The nectar of her lip? I do not give it
The praise it merits: antiquity is too poor
To help me with a simile to express her:
Let me drink often from this living spring,
To nourish new invention.
_Emperor of the East._
* * * * *
_Sforza._ Can any act, though ne’er so loose, that may
Invite or heighten appetite, appear
Immodest or uncomely? Do not move me;
My passions to you are in extremes,
And know no bounds:—come, kiss me.
_Marcelia._ I obey you.
_Sforza._ By all the joys of love, she does salute me
As if I were her grandfather! What witch,
With cursèd spells, hath quenched the amorous heat
That lived upon these lips? Tell me, Marcelia,
And truly tell me, is’t a fault of mine
That hath begot this coldness?
_Duke of Milan._
* * * * *
_Francisco_. [_Preserving the dead body of Marcelia._]
Your ladyship looks pale;
But I, your doctor, have a ceruse for you.
See, my Eugenia, how many faces
That are adored in court, borrow these helps,
[_Paints the cheeks._
And pass for excellence, when the better part
Of them are like to this. Your mouth smells sour, too,
But here is that shall take away the scent,
A precious antidote old ladies use
When they would kiss, knowing their gums are rotten.
[_Paints the lips._
These hands, too, that disdained to take a touch
From any lip whose owner writ not lord,
Are now but as the coarsest earth.
_Duke of Milan._
* * * * *
_Lovell._ If then you may be won to make me happy,
But join your lips to mine, and that shall be
A solemn contract.
_Lady Allworthy._ I were blind to my own good
Should I refuse it [_kisses him_]; yet, my lord, receive me
As such a one, the study of whose whole life
Shall know no other object but to please you.
_New Way to Pay Old Debts._
FORD.
She never used, my lord,
A second means, but kissed the letter first,
O’erlooked the superscription, then let fall
Some amorous drops, kissed it again, talked to it
Twenty times over, set it to her mouth,
Then gave it to me, then snatched it back again,
Then cried, “Oh, my poor heart!” and, in an instant,
“Commend my truth and secrecy.” Such medley
Of passion yet I never saw in woman.
_Lady’s Trial._
* * * * *
_Piero._ Does not yourself know, lady?
_Amoretta._ I do not uthe
To thpen lip-labor upon quethtionths
That I mythelf can anthwer.
_Futelli._ No, sweet madam,
Your lips are destined to a better use,
Or else the proverb fails of lisping maids.
_Amoretta._ Kithing you mean; pray come behind with
Your mockths then,
My lipth will therve the one to kith the other.
_Lady’s Trial._
HEYWOOD.
The path of pleasure, and the gate to bliss,
Which on your lips I knock at with a kiss.
_Woman Killed with Kindness._
* * * * *
My wife, the mother to my pretty babes!
Both those lost names I do restore thee back,
And with this kiss I wed thee once again.
Though thou art wounded in thy honored name,
And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest,
Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou diest.
_Woman Killed with Kindness._
SHIRLEY.
I’m disinherited, thrown out of all,
But the small earth I borrow, thus to walk on;
And, having nothing left, I come to kiss thee,
And take my everlasting leave of thee, too.
Farewell! this will persuade thee to consent
To my eternal absence.
_The Brothers._
DRYDEN.
She brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his;
At which he whispered kisses back on hers.
_All for Love._
* * * * *
Oh, let me live forever on those lips!
The nectar of the gods to these is tasteless.
_Amphytrion._
OTWAY.
He scarce afforded one kind parting word,
But went away so cold, the kiss he gave me
Seemed the forced compliment of sated love.
_Orphan._
* * * * *
_Belvidera._ (_To Jaffier._)
I’ll make this arm a pillow for thine head,
And, as thou sighing liest, and swelled with sorrow,
Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love
Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest;
Then praise our God, and watch thee till the morning.
_Venice Preserved._
LANSDOWNE.
The kiss you take is paid by that you give:
The joy is mutual, and I’m still in debt.
_Heroic Love._
GOLDSMITH.
_Marlow._ To guess at this distance, you can’t be much above forty.
[_Approaching._] Yet nearer, I don’t think so much. [_Approaching._] By
coming close to some women, they look younger still; but when we come
very close indeed—[_Attempting to kiss her_.]
_Miss Hardcastle._ Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you
wanted to know one’s age as they do horses, by mark of mouth.
_She Stoops to Conquer._
KNOWLES.
There may you read in him how love would seem
Most humble when most bold,—you question which
Appears to kiss her hand,—his breath or lips!
_Hunchback._
* * * * *
_Modus._ You’ve questioned me, and now I’ll question you.
_Helen._ What would you learn?
_Mod._ The use of lips?
_Hel._ To speak.
_Mod._ Naught else?
_Hel._ “How bold my modest cousin grows!”
Why, other use know you?
_Mod._ I do.
_Hel._ Indeed!
You’re wondrous wise! And, pray, what is it?
_Mod._ This. [_Attempts to kiss her._]
_Hel._ Soft! My hand thanks you, cousin; for my lips,
I keep them for a husband! Nay, stand off!
I’ll not be held in manacles again.
_Hunchback._
SCHILLER.
_Countess._ Doors creaked and clapped;
I followed panting, but could not o’ertake thee;
When on a sudden did I feel myself
Grasped from behind,—the hand was cold that grasped me.
’Twas thou, and thou didst kiss me, and there seemed
A crimson covering to envelop us.
_Wallenstein._ That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber.
_Wallenstein._
GOETHE.
Oh, hear me, look upon me, how my heart
After long desolation now unfolds
Unto this new delight, to kiss thy head,
Thou dearest, dearest one of all on earth,
To clasp thee with my arms, which were but thrown
On the void winds before.
_Iphigenia._
ALFIERI.
O children! O my children! to my soul
Your innocent words and kisses are as darts
That pierce it to the quick.
_Alcestis._
LONGFELLOW.
_Victorian._ Since yesterday I’ve been in Alcala.
Ere long the time will come, sweet Preciosa,
When that dull distance shall no more divide us,
And I no more shall scale thy wall by night
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now.
_Preciosa._ An honest thief, to steal but what thou givest.
_Spanish Student._
BULWER-LYTTON.
_Melnotte._ I hold her in these arms—the last embrace!
Never, ah, nevermore shall this dear head
Be pillowed on the heart that should have sheltered
And has betrayed! Soft—soft! one kiss—poor wretch!
No scorn on that pale lip forbids me now!
One kiss—so ends all record of my crime!
It is the seal upon the tomb of Hope,
By which, like some lost, sorrowing angel, sits
Sad Memory evermore.
_Lady of Lyons._
* * * * *
_De Mauprat._ [_To Julie, kissing her hand._] Ay;
With my whole heart I love you!—
[_To De Beringhen._] Now, sir, go,
And tell that to his Majesty! Who ever
Heard of its being a state-offence to kiss
The hand of one’s own wife?
_Richelieu._
TALFOURD.
The widow of the moment fix her gaze
Of longing, speechless love upon her babe,
The only living thing which yet was hers,
Spreading its arms for its own resting-place,
Yet with attenuated hand wave off
The unstricken child, and so embraceless die,
Stifling the mighty hunger of the heart.
_Ion._
* * * * *
She scarcely raised
Her head, until her work—a bridal robe—
Hung dazzling on her arm; as then she sought
Her chamber, I impressed one solemn kiss
Upon her icy brow: then, as aroused
From stupor by poor sympathy, she threw
Her arms around my neck; and, whispering low,
But piercingly, conjured me to keep watch
Upon her thinkings, lest one erring wish
Should rise to mar her duty to her lord.
_Glencoe._
MISS MITFORD.
He used to call me child,
His dearest child; and when I grasped his hand
Would hold me from him with a long fond gaze,
And stroke my hair, and kiss my brow, and bid
Heaven bless his sweet Camilla! And to-night
Nought but to bed! to bed!
_Foscari._
* * * * *
_King._ [_To Cromwell._] Sir,
Thou seest me with my children. Doth thine errand
Demand their absence?
_Cromwell._ No. I sent them to thee
In Christian charity. Thou hast not fallen
Among the heathen!
_King._ Howsoever sent,
It was a royal boon. My heart hath ached
With the vain agony of longing love
To look upon those blooming cheeks, to kiss
Those red and innocent lips, to hear the sound
Of those dear voices.
_Charles the First._
PROCTER.
Oh, Isidora, where—
Where are you loitering now when Guido’s here?
By the bright god of love, I’ll punish you,
Idler, and press your rich red lips until
The color flies.
_Mirandola._
MRS. BROWNING.
[_Eve to Adam._] Because I comprehend
This human love, I shall not be afraid
Of any human death; and yet because
I know this strength of love, I seem to know
Death’s strength by that same sign. Kiss on my lips,
To shut the door close on my rising soul,
Lest it pass outward in astonishment,
And leave thee lonely.
_Drama of Exile._
* * * * *
_Adam._ A child’s kiss
Set on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad—
...
Thy hand, which plucked the apple, I clasp close;
Thy lips, which spake wrong counsel, I kiss close.
_Drama of Exile._
TENNYSON.
_Milkmaid._ [_Singing without._]
Shame upon you, Robin,
Shame upon you now!
Kiss me would you? with my hands
Milking the cow?
Daisies grow again,
Kingcups blow again,
And you came and kissed me milking the cow.
Robin came behind me,
Kissed me well, I vow;
Cuff him could I? with my hands
Milking the cow?
Swallows fly again,
Cuckoos cry again,
And you came and kissed me milking the cow.
Come, Robin, Robin,
Come and kiss me now:
Help it can I? with my hands
Milking the cow?
Ringdoves coo again,
All things woo again,
Come behind and kiss me milking the cow.
_Queen Mary._
[Illustration]
THE KISS IN FICTION.
EIGHTEENTH- AND NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVELS.
It is contended by an American humorist, in an argument in favor of
osculation, that it would imply a great want of reverence in us if we
were to set ourselves up as wiser than our ancestors, and refuse to
continue a practice that has been sanctioned by their approval. Yet,
if we follow the curious aberrations in the extent of favor accorded
to it by these ancestors during the last century, we shall be somewhat
puzzled over the reflex as we find it in the novels of different periods.
With the exception of Richardson, however, it must be owned that the
eighteenth-century novelists, from Fielding and Smollett down to the time
of the appearance of Goldsmith, and Maria Edgeworth, and Jane Austen,
prove the truth of the remark of Shaw (“History of English Literature”)
that “the time when Fielding wrote was remarkable for the low tone of
manners and sentiment; perhaps the lowest that ever prevailed in England,
for it was precisely a juncture when the romantic spirit of the old
chivalrous manners was extinguished, and before the modern standard of
refinement was introduced.” Accordingly, in Fielding and Smollett the
heroes and heroines kiss with all the gusto of a coarse and licentious
age, and without waiting for the interesting time which the novelists of
our day select for granting the first long kiss of affection. The readers
of Fielding’s “Amelia” will remember the insulting young nobleman who,
upon meeting the heroine at Vauxhall, cries out, “Let the devil come as
soon as he will, d——n me if I have not a kiss.”
In singular contrast with such athletic and boisterous rudeness are the
overwrought refinement and strained sentiment of Richardson, Fielding’s
contemporary and sometime friend. In the one it is an outbreak of
coarseness or ungoverned passion; in the other it is a ceremonial whose
observance is attended with decorum and solemnity. As a consequence,
there is a great deal of the “naughty but nice” fascination in the
former, and a large proportion of tedious and mawkish twaddle in the
latter. For a specimen of Richardson’s namby-pambyism we may advert to
his “Sir Charles Grandison,” in which we are told that after leaving
Italy and returning to England Sir Charles solicits the hand of Harriet
Byron in true Grandisonian manner. It is amusing to see the lofty style
in which this mirror of chivalry makes love, and to note the extravagance
of his compliments. But let Miss Byron tell the story:
“‘There seems,’ said he, ‘to be a mixture of generous concern and kind
curiosity in one of the loveliest and most intelligent faces in the
world.’”
“‘Thus,’ resumed he, snatching my hand and ardently pressing it with his
lips, ‘do I honor to myself for the honor done me. How poor is man, that
he cannot express his gratitude to the object of his vows for obligations
confessed, but by owing to her new obligations!’” [What a formal pedant
of a lover!]
“In a soothing, tender, and respectful manner, he put his arm round me,
and, taking my own handkerchief, unresisted, wiped away the tears as they
fell on my cheek. ‘Sweet humanity! charming sensibility! check not the
kindly gush. Dew-drops of heaven! (wiping away my tears and kissing the
handkerchief)—dew-drops of heaven, from a mind like that heaven, mild and
gracious.’
“He kissed my hand with fervor; dropped down on one knee; again kissed
it. ‘You have laid me, madam, under everlasting obligations; and will you
permit me before I rise, loveliest of women, will you permit me to beg an
early day?’”
“He clasped me in his arms with an ardor that displeased me not on
reflection, but at the time startled me. He thanked me again on one knee;
I held out the hand he had not in his, with intent to raise him, for
I could not speak. He received it as a token of favor; kissed it with
ardor; arose, _again_ pressed my cheek with his lips. I was too much
surprised to repulse him with anger. But was he not too free? Am I a
prude, my dear?”
Yes, Miss Byron, we are afraid you are a prude, to feel such surprise and
doubt at an innocent kiss after a formal engagement.
By way of another contrast we copy the following passages: In the
“Unhappy Mistake” of Mrs. Behn (Astræa), a lover, who is about to
fight a duel, goes early in the morning to his sister’s bedroom, with
whom Lucretia, the mistress of his affections, is sleeping. “They both
happened to be awake and talking as he came to the door, which his sister
permitted him to unlock, and asked him the reason of his so early rising,
who replied that since he could not sleep he would take the air a little.
‘But first, sister,’ continued he, ‘I will refresh myself at your lips.’
‘And now, madam,’ added he to Lucretia, ‘I would beg a cordial from you.’
‘For that,’ said his sister, ‘you shall be obliged to me for once.’
Saying so, she gently turned Lucretia’s face toward him, and he had his
wish. Ten to one but he had rather have continued with Lucretia than
have gone to her brother, had he known him, for he loved her truly and
passionately. But, being a man of true courage and honor, he took his
leave of them, presently dressed, and tripped away with the messenger,
who made more than ordinary haste.”
As an offset to this, we recur to the story of “Sir Charles Grandison.”
In proof of the “humorous character” of Charlotte Grandison, we are told
that soon after her marriage her husband made her a present of some old
china. “And when he had done,” writes she to Harriet Byron, “taking the
_liberty_, as he phrased it, half fearful, half resolute, to salute his
bride for his reward, and then pacing backwards several steps with such a
strut and crow—I see him yet,—indulge me, Harriet!—I burst into a hearty
laugh; I could not help it; and he, reddening, looked round himself and
round himself to see if anything was amiss on his part. The _man_, the
_man_, honest friend,—I could have said, but had too much reverence for
my husband,—is the oddity; nothing amiss in the garb.”
It is remarkable, says Forsyth, that some of the most immoral novels
in the English language should have been written by women. This bad
distinction belongs to Mrs. Behn, Mrs. Manley, and Mrs. Heywood.
_Corruptio optimi est pessima_, and that such corrupt stories as they
gave to the world were the offspring of female pens is an unmistakable
proof of the loose manners of the age. It is impossible, without the
risk of offence, to quote freely from the works of an age when vice and
indelicacy were triumphant and modesty had left its last footsteps upon
earth.
It is refreshing to pass from their details of profligacy, and the
insidious mischief of their assaults upon domestic purity, to that later
school of fiction which, as Lord Bacon says, “serveth and conformeth
to magnanimity, morality, and delectation.” Foremost among those at
the dawn of the present century, whose ideals are framed according to
the healthful and ennobling standards which conform to the government
and will of God and which command the reverence of man, was Miss Jane
Porter. If her heroes are paragons like Grandison, they are not, like Sir
Charles, models of solemn foppery, insipid in their superiority, correct
as automata in their elaborate politeness, or passing their lives, as
Taine says, “in weighing their duties and making salutations.” They are
quite as irreproachable, while they are far more consistent with the
conditions of our human nature and our human life.
It would be interesting to trace the course of Sobieski, in “Thaddeus
of Warsaw,” from the time when, as an enforced exile, he dropped on
his knees and, “plucking a turf of grass and pressing it to his lips,
exclaimed, ‘Farewell, Poland! farewell all my hopes of happiness!’” to
the hour when he clasped his newly-wedded wife at the grave of Butzou.
But two extracts will suffice to show what manner of man he was. Upon
reading for the third time a letter from Lady Tinemouth containing
assurances of Miss Beaufort’s high regard for him, his heart throbbed
with violent emotion:
“‘Delicious poison!’ cried he, kissing the paper. ‘If adoring thee,
lovely Mary, be added to my other sorrows, I shall be resigned. There
is sweetness even in the thought. Could I credit all that my dear Lady
Tinemouth affirms, the conviction that I possess one kind solicitude in
the mind of Miss Beaufort would be ample compensation for——’
“He did not finish the sentence, but, sighing profoundly, rose from his
chair.
“‘For anything, except beholding her the wife of another!’ was the
sentiment with which his heart panted. Thaddeus had never known a selfish
feeling in his life; and this first instance of his wishing that good
unappropriated which he might not himself enjoy, made him start.
“‘There is a fault in my heart, a dreadful one!’ Dissatisfied with
himself, he was preparing to answer her ladyship’s letter, when,” etc.
When the infatuated and distracted Lady Sara had failed in her desperate
efforts to entice Sobieski from the path of honor and virtue in his own
lodgings, he pityingly and forgivingly attended her to her own home,
where, we are told:
“When Thaddeus had seated Lady Sara in her drawing-room, he prepared to
take a respectful leave; but her ladyship, getting up, laid one hand on
his arm, whilst with the other she covered her convulsive features, and
said, ‘Constantine, before you go, before we part, perhaps eternally, oh,
tell me that you do not hate me! That you do not _hate_ me!’ repeated
she, in a firmer tone; ‘I know too well how deeply I am despised!’
“‘Cease, my dearest madam,’ returned he, tenderly replacing her on
the sofa, ‘cease these vehement expressions. Shame does not depend on
possessing passions, but on yielding to them. You have conquered, Lady
Sara, and in future I shall respect and love you as a dear friend.
Whoever holds the first place in my heart, you shall always retain the
second.’
“‘Noble, generous Constantine!’ cried she, straining his hand to her lips
and bathing it with her tears; ‘I can require no more. May Heaven bless
you wherever you go.’
“Thaddeus dropped upon his knee, imprinted on both her hands a
compassionate and fervent kiss, and, rising hastily, quitted the room
without a word.”
* * * * *
In the novels of our day, kissing is as indispensable an adjunct to
love-making as it ever was, but its treatment has changed as the æsthetic
and practical views of courtship have changed with the influences
of society. Whether as the impulse of passionate attachment or the
expression of refined affection, it is, for the most part, handled
by our modern writers in a healthful, natural, legitimate, decorous,
and felicitous manner. Those who indulge in namby-pamby effusion or
sentimental gush, on the one hand, or the startling aberrations and
obliquities of inconventionalism on the other, may expect to hear from
the satirists and reviewers. No one entertained for weakly sentimentalism
or affected prettiness more profound contempt and impatience than
Thackeray. Yet where shall we find more exquisite touches than those
which abound in the pages of the great humorist and satirist? Take, for
example, a few scattered passages from “The Newcomes:”
“There she sits; the same, but changed: as gone from him as if she were
dead; departed indeed into another sphere, and entered into a kind of
death. If there is no love more in yonder heart, it is but a corpse
unburied. Strew round it the flowers of youth. Wash it with tears of
passion. Wrap it and envelop it with fond devotion. Break heart, and
fling yourself on the bier, and kiss her cold lips, and press her hand!
It falls back dead on the cold breast again. The beautiful lips have
never a blush or a smile.”
“He took a little slim white hand and laid it down on his brown palm,
where it looked all the whiter: he cleared the grizzled mustachio from
his mouth, and, stooping down, he kissed the little white hand with a
great deal of grace and dignity. There was no point of resemblance, and
yet a something in the girl’s look, voice, and movements, which caused
his heart to thrill, and an image out of the past to rise up and salute
him.”
“The sisters-in-law kissed on meeting, with that cordiality so delightful
to witness in sisters who dwell together in unity.”
“He would not even stop and give his Ethel of old days his hand. I would
have given him I don’t know what, for one kiss, for one kind word; but he
passed on and would not answer me.”
“For months past they had not had a really kind word. The tender old
voice smote upon Clive, and he burst into sudden tears. They rained upon
his father’s trembling old brown hand as he stooped down and kissed it.”
“Clive felt the pathetic mood coming on again, and an immense desire to
hug Lady Ann in his arms and to kiss her. How grateful are we—how touched
a frank and generous heart is—for a kind word extended to us in our pain!”
“The lips of the pretty satirist who alluded to these unpleasant bygones
were silenced, as they deserved to be, by Mr. Pendennis. ‘Do you think,
sir, I did not know,’ says the sweetest voice in the world, ‘when you
went out on your fishing excursions with Miss Amory?’ Again the flow of
words is checked by the styptic previously applied.”
“‘Oh, Pen,’ says my wife, closing my mouth in a way which I do not choose
further to particularize, ‘that man is the best, the dearest, the
kindest creature. I never knew such a good man; you ought to put him into
a book. Do you know, sir, that I felt the very greatest desire to give
him a kiss when he went away? and that one which you had just now was
intended for him?’”
“Laura drove to his lodgings, and took him a box, which was held up to
him, as he came to open the door to my wife’s knock, by our smiling
little boy. He patted the child on his golden head and kissed him. My
wife wished he would have done as much for her; but he would not,—though
she owned she kissed his hand. He drew it across his eyes and thanked her
in a very calm and stately manner.”
“On the day when he went away, Laura went up and kissed him with tears
in her eyes. ‘You know how long I have been wanting to do it,’ this lady
said to her husband.”
“She fairly gave way to tears as she spoke; and for me, I longed to kiss
the hem of her robe, or anything else she would let me embrace, I was so
happy, and so touched by the simple demeanor and affection of the noble
young lady.”
“Ethel walked slowly up to the humble bed, and sat down on a chair near
it. No doubt her heart prayed for him who slept there; she turned round
where his black Pensioner’s cloak was hanging on the wall, and lifted
up the homely garment and kissed it. The servant looked on, admiring, I
should think, her melancholy and her gracious beauty.”
* * * * *
From Thackeray to Charles Dickens the transition is easy and pleasant.
The difficulty, in both cases, is to limit the number of our extracts.
These are from “Nicholas Nickleby:”