It was, as I have said, the first kiss, and, as I believe, will be the last; for I shall not, probably, although she lives yet, journey to Schwarzenbach to give a second. As usual, during my whole Schwarzenbach life I was perfectly contented with my telegraphic love, which yet sustained and kept itself alive without any answering telegram. But truly no one could blame her less than I that she was silent at that time, or that she continues so now after the death of her husband; for later, in stranger loves and hearts, I have always been slow to speak. It did not help me that I stood with ready face and attractive outward appearance; all corporeal charms must be placed over the foil of the spiritual before they can sufficiently shine and kindle and dazzle. But this was the cause of failure in my innocent love-time, that without any intercourse with the beloved, without conversation or introduction, I displayed my whole love bursting from the dry exterior, and stood before her like the _Judas-tree_, in full blossom, but without branch or leaf. * * * * * An incident previously referred to has been thus embodied in verse: THE GUERDON. Alain, the poet, fell asleep one day In the lords’ chamber, when it chanced the queen With her twelve maids of honor passed that way,— She like a slim white lily set between Twelve glossy leaves, for they were robed in green. A forest of gold pillars propped the roof, And from the heavy corbels of carved stone Yawned drowsy dwarfs, with satyr’s face and hoof: Like one of those bright pillars overthrown, The slanted sunlight through the casement shone, Gleaming across the body of Alain,— As if the airy column in its fall Had caught and crushed him. So the laughing train Came on him suddenly, and one and all Drew back, affrighted, midway in the hall. Like some huge beetle curled up in the sun Was this man lying in the noontide glare, Deformed, and hideous to look upon, With sunken eyes, and masses of coarse hair, And sallow cheeks deep-seamed with time and care. Forth from her maidens stood Queen Margaret: The royal blood up to her temples crept, Like a wild vine with faint red roses set, As she across the pillared chamber swept, And, kneeling, kissed the poet while he slept. Then from her knees uprose the stately queen, And, seeing her ladies titter, ’gan to frown With those great eyes wherein methinks were seen Lights that outflashed the lustres in her crown,— Great eyes that looked the shallow women down. “Nay, not for love,”—’twas like a sudden bliss, The full sweet measured music of her tongue,— “Nay, not for love’s sake did I give the kiss, Not for his beauty, who’s nor fair nor young, But for the songs which those mute lips have sung!” FREAKS AND PHASES OF LOCAL CUSTOM. THE KISS OF PEACE.