Diogenes of London (collection)/The Philosophy of the Caress

T is surprising to what monstrous importance the empty habit of caressing has continuously aspired. When all is considered it is surely a ridiculous item in a man's daily ritual, yet upon it hangs the whole service of woman; it is the most particular act in her worship, to abolish which would be to raise the devil at once upon our affections. I speak in a little remoteness from the whole topic, having studied these many years to regard it from a discreet distance. I do not indeed claim that I am without the influences of the passion, having in my memory a few absurdities of the past; but I have come, I think, by diligence and abstention, to an equable calm wherein the heat and glamour of this idle custom seem truly remarkable. I make no doubt that it is of our ancestry we inherit the instinct; but to accept this is to grow no wiser—is still to go marvelling that its hold upon us should be so intolerably severe. At this late date, one would suppose, the thing would have resigned its tenure, as we develop more perfectly into the purely intellectual. For that it is sheerly animal is beyond all doubt, as also that it is still a catholic taste. And yet in a manner it is not hard to understand why it should be so popular. In itself the world has a pleasant soothing cadence—caress—and there is besides the full tide of song from the most ancient days, a tradition nigh irresistible. But the act itself has a charm, an indescribable charm, which I will not deny. I have in my mind a situation in which I can conceive the coolest would delight. To be within a short reach of some pretty maiden; to have realised her fair proportions at a glance; to see the rose growing in her cheeks, the eyes silent midway twixt fear and joy, the lips soft, dubious, so manifest, so imminent—there were surely but one obvious issue from the propinquity. I am free to confess that a fascination of this sort is most natural. Indeed I have myself known one between whom and me I was fain to put the table whenever we met; my distrust of my own resistance was so great. There was never so dainty a creature as she appeared in her exquisite raiment, with her admirable contour, her engaging complexion, her shining eyes of blue, her inviting lips. Were it not for a certain timidity in her manner, which rebuked me into a withdrawal, I would have often ventured upon the kiss I had always in my thoughts when I saw her; and when I had left I would invariably reflect upon my diffidence with feelings of regret. I can recall that on one occasion she But much has changed since that time, and I myself have grown to take a more philosophic view of life. It is clear then, that the taste for the caress is still vehement; I can compare it to nothing so excellently as to the desire for an intoxicant, and the effects are very similar. You will experience a ridiculous elation, you will grow hot, you will turn giddy of the head, and the end will be to set up a craving. It does not seem that a reasonable being should submit himself to this slavery of the wits.

And though its power be great the practice is trifling. It is the view of some that this is of no consequence; for all pleasures being bubbles, they say, this is no more inferior than others. It is not my place here to appeal for the abolition of the triviality, if that indeed were possible, but merely to consider the thing as it is: to account for its potency, and even in a measure to apologise for its existence. And if you accept it as an essential fact in human nature, the practice has a fair claim to observance. While we have woman with us it would seem indispensable. And woman herself, it is obvious, serves a necessary use, though that be little outside the indefinite prolongation of the race. In the common concerns of daily living she is of no very clear advantage, has no very secure position. There is no one, I may conjecture, who would go the length of insisting that he took any genuine pleasure in her conversation or her manner of conduct. It is so plainly the possibility of the caress that keeps him in her neighbourhood, the undeniable of her sex. Beyond this I see no gain in the possession of her kind. To put it baldly, this property of hers is the one reasonable apology for her being; all the virtues of her depend from the performance. If we do not take her to exist for the mere experiment of propagation—an unworthy view of her—she has been created also for this potent though ridiculous pleasure. I am offering no excuse for the absurdity, which is patent, but simply acknowledging the power, which again is in the knowledge of all. There can be little doubt that the monotony of our converse, with its regular and recurrent offices, would put us to disgust of our condition, did we not find these bubble pleasures within easy distance. Life may be a poor thing at the best, but its distractions are near, and the madness of the lover is one of them. It lies between us and placid stagnation, and, though fatuous and a derivative of the animal from which I for one would desire to see the race emerge, is yet a factor to be reckoned and put to service. The caress and its congeners may often stand for a buckler against evil days, upon which Time may fling his shafts in vain. This is a most superlative estimate of its value, but from my knowledge I can believe it is precise. In the memory of a kiss, I am informed, men may live out their troubles. Some have pleaded, they assure me, that their lips held the fragrance of another's for a se'nnight, inspiring them upon their rounds to breast the utmost misfortune. If the testimony be true, woman has veritably a meritorious use; and the issue of my inquiries and my thoughts has been to confirm this witness in favour of the vulgar practice.