From Uncle Herbert’s Speaker and Autograph-Album Verses, 1887

Creepy Victorian Cupid Clip Art

Love

Love is a subject to himself alone,
And knows no other empire than his own.

Look how the blue-eyed violets
Glance love to one another!
Their little leaves are whispering
The vows they may not smother.
The birds are pouring passion forth
In every blossoming tree;–
If flowers and birds talk love, lady,
Why not we?

—-

Why should I blush to own I love?
’Tis Love that rules the realms above.
Why should I blush to say to all
That virtue holds my heart in thrall?

Why should I seek the thickest shade,
Lest Love’s dear secret be betrayed?
Why the stern brow deceitful move,
When I am languishing with love?

Is it a weakness thus to dwell
On passion that I dare not tell?
Such weakness I would ever prove.
’Tis painful, but ‘tis sweet to love!

—-

I Hold it true, whate’er befall–
I feel it when I sorrow most–
‘Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.

Oh, how the passions, insolent and strong,
Bear our weak minds their rapid course along;
Make us the madness of their will obey;
Then die, and leave us to our griefs a prey.

—-

LOVE! What a volume in a word! an ocean in a tear!
A Seventh heaven in a glance! a whirlwind in a sigh!
The lightning in a touch—a millennium in a moment!
What concentrated joy, or woe, in blest or blighted love!

—-

Although my heart, in earlier youth,
Might kindle with more wild desire,
Believe me, it has gained in truth
Much more than it has lost in fire;
The flame now warms my inmost core,
That then but sparkled on thy brow;
And though I seem’d to love thee more,
Yet, oh, I love thee better now.

—-

Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt Truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love!

—-

Oh, how bitter a thing it is to look
Into happiness through another man’s eyes!

—-

LOVE is a pearl of purest hue,
But stormy waves are round it;
And dearly may a woman rue
The hour that first she found it.

—-

Ah me! how deep the poison lies
Which late I drank from ____’s eyes!
It burns, it spreads; each tortured vein
Throbs with the agonizing pain.

—-

I need not say how, one by one,
Love’s flowers have dropp’d from off love’s chain;
Enough to say that they are gone,
And that they cannot bloom again.

—-

Love is, or ought to be, our greatest bliss;
Since every other joy, how dear soever,
Gives way to that, and we leave all for love.

Fancy Victorian Valentine's Day Card

This is a lovely dimensional Victorian card. The background was die-cut, and then layered with different lacy papers atop a colorful chromolithographic insert.

This scene depicts snow. I haven’t seen much of the real thing in the Philadelphia area, so I may need to print this out and keep it by my desk as a reminder.

When Love Grows Cold

I Love you dearly as you can see

But the question is–do you love me?

To My Valentine.

Antique Victorian Post Card Clip Art

Click on the image above for the larger clip art file.

Click on the image above to download the larger file. Colors restored so this is one beautiful printable as it is.

I’ve also made a “blank” wheel that you can use to write in your own fortunes. Print, cut and assemble by fastening the red indicator to the center of the wheel. Ask Cupid a love-related question, spin the wheel, and wait for the results.

Cupid's Wheel of Fortune

Print and Make Cupid Game (PDF, 361KB)

Victorian Valentine Postcard

“Ah! there you are at last, Cora. I was just going to send your breakfast up to you. Did you have a pleasant time, at the party, last night?”

Cora drew up her chair, stirred her coffee sleepily, repressed a yawn, and replied, slowly:

“It was a perfect crush. I got myself ensconced, and enjoyed myself in a corner: I had no mind to spoil my dress by trying to dance in such a crowd.”

Mrs. Blondin-for Cora’s sister was married-stared. Cora was usually willing to dance, if she could get standing-room and no more.

“You must have had a most agreeable companion,” she observed, sagely. “Who was it?”

“I was talking most of the evening to a friend of Mr. Melton’s,” she replied, the color growing deeper in her cheeks. “He is visiting here.”

“Oh! I wonder if it wasn’t Val-” began Mrs. Blondin. “But here is Kitty with the letters,” she said, stopping short in her sentence.

“No, ma’am,” answered the maid; “the postman hasn’t come round yet. It’s only a note from Mrs. Melton, which the messenger said I wuz to be very particular to give into your own hands; and he’s waiting for an answer.”

While Cora finished her coffee, Mrs. Blondin broke the envelope, read the note, and then, with an evident effort to repress a smile, put it in her pocket, and going to a table near by, dashed off a few lines, and gave it to the maid.

Cora’s eyes followed every movement curiously. “My dear sister,” she purred, coaxingly, “what is it all about? And why this mystery? Let me see it, too;” and she held out her hand.

“It’s only a note from Mrs. Melton, saying she will call this evening with her husband, and asking permission to bring their friend-Mr. Hartwell,” replied Mrs. Blondin.

“Oh! is that all?” pouted Cora, in a tone of pretended disappointment.

“What did you suppose it was?” asked her sister, teasingly. “Not a valentine, eh? Although this is the great day.”

Cora made a little face, and ran out of the room; and then her sister laughed heartily, as she drew the note out of her pocket, and read it again. It ran thus:

“Dear Nellie: When we were school-girls together, you were always begging me not to scheme and plot; but ’tis my nature to,’ and you know I never use my gifts maliciously. I have composed a little snare for your sister, whose interest in our friend Mr. Hartwell only equals to his in her. You remember Valentine, don’t you? You know he is everything that is good and manly; so you need have no scruples in aiding me. All I want of you is silence concerning Mr. Hartwell’s first name. Don’t breathe it; and leave the rest to me. Shall you be at home this evening? If so, Mr. Melton and I will call, about eight; and I suppose I have your permission to bring our friend.”

“Ever yours, Agusta Melton.”

The day wore on. Kitty, the maid, got a lace-paper missive, with two clasped hands, a cupid, a church-door, a ring, and a rhyme, which made her heart light for the rest of the day: for who but the milk-man sent it?

As for Cora, the valentines she received were almost legion. No one was so popular. And now to-night she sat at a little round table in the drawing-room, with her pile of valentines before her. Never had she looked prettier. She wore a simple black-silk dress, which brought out in exquisite relief her fair rose-bloom complexion. Her golden hair, bound by a narrow fillet of black velvet ribbon across her head, fell in masses down her back. Her blue eyes looked up with a soft far-away expression. Her rich red half-pouting lips were as tempting as ripe pomegranates.

Her sister was standing by her, taking up one valentine after another, and commenting on them, wondering from whom each came. “I should have thought your new acquaintance of last night would have sent one,” she said. “I wonder if this, after all, is not from him,” she added, as she held up an unusually elegant one.

At this instance the door opened, and the maid announced “Mr. Hartwell,” before the speaker could put down the valentine.

As the girl spoke, a tall handsome gentleman entered. He bowed to Mrs. Blondin, and said, holding out a letter:

“Mrs. Melton was so earnest in her entreaties that I should bring you this note, that I hurried off before her, at her own desire; and she begged me to ask you to open and read it at once.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Blondin, “it is for my sister,” glancing at the envelope.

“Mrs. Melton is abounding in mysteries to-day, laughed Cora, as she rose, and, courtesying to the new-comer, took the letter. “She sent a fleet messenger early this morning with some secret communication for my sister. I wonder what is in it. But pray sit down.”

He complied. She sank again into her chair, and read the note. But having done so, she looked perplexed. She turned the papers over, shook them, peeped into the envelope, saying:

“Why, how strange! Is this all, Mr. Hartwell? Didn’t she give you another letter for me?”

“That was all, Miss Cora; and although she did not acquaint me with the contents, she seemed to attach great importance to my personally giving it to you.”

“Well, I don’t suppose there is any reason why you shouldn’t know the contents. Mrs. Melton only says she sends me a valentine, which she hopes I will accept,” said Cora.

Mr. Hartwell uttered an inarticulate exclamation: started for the door; came back; and, muttering a vague apology, stood gazing at the fair speaker. “Has he lost his senses?” thought Mrs. Blondin. As for Cora, she looked at him in undisguised wonder.

“I believe in my heart you have lost it, Mr. Hartwell,” she said at last, with a gay laugh. “You have lost my valentine, and you are afraid to confess. Isn’t it so? Really, you act like one with something on his conscience. Well, I’m sorry to lose it; but never mind.”

“One moment, I beg!” he cried. “Let me explain; for Mrs. Melton will tell you if I do not. My Christian name is Valentine, and she-you know she is full of fun-she must have meant that when she sent the note by me. She sent you a Valentine.”

“Oh!” said Cora, stiffly; “was that it? Yes, she certainly is full of fun; but I must say I think her joke has been carried a little too far this time.” Her voice was quite indignant.

“Miss Grayson, I beg you to believe me. I did not know any more about it than you. I am truly distressed,” said the visitor.

“Pray don’t apologize. I believe you. Let us drop it.” Softening a little in her tone.

But Mr. Hartwell did not wish to drop it.

“Miss Cora, there is something else, Mrs. Melton send you a valentine which she hoped you would accept. We have met but twice, it is true; and I should never have presumed, on my own part, to offer myself on such a short acquaintance. But is has been done fore me; and-pardon me-I do not regret it. there is such a thing as love at first sight; and I love you devotedly.”

He tried to take her hand, forgetful of her sister’s presence-who, however, had retired discreetly into the background. But Cora drew back shyly. Neither of them heard the door-bell ring, nor saw a laughing group gathered at the door of the room. Both stared violently when Mrs. Melton’s merry voice rang out:

“Upon my word, things seem to be progressing nicely. The good fates always preside over my little plots. So my Valentine pleases you?”

As she spoke, she came in effusively, and patted the young girl’s flushed cheek.

“Not at all!” began Cora, indignantly. Then she stammered: “At least-I mean-” and suddenly stopped.

“It was really very amusing of you, Mrs. Melton,” said Mr. Hartwell, lightly, coming to the rescue. “Not at all a bad joke.”

“Then she accepted you, Valentine?” queried the saucy little lady.

“She did not refuse me flatly,” he replied. “As to accepting, in time I hope she may.”

And in time she did. Yes! she married her VALENTINE.

Rose Coghlan

I have seen the infant sinking down, like a stricken flower, to the grave—the strong man fiercely breathing out his soul upon the field of battle—the miserable convict standing upon the scaffold, with a deep curse quivering on his lips—I have viewed death in all his forms of darkness and vengeance with a tearless eye,—but I never could look on woman, young and lovely woman, fading away from the earth in beautiful and uncomplaining melancholy, without feeling the very fountains of life turned to tears and dust. Death is always terrible—but, when a form of angel beauty is passing off to the silent land of the sleepers, the heart feels that something lovely in the universe is ceasing from existence, and broods, with a sense of utter desolation, over the lonely thoughts, that come up like specters from the grave to haunt our midnight musings.

Two years ago, I took up my residence for a few weeks in a country village in the eastern part of New England. Soon after my arrival I became acquainted with a lovely girl, apparently about seventeen years of age. She had lost the idol of her pure heart’s purest love, and the shadows of deep and holy memories were resting like the wing of death upon her brow. I first met her in the presence of the mirthful. She was indeed a creature to be worshiped—her brow was garlanded with the young year’s sweetest flowers—her yellow locks were hanging beautifully and low upon her bosom—and she moved through the crowd with such a floating and unearthly grace, that the bewildered gazer almost looked to see her fade into the air, like the creation of some pleasant dream. She seemed cheerful and even gay; yet I saw that her gaiety was but the mockery of her feelings. She smiled, but there was something in her smile which told that its mournful beauty was but the bright reflection of a tear—and her eye-lids, at times, closed heavily down, as if struggling to repress the tide of agony that was bursting up from her heart’s secret urn. She looked as if she could have left the scene of festivity, and gone out beneath the quiet stars, and laid her forehead down upon the fresh, green earth, and poured out her stricken soul, gush after gush, till it mingled with the eternal fountain of life and purity.

Days and weeks passed on, and that sweet girl gave me her confidence, and I became to her as a brother. She was wasting away by disease. The smile upon her lip was fainter, the purple veins upon her cheek grew visible, and the cadences of her voice became daily more week and tremulous. On a quiet evening in the depth of June, I wandered out with her a little distance in the open air. It was then that she first told me the tale of her passion, and of the blight that had come down like mildew upon her life. Love had been a portion of her existence. Its tendrils had been twined around her heart in its earliest years; and, when they were rent away, they left a wound which flowed till all the springs of her soul were blood. “I am passing away,” said she, “and it should be so. The winds have gone over my life, and the bright buds of hope and the sweet blossoms of passion are scattered down and lie withering in the dust, or rotting away upon the chill waters of memory. And yet I cannot go down among the tombs without a tear. It is hard to bid farewell to these dear scenes, with which I have held communion from childhood, and which, from day to day, have caught the colour of my life and sympathised with its joys and sorrows. That little grove where I have so often strayed with my burried Love, and where, at times, even now, the sweet tones of his voice seem to come stealing around me till the whole air becomes one intense and mournful melody—that pensive star, which we used to watch in its early rising, and on which my fancy can still picture his form looking down upon me, and beckoning me to his own bright home: every flower and tree, and rivulet, on which the memory of our early love has set its undying seal, have become dear to me, and I cannot, without a sigh, close my eyes upon them for ever.”

I have lately heard, that the beautiful girl, of whom I have spoken, is dead. The close of her life was calm as the falling of a quiet stream—gentle as the sinking of the breeze, that lingers, for a time, around a bed of withered roses, and then dies “as ‘twere from very sweetness.”

It cannot be said that earth is man’s only abiding place. It cannot be, that our life is a bubble cast up by the Ocean of Eternity, to float a moment upon its waves and sink into darkness and nothingness. Else why is it, that the high and glorious aspirations, which leap like angels from the temple of our hearts, are for ever wandering abroad unsatisfied? Why is it, that the stars, which “hold their festivals around the midnight throne,” are set above the grasp of our unlimited faculties—for ever mocking us with their unapproachable glory? And finally, why is it, that bright forms of human beauty are presented to our view and then taken from us—leaving the thousand streams of our affections to flow back in an Alpine torrent upon our hearts? We are born for a higher destiny than that of earth. There is a realm, where the rainbow never fades, where the stars will be spread out before us like the islands that slumber on the ocean, and where the beautiful beings, which here pass before us like visions, will stay in our presence for ever. Bright creature of my dreams—in that realm I shall see thee again. Even now thy lost image is sometimes with me. In the mysterious silence of midnight, when the streams are glowing in the light of the many stars, that image comes floating upon the beam that lingers around my pillow, and stands before me in its pale, dim loveliness, till its own quiet spirit sinks like a spell from heaven upon my thoughts, and the grief of years is turned to dreams of blessedness and peace.

[Hartford Review]

Story from The Lady’s Album, early 19th century.

Image: Rose Coghlan, Actress (1851-1932) photograph by Sarony, NY