14th February 1826

Put my valentine on the step at No.13, pulled sharply on the bell and walked briskly away.

Sykes was showing everyone his cards at school – he received six valentines! He said he thought they were from a milkmaid (‘with whom I s’pose I’m on what a fellow might call good terms’); a barmaid (‘yes, I frequent that particular house now and then’); a milliner (‘a young acquaintance of my old lady, nothing to speak of’); another barmaid (‘that one has taken a powerful fancy to me, so I’m told’); and the twin daughters of a cabman (‘who’ve been struck by the sight of me about here and there, when I’m a-driving my old man’s coach and horses’). 

‘But,’ he said, as everyone gathered around to look at the cards, ‘d— it, I wouldn’t give tuppence for the lot of them.’

This is typical of him. Then he asked how many cards I had received and I said we had not yet had the twopenny post – which was true! – and he laughed and patted me on shoulder.

[nb.: I did not get any cards, howsoever delivered.]

Percy M., it turned out, had not received a single thing either. Worse still, he had not plucked up courage to leave his card for Jane at the Stray Cat and Mutton. He was, therefore, miserable. Part of the problem, he said, was that he had not been very satisfied with his own poem, which had become far too much about rabbits – he could not say quite how it had happened but supposed it was because he had thought girls do like rabbits; and then, all of a sudden, it was all rabbits. (Sykes remarked that was often the way with rabbits.) Therefore, in the end, Percy had removed the rabbits and borrowed some verses he had found in an old ballad-sheet, before concluding that it was all no good and not worth the candle, despairing of the effort, and abandoning it altogether. He admitted, however, that he still had the card sitting in his desk, in case his mouse might find some use for it. Sykes, on hearing this, said that he was a lily-livered young scoundrel, and there was only one thing for it – we would have to deliver the card ourselves. I have never seen Percy look quite so terrified – not even during the incident with the walnut. But Sykes would not let the matter rest, and kept badgering him, until he reluctantly agreed that we would go to the Stray Cat and Mutton after school.

We talked about it as we walked along the canal. Sykes was firmly of the opinion that Percy should stroll into the bar and thrust the envelope into the barmaid’s hands, with the words, ‘here’s something for you, although I can’t say as you much deserve it’ and then proudly walk off. I said this seemed both ungallant and rather spoiled the whole point of the exercise, but Sykes swore that it would ‘tickle any gal’s fancy – at least, any gal worth having.’ Percy disagreed and said that it was bad enough that his mouse had taken a good bite off one of the corners. He would not, he vowed, treat his Jane in such an offhand and ungentlemanly fashion. Percy suggested, however, that he might leave the card on the bar, when no-one was looking. I noted that, although this was more in keeping with the spirit of things, it would most likely get crushed or soaked in gin; or some wag would make awful mockery of it – ‘I would, I reckon’, agreed Sykes – and so, at last, after much discussion, I offered to discreetly play the part of postman. 

The Stray Cat is not a very large establishment, but has a smart pewter-topped counter and a pump for the gin, named ‘Cream of the Valley’, which sits in a giant cask on the wall behind the bar. There are no seats except in a couple of little parlours down a corridor. There were brickmakers and other dirty-looking fellows hanging about the tap-room but I summoned my courage and went straight up to the counter. Percy’s little barmaid was there, admiring her own fingernails (which were, in fairness, very clean and neat).

‘This is for you,’ I said, boldly, and handed her the envelope.

‘For me?’ she said, looking up at me.

‘From a friend of mine. He’s a shy fellow and asked me to deliver it.’

‘Is he, now?’

‘But a good one,’ I thought it worth adding in his favour.

‘Well, can I open it?

I had not really thought about that; and, before I could say anything to the contrary, she had. Then, to my horror, she began to read out loud:

When lovers first, in silence met,

Their lips were fixed, their tongues were set,

 Neither their love could tell

One of the labourers turned and stared. She raised her eyebrows and smiled – nay, grinned – and went on:

Long while they gazed, and could not speak, 

But nearer pressed, till cheek to cheek

 A kiss unbound the spell

She looked up at me and giggled – and I do believe I blushed!

All the labourers had now turned to observe the scene. One oaf shouted, ‘Oi! Buss her quick then, young Romeo!’ Another made noisy little pouts with his lips, and exclaimed, ‘Go on, my laddo, have at it! Strike while the iron’s hot!’ A third said, ‘Ain’t that prime! “Their tongues was wet”!’ – and it decidedly was not “wet” in the poem – and then guffawed uncontrollably. Yet, even as they hooted with laughter, the barmaid looked at me in most curious way, lent forward, touched me lightly on the shoulder, and – kissed me on the cheek! 

‘You’re are a sweet boy,’ she said, quietly. ‘I say, do you waltz? Tell you what, next time I have an evening’s leave –’

She was interrupted by one of the labourers demanding a drink and so I took the opportunity to quit the premises. Percy asked nervously if I had given her the card and whether I thought it had made a good impression &c &c. I said that I thought that it had made a distinct impression – and then hurried home.

What a failure! Whatever shall I say to Percy? I cannot tell him that she thought I sent it!

Midnight 

I am now wondering if Miss Jane Smith meant that I should ask her to a dance!

A barmaid! The very idea!