In the endless recurrence of “the old story,” the consecutive and unintermitting reproduction of the pictures
“of the primitive, pastoral ages,
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac,
Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,
Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers,”
we can find no touches more exquisite than these from Rev. Charles Kingsley’s “Yeast;”
“They parted with a long, lingering pressure of the hand, which haunted her young palm all night in dreams. Argemone got into the carriage, Lancelot jumped into the dog-cart, took the reins and relieved his heart by galloping Sandy up the hill and frightening the returning coachman down one bank and his led horses up the other.
“‘Vogue la Galère, Lancelot! I hope you have made good use of your time?’
“But Lancelot spoke no word all the way home, and wandered till dawn in the woods around his cottage, kissing the hand which Argemone’s hand had pressed.” [Ch. vii.]