And sickened with the dreary sight Of the red carnage all around, I sigh to taste one cooling breath Blown from the icy hills and sea; Then welcome as a bride’s to me Would be the gentle kiss of Death.
MARY IN HEAVEN.
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore O’erhung with wild woods thickening green. Burns.
QUEEN GUINEVERE.
A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth, for this, To waste his whole heart on one kiss Upon her perfect lips. Tennyson.
THE PARTING.
The trance gave way To those caresses, when a hundred times In that last kiss, which never was the last, Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. Tennyson.
THE POET’S FOOD.
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aërial kisses Of shapes that haunt Thought’s wildernesses. Shelley.
SLEEP.
Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain Whose drops quench kisses till they burn again. Shelley.
THE KISS IN ENIGMA.
I am just two and two, I am warm, I am cold, And the parent of numbers that cannot be told; I am lawful, unlawful,—a duty, a fault; I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought; An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course, And yielded with pleasure—when taken by force.[33] Cowper.
A lady gave a gift, which she had not, And I received her gift, which I took not; She gave it me willingly, and yet she would not; And I received it, albeit I could not; If she gives it me, I force not, And if she takes it again, she cares not. Construe what this is, and tell not; For I am fast sworn, I may not. Wyatt.
A lady once did ask of me This pretty thing in privity: Good sir, quoth she, fain would I crave One thing which you yourself not have; Nor never had yet in times past, Nor never shall while life doth last; And if you seek to find it out, You lose your labor out of doubt. Yet, if you love me as you say, Then give it me, for sure you may. Gascoigne.
The instant I’m born, though my frame is quite weak, Most wondrous to utter, I smartly can speak; My parents are pleased, and greatly rejoice, And seem quite enraptured to hear my sweet voice; But short, ah! too short is the time that I stay, For when I’ve done speaking I languish away; Yet this to my parents but seldom gives pain, For they with a touch can call life back again! Now all ye fair girls, and ye cheerful young swains, Come search for my name and take me for your pains.
What part of speech is a kiss?—A conjunction.
What is the shape of a kiss?—A-lip-tickle.
Why is a kiss like a sermon?—Because it requires, at least, two heads and an application.
Why is a kiss like a rumor?—Because it goes from mouth to mouth.
When is a man like a spoon?—When he touches a lady’s lips without kissing them.
When are kisses sweetest?—When syrup-titiously obtained.
Why are two young ladies kissing each other an emblem of Christianity?—Because they are doing to each other as they would men should do unto them.
PROVERBS AND PROVERBIAL PHRASES.
Kissing goes by favor.
If you can kiss the mistress, never kiss the maid.
Many kiss the child for the nurse’s sake.
She would rather kiss than spin.
Better kiss a knave than be troubled with him.
He that kisseth his wife in the market-place shall have enough to teach him.
To kiss a man’s wife, or wipe his knife, is but a thankless office.
Kisses are the messengers of love.
Kiss and be friends.
None kitheth like the lithping lath (lass).
There’s something in a kiss that never comes amiss.
Stolen kisses are sweet.
Kissing is the prologue to sin.
Kissing is lip-service.
As easy as kiss your hand.
Kisses are the interrogation-points in the literature of love.
A sweetmeat which satisfies the hunger of the heart.
Cherries kiss as they grow.
GEMS OF THOUGHT.
A kiss from my mother made me a painter.
Benjamin West.
I came to feel how far above all fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, all earthly pleasure, all imagined good, was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
Keats.
It is delightful to kiss the eyelashes of the beloved—is it not? But never so delightful as when fresh tears are on them.
Landor.
The fragrant infancy of opening flowers flowed to my senses in that opening kiss.
Southern.
Kisses are like grains of gold or silver found upon the ground, of no value themselves, but precious as showing that a mine is near.
George Villiers.
The first lesson which the infant is taught is to kiss; it is at once the language of infancy and the currency of childhood. The little passionless face as it rests upon its mother’s bosom is moulded into smiles by a kiss, and thus by love’s fruit sweet echo is produced. Who shall tell the mystery, the deep love and earnestness, the quiet joy, the proud hope, of a mother’s kiss? and what brow or cheek of all that have gone forth into the wide, wide world, but wears this heavenly jewel, as imperishable as the glance of a diamond?
Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought, Love gives itself, but is not bought. Longfellow.
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be pressed; Give all thou canst—and let me dream the rest. Pope.
The gilliflower, the rose, is not so sweet As sugared kisses be when lovers meet. Burton.
Kisses are like creation, because they are made out of nothing and are very good.
Sam Slick.
He hath at will More quaint and subtle ways to kill; A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. Shirley.
You may conquer with the sword, but you are conquered by a kiss.
Heinsius.
Oliver Wendell Holmes says a kiss is “the twenty-seventh letter of the alphabet,—the love-labial which it takes two to speak plainly.”
I put my lips to the panel of the door, as a kiss for my dear, and came quietly down again, thinking that one of these days I would confess to the visit.
Dickens.
I picture you to myself as my hand glides over the paper. I think I see you, as you look on these words, and envy them the gaze of those dark eyes. Press your lips to the paper. Do you feel the kiss that I leave there?
Bulwer-Lytton.
He, from his very birth, cut off from the social ties of blood,—no mother’s kiss to reward the toils, or gladden the sports, of childhood,—no father’s cheering word up the steep hill of man.
Bulwer-Lytton.
Many a man and woman has been incensed and worshiped, and has shown no more feeling than is to be expected from idols. There is yonder statue in St. Peter’s, of which the toe is worn away with kisses, and which sits, and will sit eternally, prim and cold.
Thackeray.
Now let me say good-night, and so say you: If you will say so, you shall have a kiss. Shakspeare.