THE KISS IN HUMOROUS STORY AND ANECDOTE.

FATHER TOM AND THE POPE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE STUDENT OF UPSALA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How so?” demanded she, greatly amazed.

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

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

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

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

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

TUNNEL STORIES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AN AMOROUS WESTERN YOUTH.

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

“See here, captain, I want one of your best bunks for this young woman, and one for myself individually. One will do for us when we get to the Bluff,—hey, Mariar?” (Here he gave a playful poke at “Mariar,” to which she replied, “Now, John, quit.”) “For, you see, we’re goin’ to git married at Mariar’s uncle’s. We might ’a bin married at Montanny, but we took a habit to wait till we got to the Bluff, bein’ Mariar’s uncle is a minister, and they charge a goshfired price for hitchin’ folks at Montanny.”

“Mariar” was assigned to one of the best “bunks.” During a stoppage of the train at a station, the voice of John was heard in pleading accents, unconscious that the train had stopped, and that his tones could be heard throughout the car:

“Now, Mariar, you might give a feller jes one.”

“John, you quit, or I’ll git out right here, and hoof it back to Montanny in the snow-storm.”

“Only one little kiss, Mariar, and I hope to die if I don’t——”

“John——!”

At this moment an old gray-beard poked his head out of his berth, at the other end of the car, and cried out,

“Maria, for pity’s sake, give John one kiss, so that we can go to sleep sometime to-night!”

Thereupon John subsided, and retired to his berth to dream of the distinction between the hesitancy of the kiss of courtship and the freedom of the kiss connubial.

LOVE IN A STREET-CAR.

A Baltimore writer narrates the following amusing incident:

Having business that required my attention in the northwestern section of the city until a late hour, I, at half-past eleven o’clock, found myself seated in a Madison Avenue car. At the crossing of Franklin and Eutaw Streets a young couple entered the car, and occupied a seat in the corner opposite myself. Being a great admirer of the fair sex, I stole a glance at the lady, and was recompensed by beholding a very handsome young miss, with black hair and eyes,—the latter appearing as if Cupid had rented the premises and was determined to dispute the sway of man. Her companion was a biped attired in a new suit of Harrison Street store clothes, as gay as a peacock. The first thing he did after seating himself was to encircle the neck of the lady with his left arm, while his right hand lovingly grasped her left. Not being used to such scenes (being a bachelor), I kept my t’other eye open, and noted down the proceedings in my mind.

“Clara,” began the passionate lover, “ain’t this nice? I swon, it’s a good deal better’n ridin’ in the old wagin!”

“Yes, Josh,” feebly articulated Clara. “But don’t hug me so; the folks are lookin’ at us.”

“Well, let ’em look!” retorted Josh. “Guess they’d like tu be in my place a spell, ennyhow!” (I, for one, did most heartily envy him the position.)

“Yes; but, Josh, you know they will laugh at us,” meekly rejoined his companion.

“Let ’em laugh!” exclaimed the irate lover. “Don’t I love you, and don’t you love me, and ain’t we a-goin’ to git married to-morrer?”

Josh at this moment appeared as though a brilliant idea had struck him, for he suddenly bent over and kissed his fair companion squarely in the mouth.

“There!” said he, exultingly; “ain’t that nice? You don’t allers git them sort!” Then, turning to the occupants of the car, he exclaimed, “Strangers, me and this young woman have come down from the country to git married. She is a nice gal, and I’m a-goin’ to do the right thing by her!”

During the delivery of this concise speech, Clara’s face was suffused with blushes; noticing which, her ardent lover remarked, “Don’t git so all-fired red about the gills, Clara. You know that we are a-goin’ to be married; and what’s the use to fluster up so?”

This last speech settled the business of the passengers. They gave one shout, and relieved themselves of a charge of laughter that had almost strangled them. At the next corner I vacated the car, leaving the happy couple as contented as if the future denoted nothing but sunshine.

TAKING TOLL.

A gentleman of an autobiographic turn relates how he was instructed in the custom of taking toll, by a sprightly widow, during a moonlight sleigh-ride with a merry party. He says:

The lively widow L. sat in the same sleigh, under the same buffalo-robe, with me.

“Oh! oh! don’t, don’t!” she exclaimed, as we came to the first bridge, at the same time catching me by the arm and turning her veiled face towards me, while her little eyes twinkled through the moonlight.

“Don’t what?” I asked. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Well, but I thought you were going to take toll,” replied the widow.

“Toll!” I rejoined. “What’s that?”

“Well, I declare!” cried the widow, her clear laugh ringing out above the music of the bells, “you pretend you don’t know what toll is!”

“Indeed I don’t, then,” I said, laughing; “explain, if you please.”

“You never heard, then,” said the widow, most provokingly,—“you never heard that when we are on a sleigh-ride the gentlemen always,—that is, sometimes,—when they cross a bridge, claim a kiss, and call it toll. But I never pay it.”

I said that I had never heard of it before; but when we came to the next bridge I claimed the toll, and the widow’s struggles to hold the veil over her face were not enough to tear it. At last the veil was removed, her round, rosy face was turned directly towards mine, and in the clear light of a frosty moon the toll was taken, for the first time in my experience. Soon we came to a long bridge, with several arches; the widow said it was of no use to resist a man who would have his own way, so she paid the toll without a murmur.

“But you won’t take toll for every arch, will you?” she said, so archly that I could not fail to exact all my dues; and that was the beginning of my courtship.

SUDDEN ATTACHMENT.

It is related of Curran, the famous Irish orator and wit, that he was one evening sitting in a box at the French Opera, between an Irish noblewoman, whom he had accompanied there, and a very young French lady. The ladies soon manifested a strong desire to converse, but neither of them knew a word of the other’s language. Curran, of course, volunteered to interpret, or, in his own words, “to be the carrier of their thoughts, and accountable for their safe delivery.” They went at it at once, with all the ardor and zest of the Irish and French nature combined; but their interpreter took the liberty of substituting his own thoughts for theirs, and instead of remarks upon the dresses and the play he introduced so many finely-turned compliments that the two ladies soon became completely fascinated with each other. At last, their enthusiasm becoming sufficiently great, the wily interpreter, in conveying some very innocent questions from his countrywoman, asked the French lady “if she would favor her with a kiss.” Instantly springing across the orator, she imprinted a kiss on each cheek of the Irish lady, who was amazed at her sudden attack, and often afterwards asked Mr. Curran, “What in the world could that French girl have meant by such conduct in such a place?” He never revealed the secret, and the Irish lady always thought French girls were very ardent and sudden in their attachments.

EARLY DISCRIMINATION.

A judicious mother told her little girls they must not be hanging around and kissing the young gentlemen who visited the house; it was not becoming in them, and it might be troublesome. A few days afterwards an old gentleman, a friend of the family, called, and, while noticing the children, drew one of them to him and offered to kiss the little thing. But no, she would have nothing of the sort; and when the gentleman was gone, the mother said,—

“My dear, when a nice old gentleman like that offers to kiss a little girl like you, you shouldn’t put on such airs and refuse him. I was quite ashamed of your conduct.”

“But, mother, you told us we mustn’t kiss the gentlemen,” said Maggie.

“Maggie, there is a great difference between letting young men kiss you, and such old people as Mr. Venable who just went out. When such persons offer to kiss you, it is to show their kind feelings, and you should take it as a compliment, and not act foolishly.”

Maggie put on a very serious face, and, after thinking upon it awhile, replied, “Well, mother, if I have to kiss the gentlemen, I would a great deal rather kiss the young ones.”

Children and fools speak the truth.

THE BAFFLED COURTIER.

The “Book of Merrie Jests” relates in the quaintness of a century or two ago how that the wonderful Sir Digby Somerville did keep constantly a houseful of grand company at his seat in Suffolk. At one time among his guests did happen a young gentleman from the court, whose apparel was more garnished with lacings and gold than his brain with modesty or wit. One time, going into the fields with his host, they did espy a comely milkmaiden with her pail.

“Pr’ythee, Phyllis,” quoth the courtier, leering the while at the girl, “an I give thee a kiss, wilt thou give me a draught of thy ware?”

“In the meadow,” quoth she, “thou wilt find one ready to give thee milk, and glad of thy kiss, for she is of thy kind.”

The court-gallant looked in the meadow, and espied a she-ass.

“So sharp, fair rustic!” quoth he, angrily: “thou lookest as if thou couldst barely say boo to a goose.”

“Yea, and that I can, and to a gander also.” Whereat she cried out lustily, “Boo!”

The young man hastened away, and the worshipful Sir Digby did laugh heartily, and entertained his guests with the tale.

A THANKFUL SPIRIT.

The chronicles of the time of John Brown of Haddington, author of the “Marrow of Divinity,” describe his first osculatory experience. He had reached the mature age of five-and-forty without ever having taken part in labial exercises. One of his deacons had a very charming daughter, and for six years the dominie had found it very pleasant to call upon her three or four times a week. In fact, all the neighbors said he was courting her; and very likely he was, though he had not the remotest suspicion of it himself.

One evening he was sitting as usual by her side, when a sudden idea popped into his head.

“Janet, my woman,” said he, “we’ve known each other a long time, an’—an’—I’ve never got a kiss yet. D’ye, think I may take one, my bonnie lass?”

“Well, Mr. Brown,” replied she, arching her lips in a tempting way, “jist as ye like; only be becomin’ and proper wi’ it.”

“Let us ask a blessing first,” said the good man, closing his eyes and folding his hands. “For what we are about to receive, the Lord make us thankful.”

The chaste salute was then given and warmly returned.

“Oh, Janet, that was good!” cried the dominie, electrified by the new sensation. “Let us have another, and then return thanks.”

Janet did not refuse, and when the operation had been repeated, the enraptured dominie ejaculated, in a transport of joy, “For the creature comforts which we have now enjoyed, the Lord be praised, and may they be sanctified to our temporal and eternal good!”

History says that the fervent petition of the honest dominie was duly answered; for in less than a month Janet became Mrs. Brown.

A CLERGYMAN’S JOKE.

A gentleman who was travelling in the West a few years ago relates this amusing incident:

I was spending the night in a hotel in Freeport, Illinois. After breakfast I came into the sitting-room, where I met a pleasant, chatty, good-humored traveller, who, like myself, was waiting for the morning train from Galena. We conversed freely and pleasantly on several topics, until, seeing two young ladies meet and kiss each other in the street, the conversation turned on kissing, just about the time the train was approaching.

“Come,” said he, taking up his carpet-bag, “since we are on so sweet a subject, let us have a practical application. I’ll make a proposition to you. I’ll agree to kiss the most beautiful lady in the cars from Galena, you being the judge, if you will kiss the next prettiest, I being the judge.”

The proposition staggered me a little, and I could hardly tell whether he was in earnest or in fun; but, as he would be as deep in it as I could possibly be, I agreed, provided he would do the first kissing, though my heart failed somewhat as I saw his black eye fairly sparkle with daring.

“Yes,” said he, “I’ll try it first. You take the back car, and go in from the front end, where you can see the faces of the ladies, and you stand by the one you think the handsomest, and I’ll come in from behind and kiss her.”

I had hardly stepped inside the car when I saw at the first glance one of the loveliest-looking women my eye ever fell upon,—a beautiful blonde, with auburn hair, and a bright, sunny face, full of love and sweetness, and as radiant and glowing as the morning. Any further search was totally unnecessary. I immediately took my stand in the aisle of the car by her side. She was looking out of the window earnestly, as if expecting some one. The back door of the car opened, and in stepped my hotel friend. I pointed my finger slyly to her, never dreaming that he would dare to carry out his pledge; and you may imagine my horror and amazement when he stepped up quickly behind her, and, stooping over, kissed her with a relish that made my mouth water from end to end.

I expected of course a shriek of terror, and then a row generally, and a knock-down; but astonishment succeeded astonishment when I saw her return the kisses with compound interest.

Quick as a flash he turned to me, and said, “Now, sir, it is your turn;” pointing to a hideously ugly, wrinkled old woman who sat in the seat behind.

“Oh, you must excuse me! you must excuse me!” I exclaimed. “I’m sold this time. I give up. Do tell me whom you have been kissing.”

“Well,” said he, “since you are a man of so much taste and such quick perception, I’ll let you off.” And we all burst into a general peal of laughter, as he said, “This is my wife! I have been waiting here for her. I knew that was a safe proposition.” He told the story to his wife, who looked tenfold sweeter as she heard it.

Before we reached Chicago, we exchanged cards, and I discovered that my genial companion was a popular Episcopalian preacher whose name I had frequently heard.

“LET ME KISS HIM FOR HIS MOTHER.”[28]

Among the funny incidents that took place during the late sectional conflict between the States is one that is thus recorded:

A young lady of the gushing sort, while passing through one of the military hospitals, overheard the remark that a young lieutenant had died that morning.

“Oh, where is he? Let me see him! Let me kiss him for his mother!” exclaimed the maiden.

The attendant led her into an adjoining ward, when, discovering Lieutenant H., of the Fifth Kansas, lying fast asleep on his hospital couch, and thinking to have a little fun, he pointed him out to the girl. She sprang forward, and, bending over him, said:

“Oh, you dear lieutenant, let me kiss you for your mother!”

What was her surprise when the awakened “corpse” ardently clasped her in his arms, returned the salute with interest, and exclaimed:

“Never mind the old lady, miss; go it on your own account. I haven’t the slightest objection.”

From the lyrics perpetrated by the “satirical wags” during the popularity of the above well-known phrase, we cite the following:

THE AWAKENING.

An adventure befell a Tennessee poet, which he narrates in very moving verse, but which we transmute into plain prose. He had been hunting, one sultry day, and, being very tired, lay down under a shady tree, with his faithful dog by his side. He there fell asleep, and dreamed the orthodox dream of all young poets. A maiden “beautiful exceedingly” approached him, and, after a very brief wooing, expressed a perfect willingness to bless the poet with her affections. Hereupon,—but plain prose cannot do justice to the dénouement, so we must give it in the poet’s own verse:

JEAN PAUL’S SCHOOL-BOY EXPERIENCE.

When Jean Paul was first sent to school, a mischievous boy, taking advantage of his inexperience, told him that it was an established custom for each pupil, when he first entered, to kiss the hand of the master. This seemed to Paul but a suitable custom, and by no means extraordinary, as in his own family it was an established expression of reverence from the young to the old, and Paul, whenever he went to his grandfather’s, kissed his hand behind the loom. When he entered the French school, therefore, he bashfully approached the master, and, with honest faith, carried the brawny hand to his lips.

The poor Frenchman,—an indifferent and poorly-paid instructor, who had been a tapestry-worker,—suspecting some mystification or insult, broke out into the most violent anger, and Paul barely escaped a blow from the hand on which he had imprinted his loyal homage. The mirth of the class was expressed in a jubilant manner, and, between them both, Paul stood confused, ashamed, and in the highest degree mortified.

In this instance, we are told, he was taken by surprise, and betrayed by his loyal nature; but in another attempt to impose upon him he asserted his rank as a scholar with a degree of firmness and dignity that compelled respect ever after.

THE FIRST KISS.

Who has forgotten the emotions inspired by the first kiss? Pierce Pungent has exhausted himself in a vain attempt to describe what may be remembered, but cannot and should not be told. He says:

“We never believed Pope’s line,

till we once accidentally got a kiss awarded to us at a game of forfeits, some fifty years ago. Eheu! fugaces! The fair one in question was the secret idol of our soul. Oh, those cerulean eyes! those flowing silken tresses! those ruby lips! that exquisite form!

“But we must tear ourself away from these charms and return to our mutton, or, rather, our lamb, for our heart’s worship was only eighteen cents a pound,—confound the butchers! the high price of meat has confused our notions,—we mean she was only eighteen years of age. When we found ourself entitled to a kiss by the sacred game of forfeits, the keenness of the rapture almost grew into a toothache. A kiss seemed more than we could manage; it grew into Titanic dimensions. We had a vague notion of asking the company to help us out by sharing our bliss, as the school-boy who, when he hears of his two-hundred-pound cake being on the road, promises all his comrades a slice, but when it arrives he keeps it all to himself!

“A kiss from Mary! and all to our own cheek! Oh! and then the blushing shame of a first love, vulgarly called calf, came over us, and we stood looking at our Mary’s lips as a thief does at the gallows! Oh! those sunny eyes! Oh, those luxuriant tresses! as she shook them off her radiant face, as a dove shakes her feathers and a dog his hide, in order to leave more cheek to kiss! Oh, those provoking lips, pursed up ready, like the peak of Teneriffe, to catch the first kiss of love, that rosy light from heaven! Oh, that circling dimple, couched in her cheek like laughing wile! And oh! that moment when she said, ‘Well, if Cousin Pierce won’t kiss me, I’ll kiss him!’ She stooped down,—my sight grew dim,—my heart beat fast, as though I had swallowed a dose of prussic acid; her lips touched mine; the world slid away, as it does when we soar in a balloon; and we were carried away into a calm delirium, which has never altogether left us.”

KISSING THE FEET.

Seneca tells us that Caius Cæsar gave wine to Pompey Pennus, whom he had pardoned, and then, on his returning thanks, presented his left foot for him to kiss. This custom is still practised in Oriental countries, where it is regarded as a mark of the deepest reverence and most profound humility. Don Juan, in his feminine disguise, disdainfully refused such subjection, even to the Sultana:

Finally the matter was compromised by kissing the hand, the proud Castilian promptly acknowledging the requirement of a common courtesy:

Sir R. K. Porter, the Eastern traveller, tells the readers of his interesting sketches of a Persian who was not only not so fastidious, but ludicrously otherwise in the depth of his self-abasement. Says Sir Robert, “I took a lancet out of my pocket-book, put it into his hands, and told him it was for himself. He looked at me, and at it, with his mouth open, as if he hardly comprehended the possibility of my parting with such a jewel. But when I repeated the words, ‘It is yours,’ he threw himself on the ground, kissed my knees and my feet, and wept with a joy that stifled his expression of thanks.”

ALL-EMBRACING INCLUSION.

In that old-fashioned youthful game, “Kiss in the Ring,” a favorite manœuvre of some of the boys was to keep out of a place in the ring till they had kissed all the pretty girls in succession. Those who grow up with the same fondness for osculatory attentions would probably like the custom in some parts of Germany, which requires a young man who is engaged to a girl to salute, upon making his adieu for the evening, the whole of the family, beginning with the mother. Thus, in a family circle embracing half a dozen girls, each having a lover, no less than forty-eight kisses would have to be given on the occasion of a united meeting; and when we consider that each lover would give his own sweetheart ten times as many kisses as he gave her sisters, the grand total would outnumber a hundred!

A KISS IN THE DARK.

In Buckstone’s very amusing farce, “A Kiss in the Dark,” the jealous Pettibone tries a foolish stratagem in order to confirm his unjust suspicions of Mrs. P.’s constancy:

Frank (reading note). “Continue your attentions.” Certainly, as you request it. (Draws close to her; Pettibone again darts in; they retreat as before.)

Pettibone. Shan’t go out at all—I tell you I shan’t go out at all—to-morrow will do. (Sits in centre.) You’ve done as I bid you, I see—eh?—ah, ah, ah! (Aside.) I think the last time I left the room he kissed her! I could almost swear I heard the squeak of a little kiss. Oh, if I could be convinced! I’ll conceal my feelings till I’m quite satisfied—quite sure; and then——Betsey, dear, if that note you were writing just now is for any one in the city, I’ll leave it for you.

Mrs. P. No, no, thank you, it is not worth the trouble, and you wouldn’t be so mean as to defraud the revenue of a penny.

Pet. How they look at each other! I’ve a great mind to jump up and tell ’em both how they’ve deceived me. No, I won’t. I’ll set a trap for them—show ’em what they are: ah! a good thought—I have it.

Mrs. P. Selim, what’s the matter with you, this evening?

Pet. Nothing; I’ve been vexed,—city business. I think, as I have a moment to spare, I’ll drop a note to the wine merchant about the empty bottles (takes inkstand to a table): he ought to fetch ’em away, or I shall be charged for ’em. What horrid candles! (Snuffs one out.) Why did I go to the expense of a handsome lamp, when you will burn candles? (In trying to light it he purposely extinguishes the other; stage dark.)

Mrs. P. P., dear, how clumsy you are!

Pet. Sit still—I’ll get a light; Mary’s cooking—I’ll get a light. (He pours some ink on his pocket-handkerchief, and in passing Mrs. P., contrives to leave a large patch on her nose.)

Mrs. P. P., what are you doing?

Pet. Nothing, dear, nothing; sit still. I’ll fetch a light.

[Exit.

Frank. Is it really your wish that I should continue my attentions? (Getting close to her.) Gad, she’s a fine woman, and I never in my life could be in the dark with one, without giving her a kiss; and, encouraged as I am, who could resist?

[Attempts to kiss her.

Mrs. P. Don’t, don’t; I won’t allow it; how can you be so foolish? (Kisses her, and blacks his nose.) Go away: here’s P. (Lights up; Frank returns to his chair as P. enters, stands between them moonstruck at seeing Frank’s face; he trembles, places one candle on the table, and seizes Mrs. P.’s arm.)

Pet. Woman, look at that man—look at his nose. Now go to your room—to the glass, and look at your own! come, madam, come.

[He drags her off.

Frank. Very strange conduct; however, my poor friend is severely punished for the pains he has taken to test his wife’s constancy....

In the dénouement the position of Mrs. P. and Frank is explained:

Pet. Not Betsey!—the lady I’ve pulled about so—not Betsey! Who are you, madam? Explain, before I faint away—who are you?

Frank. That lady, sir, is my wife. (Frank and Lady embrace.)

Pet. Your wife! and really you are not going to elope?—you are still your own Pettibone’s?—but that kiss in the dark, madam! what can remove that stain?

Mrs. P. My candid confession——

Pet. Of what?

Mrs. P. That I overheard the test by which I was to be tried, and, knowing in my heart that I did not deserve such a trial, I was resolved, as you had thought proper to suspect me without a cause, for once to give you a reason for your jealousy.

Pet. (on his knees.) Oh, Betsey, forgive me....

The city of Nashville boasts of a smiling-contest, as an adjunct to a Presbyterian church fair. There were three competitors, young men, and a judge to decide which of them smiled most sweetly. Three trials were had, the contestants standing on a platform in full view of the assembly, with a strong light thrown on their faces. Louis Tillichet was declared the winner of the prize, which was the privilege of kissing any one of the girls attending the candy-counter, where the prettiest daughters of the church were engaged.

A lady asked her little boy, “Have you called your grandma to tea?” “Yes. When I went to call her she was asleep, and I didn’t wish to halloo at grandma, nor shake her; so I kissed her cheek, and that woke her very softly. Then I ran into the hall, and said, pretty loud, ‘Grandma, tea is ready.’ And she never knew what woke her up.”

A BUDGET OF FACETIÆ.

A Columbia clergyman, who, while preaching a sermon on Sunday evening, perceived a man and woman under the gallery in the act of kissing each other behind a hymn-book, did not lose his temper. No! he remained calm. He beamed mildly at the offenders over his spectacles, and when the young man kissed her the fifteenth time, he merely broke his sermon short off in the middle of “thirdly,” and offered a fervent prayer in behalf of “the young man in the pink neck-tie and the maiden in the blue bonnet and gray shawl, who were profaning the sanctuary by kissing one another in pew seventy-eight.” And the congregation said “Amen.” Then the woman pulled her veil down, and the young man sat there and swore softly to himself. He does not go to church as much now as he did.

At Boulogne, during the reception of Queen Victoria, some years ago, a number of English ladies, in their anxiety to see everything, pressed with such force against the soldiers who were keeping the line that the latter were forced to give way, and generally were—to use the expression of policemen—“hindered in the execution of their duty.” The officer in command, observing the state of affairs, called out, “One roll of the drum,—if they don’t keep back, kiss them all.” After the first sound of the drum the ladies took to flight. “If they had been French,” said a Parisian journal, “they would have remained to a woman.”

The portrait-painter, Gilbert Stuart, once met a lady in Boston, who said to him, “I have just seen your likeness, and kissed it because it was so much like you.” “And did it kiss you in return?” said he. “No,” replied the lady. “Then,” returned the gallant painter, “it was not like me.”

Mary Kyle Dallas says love-making is always awkward. “A stolen kiss, if seen, creates a laugh; a squeeze of the hand, if detected, is a great joy. I myself, who claim to be romantic, did grin at a shadow picture cast upon the wall of the white garden fence, next door, by an envious gas-light, when I saw the shadow of the young lady with much waterfall feed the shadow of the young gentleman with no whiskers with sugar-plums and then kiss it; but the shadows were very black, and took odd crinks in their noses as they moved to and fro, and that may have been the cause of my mirth.”

“Oh! your nose is as cold as ice,” a Boston father thought he heard his daughter exclaim the other evening, as he was reading in the next room. He walked in for an explanation, but the young fellow was at one end of the sofa and the girl at the other, while both looked so innocent and unconscious that the old gentleman concluded that his ears had deceived him, and so retired from the scene without a word.

A country girl, coming from a morning walk, was told that she looked as fresh as a daisy kissed by the dew, to which she innocently replied, “You’ve got my name right, Daisy; but his isn’t Dew.”

Scene at the Atlantic Telegraph office.

Fond Wife (to telegraph-operator). “Oh, sir! I want to send a kiss to my husband in Liverpool. How can I do it?”

Obliging Operator. “Easiest thing in the world, ma’am. You’ve got to give it to me with ten dollars, and I’ll transmit it right away.”

Fond Wife. “If that’s the case, the directors ought to put much younger and handsomer men in your position.”

(Operator’s indignation is great.)

A young lady of Cincinnati, who had just returned from completing her education in Boston, wanted to kiss her lover, but her mother objected. The daughter drew up her queenly form to its full height, and exclaimed, “Mother, terrible, tragical, and sublimely retributive will be the course pursued by me, if you refuse to allow him to place his alabaster lips to mine, and enrapture my immortal soul by imprinting angelic sensations of divine bliss upon the indispensable members of my human physiognomy, and then kindly allowing me to take a withdrawal from his beneficent presence.” The mother feebly admitted that her objections were overruled.

Mabel. “Yes! that young man is very fond of kissing.”

Mater. “Mabel, who ever told you such nonsense?”

Mabel. “I had it from his own lips!”

A Yale student, who is evidently in the “journalistic” department, writes a twelve-verse poem which is entitled, “We kissed each other by the sea.” “Well, what of it?” asks a Western journalist: “the seaside is no better for such practices than any other locality. In fact, we have put in some very sweet work of that kind on the tow-path of a canal in our time, but did not say anything about it in print.”

The tender young poet who began, “I kissed her under the silent stars,” and whom the newspaper to which he sent the poem represented as beginning, “I kicked her under the cellar-stairs,” appeared before the editors and publishers assembled in convention at Lockport, New York, and preferred the request that the name of the room from which typographical errors emanate might be changed forthwith. He wants it called the discomposing room.

A young lady of Atlanta says there is no woman living who could interest her with a lecture on “kisses.” She says that she can get more satisfaction from the lips of a young man, on a moonlight night, than a woman could tell in a thousand years. That young lady is posted.

A teacher in De Witt County has introduced a new feature in his school. When one of the girls misses a word, the boy who spells it gets permission to kiss her. The result is that the girls are fast forgetting what they ever knew about spelling, while the boys are improving with wonderful rapidity.

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Marrowfat, dropping the paper from her nerveless grasp, and leaning back in her chair with an expression of blank astonishment on her countenance, “Gracious heavens, Miltiades, what a ‘paroxysmal kiss’?” Mr. Marrowfat, assuming a very serious aspect, observed, “A ‘paroxysmal kiss,’ my love, is a kiss buttered with soul-lightning.”

“Ma, has aunty got bees in her mouth?” “No; why do you ask such a question?” “’Cause that leetle man with a heap o’ hair on his face cotched hold of her, and said he was going to take the honey from her lips; and she said, ‘Well, make haste!’”

A young lady who was rebuked by her mother for kissing her intended justified the act by quoting the passage, “Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them.”

A married man in New Hampshire is said to have adopted an original method of economy. One morning, recently, when he knew his wife would see him, he kissed the servant-girl. The house-expenses were instantly reduced three hundred dollars per year.

“Kissing your sweetheart,” says a trifling young man, “is like eating soup with a fork: it takes a long time to get enough.”

Bus—to kiss. Re-bus—to kiss again. Blunderbus—two girls kissing each other. Omnibus—to kiss all the girls in the room. Bus-ter—a general kisser. E pluri-bus unum—a thousand kisses in one.

An editor defines a blunderbuss as kissing the wrong girl,—just as though it were possible to be wrong in kissing any girl. A blunderbuss is for men to kiss one another, as Frenchmen do, or for girls to kiss one another, as they often do for want of a man to kiss them.

A young fellow in San Francisco suddenly snatched a kiss from a lady friend, and excused his conduct by saying that it was a sort of temporary insanity that now and then came upon him. When he arose to take his leave the pitying damsel said to him, “If you ever feel any more such fits coming on, you had better come right here, where your infirmity is known, and we will take care of you.”

This story is told of an English barrister on his travels. As the coach was about to start after breakfast, the modest limb of the law approached the landlady, a pretty Quakeress, who was seated near the fire, and said he could not think of going without first giving her a kiss. “Friend,” said she, “thee must not do it.” “Oh, by heavens, I will!” replied the barrister. “Well, friend, as thou hast sworn, thee may do it; but thee must not make a practice of it.”

Here is an episode from a Palais Royal farce. A. is making love to C., who is B.’s wife, and scents B.’s coat with musk. A. is on the point of kissing C., when he smells mischief in the air. She waits, expectant of the embrace; he turns up his nose, snuffs, and changes the tone of his remark. Tableaux!

The electrical kiss is performed by means of the electrical stool. Let a lady challenge a gentleman not acquainted with the experiment to give her a salute. The lady thereupon mounts the glass stool, taking hold of the chain connected with the prime conductor. The machine then being set in motion, the gentleman approaches the lady and attempts to imprint the seal of affection upon her coral lips, when a spark will fly in his face which effectually checkmates his intentions.

Some of the young men who go to see the girls have adopted a new way of obtaining kisses. They assert, on the authority of scientific writers, that the concussion produced by a kiss will cause the flame of a gas-jet to flicker, and they easily induce the girls to experiment in the interest of science. At the first kiss or two the parties watch the flame to see it flicker, but they soon become so interested in the experiments as to let It flicker if it wants to. Try it yourself.

Nilsson is not above resorting to the little tricks of the stage, when she thinks they will serve her purpose. A correspondent of the “Arcadian” says, “One night, at the ‘Italiens’ in Paris, she actually sent a man up to the top proscenium-box with a quantity of common wall-flowers, which he was to throw down upon the stage at a given moment. Imagine what a lovely scene this produced. How sweet and simple was this tribute of the poor to the august Diva! How pretty it was to see her pick up the common wall-flowers and kiss them, and then lift her eyes up to the gallery in sign of eternal gratitude to the gods!”

“Mary, why did you kiss your hand to the gentleman opposite, this morning?” said a careful mother to her blooming daughter. “Why, the gentleman had the impudence to throw a kiss clear across the street, and, of course, I threw it back indignantly! You wouldn’t have encouraged him by keeping it, would you?”

A beautiful girl stepped into a shop to buy a pair of mittens. “How much are they?” said she. “Why,” said the gallant but impudent clerk, lost in gazing upon the sparkling eyes and ruby lips, “you shall have them for a kiss.” “Very well,” said the lady, pocketing the mittens, while her eyes spoke daggers; “and, as I see you give credit here, charge it on your books, and let me know when you collect it.” And she very hastily tripped out.

A lady residing in Lansingburg hailed a passing car, with her little son, to see him safely on the horse-car for a trip to Troy. He stepped on board and scrambled for the front of the car. As he was going, his mother said, “Why, aren’t you going to kiss your mother before you go?” The little fellow was so delighted at the prospect of a ride, and in such a hurry, that he hastily rejoined, looking back excitedly, “Mr. Conductor, won’t you kiss mother for me?” And of course the passengers couldn’t keep from smiling.

“My dear,” said an affectionate wife, “what shall we have for dinner to-day?” “One of your smiles,” replied the husband; “I can dine on that every day.” “But I can’t,” replied the wife. “Then take this,” and he gave her a kiss, and went to his business. He returned to dinner. “This is excellent steak,” said he: “what did you pay for it?” “Why, what you gave me this morning, to be sure,” replied the wife. “You did!” exclaimed he; “then you shall have the money next time you go to market.”

The author of the old comedy called “The Kiss” sent a copy, as soon as published, to a young lady, informing her that he had been wishing for several months for the opportunity of giving her a kiss.

Joseph II., Emperor of Germany, during a visit to Rome, went to see the princess Santacroce, a young lady of singular beauty, who had an evening conversazione. Next morning appeared the following pasquinade: “Pasquin asks, ‘What is the Emperor Joseph come to Rome for?’ Marforio answers, ‘Abaciar la Santa Croce’”—to kiss the Holy Cross.

When the court of France waited upon the king on the birth of the Duke of Burgundy, all were welcomed to kiss the royal hand. The Marquis of Spinola, in the ardor of respect, bit his majesty’s finger, on which the king started, when Spinola begged pardon, and said in his defence that if he had not done so his majesty would not have noticed him.

“Our professor does wonderful things in surgery,” said a young medical student: “he has actually made a new lip for a boy, taken from his cheek.” “Ah, well,” said his old aunt, “many’s the time I have known a pair taken from mine, and no very painful operation either.”

An engaged young gentleman got rather neatly out of a scrape with his intended. She taxed him with having kissed two young ladies at some party at which she was not present. He owned it, but said that their united ages only made twenty-one. The simple-minded girl thought of ten and eleven, and laughed off her pout. He did not explain that one was nineteen and the other two years of age! Wasn’t it artful? Just like the men!

“Pray, Miss Primrose, do you like steamboats?” inquired a gentleman of a fair friend to whom he was paying his addresses. “Oh! pretty well,” replied the lady; “but I’m exceedingly fond of a smack.” The lover took the hint, and impressed a chaste salute on the lips of the blushing damsel.

“Yes, you may come again next Sunday evening, Horace dear, but”—and she hesitated. “What is it, darling? Have I given you pain?” he asked, as she still remained silent. “You didn’t mean to, I’m sure,” she responded, “but next time please don’t wear one of those collars with the points turning outward; they scratch so.”

“Come, my little fellow,” said a Washington gentleman to a youngster of five years while sitting in a parlor where a large company were assembled, “do you know me?” “Yeth, thir!” “Who am I? Let me hear.” “You ith the man who kithed mamma when papa wath in New York.” Correct.

Little Katie, standing on a chair before a mirror, and holding her mother’s elegant hat upon her head, remarks to her father, who is sitting tête-à-tête with her mother, “Oh, papa, now I know why mamma gets so many kisses from your cousin Tom; it’s because of the pretty hat she wears. Don’t I look tempting, though?”

A Milwaukee man hid in a public door-way, and jumped out and kissed his wife. She didn’t whoop and yell, as he expected, but remarked, “Don’t be so bold, mister: folks around here know me.”

Mrs. Laing, an Omaha woman, glided softly up behind Kalakaua, King of the Sandwich Islands, and—stole a kiss! But the joke of the thing is that the Omaha wags passed off a good-looking negro for the king.

A Binghamton girl offered to let a countryman kiss her for five cents. “Gad,” exclaimed the bucolic youth, “that’s darn cheap, if a fellow only had the money.”

A New Orleans minister recently married a colored couple, and at the conclusion of the ceremony remarked, “On such occasions as this it is customary to kiss the bride, but in this case we will omit it.” To this unclerical remark the indignant bridegroom very pertinently replied, “On such an occasion as this it is customary to give the minister ten dollars, but in this case we will omit it.”

The accomplished Fitzwiggle propounded this conundrum to the lovely Miss Sparrowgrass: “What would you be, dearest, if I should press the stamp of love upon those sealing-wax lips?” “I,” responded the fairy-like creature, “should be stationery.”

Walt Whitman thus used the poetic license in his salute to the White House bride, the daughter of President Grant, upon the occasion of her marriage:

It was considered, doubtful whether such wholesale osculation would be satisfactory. Yet, at the same time, the gifted actress, Clara Morris, upon meeting with an enthusiastic reception in Cleveland, her home, concluded a speech of grateful appreciation with the tantalizing wish that Cleveland “had but one mouth, that she might kiss it.”[29]

A party of ladies and gentlemen, on a tour of inspection through Durham Castle, were escorted by an elderly female of a sour, solemn, and dignified aspect. In the course of their peregrinations they came to the tapestry for which the castle is famed. “These,” said the guide, in true showman style, flavored with a dash of piety to suit the subject, and pointing to several groups of figures upon the tapestry, “these represent scenes in the life of Jacob.” “Oh, yes,—how pretty!” said a young lady; and, with a laugh, pointing to two figures in somewhat close proximity, she continued, “I suppose that is Jacob kissing Rachel?” “No, madam,” responded the indignant guide, with crushing dignity, “that is Jacob wrestling with the angel.” Amid a general smile the young lady subsided, and offered no further expository remarks, but groaned under a sense of unworthiness during the rest of the visit.

A Carson (California) editor thus speaks of “Climatic Influences:”

Last evening, after the dusky shadows of night had cast a mantle over this part of the mundane sphere, we strolled out upon one of Carson’s beautifully shaded avenues for a walk. While pondering upon the uncertainty of everything human, we came suddenly upon two persons, both of whom were not of the same gender, standing one upon either side of a gate, which seemed to require a pressure of forty pounds to the square inch to keep it from falling; but, strange to say, it remained upright when they separated at our approach. Further on we came in sight of a kind young man who was assisting a poor lame girl with his arm around her waist. Not wishing to investigate the matter further, we turned into the next cross-street, but had not proceeded more than a block when we heard a sweet voice exclaim:

“Ed, if you kiss me again, I’ll call ma.”

Thinking how such things could be, we returned to our sanctum, where reference to the “Chronicle” of yesterday explains it. It is all in the climate, you know.

Mr. S. S. Cox, in his illustrations of American humor, refers to the newspaper fashion of giving a comic account of a catastrophe, and then, by a sudden and serious turn, leaving a suggestive hiatus, making a conclusion which connects the premises. Among the examples given is this one:

Mr. Jones was observed by his wife through the window to kiss the cook in the kitchen. Comment: “Mr. Jones did not go out of the house for several days, and yet there was no snow-storm.”

“I say, Mr. Smithers,” said Mrs. Smithers to her husband, “didn’t I hear you down in the kitchen kissing the cook?” “My dear,” replied Smithers, blandly, “permit me to insist upon my right to be reasonably ignorant. I really cannot say what you may have heard.” “But wasn’t you down there kissing the cook?” “My dear, I cannot really recollect. I only remember going into the kitchen and coming out again. I may have been there, and from what you say I infer I was. But I cannot recollect just what occurred.” “But,” persisted the ruthless cross-examiner, “what did Jane mean when she said, ‘Oh! Smithers, don’t kiss so loud, or the old she-dragon up-stairs will hear us’?” “Well,” said Smithers, in his blandest tones, “I cannot remember what interpretation I did put on the words at the time. They are not my words, you must remember.”

A Milwaukee chap kissed his girl forty times right straight along, and when he stopped the tears came into her eyes, and she said, in a sad tone of voice, “Ah, John, I fear you have ceased to love me.” “No, I haven’t,” replied John, “but I must breathe.”

A new design for an upholstered front gate seems destined to become popular. The foot-board is cushioned, and there is a warm soap-stone on each side, the inside step being adjustable, so that a short girl can bring her lips to the line of any given moustache without trouble. If the gate is occupied at half-past ten P.M., an iron hand extends from one gate-post, takes the young man by the left ear, turns him around, and he is at once started home by a steel foot.

A man who has been travelling in the “far West” says that when an Idaho girl is kissed, she indignantly exclaims, “Now put that right back where you took it from!”

At a recent wedding in Ohio, the minister was about to salute the bride, when she stayed him with, “No, mister, I give up them wanities now.”

A Maryland editor, on the subject of kissing, says, “The custom is an old one, and no written description can do it justice; to be fully understood and appreciated it must be handed down from mouth to mouth.”

“Stay,” he said, his right arm around her waist and her face expectantly turned to him, “shall it be the kiss pathetic, sympathetic, graphic, paragraphic, Oriental, intellectual, paroxysmal, quick and dismal, slow and unctuous, long and tedious, devotional, or what?” She said perhaps that would be the better way.

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:

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:

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

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.”