Von Logau’s vindication of the mouth as the only place that ought to be kissed is extremely logical, and, I take it, from a purely theoretical point of view, unobjectionable; but, practically, the case is quite the contrary. The royal _trouvère_, Thibaut de Champagne, treats in a lengthy poem--one of the so-called _jeux-partis_--the question whether one should kiss one’s mistress’s mouth or feet. Baudouin’s opinion is in favour of kissing her on the mouth, and he gives his reasons for it at some length; but Thibaut replies, that he who kisses his darling on the mouth has no love for her, because that is the way one kisses any little shepherdess one comes across; it is only by kissing her feet that a lover shows his affection, and it is by such means alone that her favour is to be won. The question of feet or mouth is threshed out minutely by the two contending parties, who at last agree in the opinion that one ought to kiss both parts, beginning with the feet and ending with the mouth. It cannot be denied that Thibaut de Champagne has a far better insight into the matter than Von Logau, and yet even the old French poet’s point of view must be characterised as being somewhat narrow. All the other poets, you must know, teach us that not only the mouth, but every part of our sweetheart’s body says, “Kiss me.” Friends, if it only were my fate! If fate would will it so, I’d kiss her beauties small and great From bosom down to toe. W. F. H. So sings Aarestrup, and he returns again and again to the same idea in his _ritorneller_: When scarce the mouth can longer feel such fooling, Because thy lips are all too hotly burning, Press them to bosom’s Alpine snows for cooling. The arms so white and tender woo caresses; A lovely pleasance, too, those plump white shoulders! But through the soul a bosom-kiss straight presses. Her snow-white shoulders! All what may be said on Such beauty I have uttered. For my guerdon Grant me one now to rest my weary head on. At kisses pressed upon your neck’s fair closes You thrilled and threw your head back, and I straightway Planted upon your throat my kisses’ roses. About my darling I am wheeling, flying, Like to a gadfly round a lily’s chalice, Buzzing until in nectar-cup mute dying. W. F. H. Allow me also to call your attention to a pretty little myth which Dorat composed about a “kiss in the bosom’s Alpine snow.” The kiss is a fair rose, and roses bloom everywhere in these tracks; through witchcraft two vigorous rosebuds sprouted forth on woman’s white bosom: Le bouton d’un beau sein est éclos du baiser; Une rose y fleurit pour y marquer sa trace; Fier de l’avoir fait naître, il aime à s’y fixer.