in describing kisses of every calibre, from the counterpart of that bestowed by Petruchio upon his bride, who

"kist her lips

With such a clamorous smack, that at the parting

All the church echo'd"

to the fond and gentle embrace described by Milton, when Adam, gazing upon our first parent in the delicious bowers of Eden

"in delight

Both of her beauty and submissive charms

Smiled with superior love, as Jupiter

On Juno smiles, when he impregns the clouds
That shed May flowers; and press'd her matron lip
With kisses pure."

Old Ben Jonson, unlike Captain Wattle, preferred the taste of his mistress's lip to Sillery or Chateau-Margaud, for which we have the authority of his wellknown song

"Or leave a kiss within the cup,
And I'll not ask for wine."

And Anacreon himself, tippler as he was, did not relish his Chian, "had not the lips of love first touched the flowing bowl." The poets in general can hardly be supposed to have possessed "lips that beauty hath seldom bless'd;" and if they have not always recorded this fact, they were probably restrained by the sanctitude of that injunction which orders us not to kiss and tell. Yet there ought to be no squeamishness in the

confession, for Nature herself is ever setting us examples of cordiality and love, without the least affectation of secrecy

"This woody realm

Is Cupid's bower; see how the trees enwreath
Their arms in amorous embraces twined!
The gurglings of the rill that runs beneath,
Are but the kisses which it leaves behind,
While softly sighing through these fond retreats
The wanton wind woos every thing it meets."

We may all gaze upon the scene, when, according to the poet,

"The far horizon kisses the red sky,"

or look out upon the ocean

"When the uplifted waters kiss the clouds."

There was doubtless an open footpath over that "heaven-kissing hill," whereon, according to Shakspeare, the feathered Mercury alighted; and there were, probably, many enamoured wanderers abroad on that tranquil night recorded by the same poet——

"When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise."

Even that phlegmatic compound, a pie, has its kissingcrust. There is no kissing, indeed, animate or inanimate, that has not its recommendations; but there is a nondescript species, somewhat between both, against which I beg to enter my protest--I mean the degrading

ceremony of a man made in God's image, kneeling to kiss the hand of a fellow-mortal at Court, merely because that mortal is the owner of a crown and a dispenser of places and titles. Nay, there are inconsistent beings who have kissed the foot of the Servant of servants at Rome, and yet boggled at performing the kotou at Pekin, to the Son of the Moon, the Brother of the Sun, and the Lord of the Celestial Empire. Instead of complaining at knocking their nobs upon the floor before such an august personage, it seemed reasonable to suppose that they would conjure up in their imaginations much more revolting indignities. Rabelais, when he was in the suit of Cardinal Lorraine, accompanied him to Rome, and no sooner saw him prostrate before the Pope, and kissing his toe, as customary, than he suddenly turned round, shut the door, and scampered home. Upon his return, the cardinal asked him the meaning of this insult. "When I saw you," said Rabelais, "who are my master, and, moreover, a cardinal and a prince, kissing the Pope's foot, I could not bear to anticipate the sort of ceremony that was probably reserved for your servant."

TO A LOG OF WOOD UPON THE FIRE.

WHEN Horace, as the snows descended,
On Mount Soracte, recommended

That Logs be doubled,

Until a blazing fire arose,

I wonder whether thoughts like those
Which in my noddle interpose

His fancy troubled.

Poor Log! I cannot hear thee sigh,

And groan, and hiss, and see thee die,
To warm a Poet,

Without evincing thy success,

And as thou wanest less and less,
Inditing a farewell address,

To let thee know it.

Peeping from earth-a bud unveil'd,
Some "bosky bourne" or dingle hail'd
Thy natal hour,

While infant winds around thee blew,
And thou wert fed with silver dew,
And tender sun-beams oozing through
Thy leafy bower.

Earth-water-air-thy growth prepared,
And if perchance some Robin, scared
From neighbouring manor,

Perch'd on thy crest, it rock'd in air,
Making his ruddy feathers flare

In the sun's ray, as if they were
A fairy banner.

Or if some nightingale impress'd
Against thy branching top her breast
Heaving with passion,

And in the leafy nights of June
Outpour'd her sorrows to the moon,
Thy trembling stem thou didst attune
To each vibration.

Thou grew'st a goodly tree, with shoots
Fanning the sky, and earth-bound roots
So grappled under,

That thou whom perching birds could swing,
And zephyrs rock with lightest wing,

From thy firm trunk unmoved didst fling
Tempest and thunder.

Thine offspring leaves-death's annual prey, Which Herod Winter tore away

From thy caressing,

In heaps, like graves, around thee blown,
Each morn thy dewy tears have strown,
O'er each thy branching hands been thrown,
As if in blessing.

Bursting to life, another race

At touch of Spring in thy embrace
Sported and flutter'd;

Aloft, where wanton breezes play'd,
In thy knit-boughs have ringdoves made
Their nest, and lovers in thy shade
Their vows have utter'd.

How oft thy lofty summits won
Morn's virgin smile, and hail'd the sun
With rustling motion;

How oft in silent depths of night,

When the moon sail'd in cloudless light,
Thou hast stood awestruck at the sight,
In hush'd devotion-

"Twere vain to ask; for doom'd to fall, The day appointed for us all

O'er thee impended:

The hatchet, with remorseless blow,

First laid thee in the forest low,
Then cut thee into logs-and so
Thy course was ended-

But not thine use-for moral rules,
Worth all the wisdom of the schools,

Thou may'st bequeath me;