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Since intense love is rare, murder remains an
exception and preserves its aspect of infraction.
I kiss'd thee ere I kill'd thee, no way but this,
Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
How much must be forgotten out of love,
How much must be forgiven, even love.
Down through the ages, damsels of every type, in every imaginable form of dismay and distress have been rescued by knights as variable in their own character and array as the ladies and their peril. The ladies, too, have performed their fair share of rescue operations. Few themes, indeed, have so crammed man's fantasies and underlaid his behavior—childish or otherwise—as the theme of rescue. Of course, the animistic ego has persistently invited and directed the rescue involvements of all sorts of creatures, not only the heroics of animals and insects but of rocks and trees from Aesop to Grimm to Andersen to Tolkien. Innumerable institutions (e.g., churches and armies) also have been firmly positioned on rescue rituals. If one simply glances about, rescue errands of every magnitude appear. Just anybody, as well as almost anything, has at some time qualified as the hero or victim in some eventful crusade, if not in the minds and