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! ‘Her presence was as lofty as her state; Her beauty of that overpowering kind Whose force description only would abate: I’d rather leave it much to your own mind Than lessen it by what I could relate Of form and feature.’ “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: “Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, Motioned to Juan to approach, and then A second time desired him to kneel down, And kiss the lady’s foot; which maxim when He heard repeated, Juan with a frown Drew himself up to his full height again, And said, ‘It grieved him, but he could not stoop To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope.’”