On the other hand, when it comes to the kisses of his favorite (xi. 8), Martial indulges in the following exuberant fancy: “The fragrance of balsam extracted from aromatic trees; the ripe odor yielded by the teeming saffron; the perfume of fruits mellowing in their winter repository; or of the flowery meadows in the vernal season; or of silken robes of the empress from her Palatine wardrobes; of amber warmed by the hand of a maiden; of a jar of dark Falernian wine, broken and scented from a distance; of a garden that attracts the Sicilian bees; of the alabaster jars of Cosmus, and the altars of the gods; of the chaplet just fallen from the brow of the luxurious;—but why should I mention all these things singly? not one of them is enough by itself; mix all together,[6] and you have the perfume of the morning kisses of my favorite. Do you want to know the name? I will only tell you of the kisses. You swear to be secret. You want to know too much, Sabinus.” One more selection from Martial (vi. 34) will suffice for this branch of our subject: “Give me, Diadumenus, close kisses. ‘How many?’ you say. You bid me count the waves of the ocean, the shells scattered on the shores of the Ægean Sea, the bees that wander on Attic Hybla, or the voices and clappings that resound in the full theatre when the people suddenly see the countenance of the emperor. I should not be content even with as many as Lesbia, after many entreaties, gave to the witty Catullus: he wants but few who can count them.” The following imitation was written by Sir C. Hanbury Williams: “Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses, For sweeter sure girl never gave; But why, in the midst of my blisses, Do you ask me how many I’d have? “I’m not to be stinted in pleasure; Then, prithee, my charmer, be kind, For, while I love thee above measure, To numbers I’ll ne’er be confined. “Count the bees that on Hybla are playing; Count the flowers that enamel its fields; Count the flocks that on Tempe are straying; Or the grain that rich Sicily yields. “Go number the stars in the heaven; Count how many sands on the shore: When so many kisses you’ve given, I still shall be craving for more. “To a heart full of love let me hold thee, To a heart which, dear Chloe, is thine; With my arms I’ll forever enfold thee, And twist round thy limbs like a vine. “What joy can be greater than this is? My life on thy lips shall be spent; But the wretch that can number his kisses With few will be ever content.” TRACES IN ENGLISH HISTORY. Kissing appears to have been the usual method of salutation in England in former times. A Greek traveller, named Chalondyles, who visited Britain five centuries ago, says: