Chapter I: Mr. Pippy's Valentine

This elegant production was painted on a sheet of paper with a lace border, and presented a singular mixture of sentiment and improbability, viz.—a little boy, in a species of undress which the police would certainly prohibit from becoming the general fashion, riding in a car, like an enormous periwinkle shell turned topsy-turvy, upon wheels, and drawn by two pigeons—a proceeding of which every thinking mind must admit the impracticability, since the atmospheric resistance of the birds' wings could never afford sufficient fulcrum to draw so large a vehicle with any momentum, especially with cowslip collars and rosebud traces.—[See Proceed. of Chawturmut Lit. and Scien. Inst., p. 30.] A church with a pointed spire and two windows was seen in the distance, perfecting this tasteful composition of protestant mythology. At each corner were intricate red loops, like mud-worms in convulsions, termed true lovers' knots; and below were eight exquisite and novel lines, of which we present the reader with the _termini_, leaving him to fill them up as he pleases:—"heart—smart," "languish—anguish," "flame—name," "you be mine—Valentine."

II.

_Miss Celia Potts to a confidential Female Friend._

Oh, my dear Charlotte,

What _do_ you think? Mr. Pippy, the young apothecary, who came down here to take our union of fourteen parishes at £20 a-year, has sent me a Valentine. Not a common, impudent penny one of an old maid, with cats and parrots all about her, but a beautiful picture of a little Cupid— such a love!—riding in a thingemygig, drawn by two what-d'ye-call-'ems, with—oh, my!—eight lovely verses underneath. I know it's from him, because it's scented all over with the best Turkey rhubarb and oil of peppermint, and I found a small piece of pill adhering to the envelope— how a trifle betrays the secrets of the heart! My mind is all in a titter-totter—do come and see me.

Yours very sincerely,
CELIA POTTS.

Chawturmut,
Feb. 14.

III.

_Mr. Pippy to Miss Potts._

Adored Celia,

The auricles of my heart contract with accelerated circulation as I pen these lines. I can no longer conceal that my love is as firmly fixed upon you, as with a solution of gum-arabic. Are your affections free for me? and may they be taken immediately, and repeated every four hours with one of the powders?—alas! I scarce know what I write. I have already directed a dozen draughts to the wrong people: one old lady has swallowed half a pot of ringworm ointment, and Mrs. Jones has been rubbing her little boy's head with lenitive electuary. You alone can write the prescription that shall administer to my incertitude.

Ever devotedly yours,
PHINEAS PIPPY.

IV.

_Miss Potts to the confidential Friend._

My dearest Charlotte,

We have given a small party, and he has formally proposed. He was very timid at first, but it was the red wine negus that did it, for Mamma very kindly made it pretty strong, and gave him a good dose, immediately upon my singing—"I'd marry him to-morrow." He says he has loved me "ever since he first saw me at church in that beautiful cloak." My dear, it was my old pelisse, which I had turned, made into a capucine, and lined with blue Persian; but love gilds everything by its magic: possibly it converted my last year's straw bonnet into a Tuscan chip. It is pouring in torrents, and they say if it goes on we must have a flood. He is sitting at his surgery window, looking at me, between the red and blue bottles, with a spy-glass.

Yours ever,
CELIA.

Feb. 20.