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.’”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 “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.
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 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.
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:
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:
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.
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.”
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.”
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!