counting-house! – until he returned, which he
eventually did, quite at his leisure, whistling
what at first hearing appeared to be Love's
Young Dream, but which I presently recognised
as a melody less in harmony with the genius loci
– namely, The Whole Hog or None. Would I
step this way? I did so with a nervous hesitation
natural to the novelty of my position, and
next moment found myself confronted with
a remarkably good-looking little gentleman,
who acknowledged, in answer to my polite
insinuation in that direction, that he was Cupid.
I don't know that I was quite prepared for
the personal appearance he presented. It had
never occurred to me to picture the God of
Love, even in his manufacturing capacity, otherwise
than in a full suit of wings and with a bow
and arrow. But here he stood before me in a
black frock-coat and a pair of – possibly Sydenham –
trousers. A little reflection, however,
reconciled me to the make up. I had thought
of Cupid as he appears on high days and
holidays. But here he was "in business." No
doubt the wings were carefully doubled down
under the broadcloth, and the bow and arrow
were probably hung up in the best bedroom
with the pink fleshings, ready for Sunday.
Cupid received me with a courtesy which was
most flattering, considering that I had come
there, a stranger, boldly preferring a request to
be shown over his establishment, and initiated
into the mysteries of his craft. He was ready to
show me all without reserve, and, leading the way,
he introduced me at once into the press-room.

It was like a chamber in the Mint. The
knobbed arms of five or six fly-presses were
swinging about so near each other that it seemed
impossible to steer through them without being
dashed to pieces. I did not try. The presses
were stopped, and I was shown how a plain
sheet of paper was prepared for a lace-edged
valentine. Every one is familiar with the process
of die-stamping, so this part of the operation
will not require minute description. The
paper is laid upon the matrice, the arms of the
press are swung round and the die descends,
embossing the paper by one pressure. But the
dies here are no ordinary dies, and the process
is yet far from complete. Each die consists of
a heavy square block of iron enclosed with the
matrice in a metal box, which is furnished with
two handles like the legs of a pair of tongs, for
the convenience of the operator. The design,
after being drawn upon the surface of the iron,
is hammered into it by means of steel punches.
The iron of the die, of course, is softer – or
rather I should say less hard – than the material
of the punch; but when the design is completed
the die is hardened by the usual process of
tempering. A great number and variety of punches
are required to execute a design. For example,
in an embossed border every little hexagon,
every dot, and every flower, requires a separate
punch. The execution of a design, therefore, is
a tedious and expensive process. There are,
perhaps, a hundred different dies about the
room, and some of them have cost nearly twenty
pounds. The matrices are made of millboard,
and, ranged on shelves round the walls,
look like a library of well-thumbed dog-eared
books. I am now standing aside, and the fly-
presses are in full swing embossing two or three
sheets of paper each per minute. Some of these
sheets are plain ; others contain a picture in the
centre, as, for example, the before-mentioned
lady and gentleman, who, with the pathway and
the church, have already been printed on the
paper by the familiar process of lithography.
They are now receiving embossed borders. The
next process is to convert these borders into
paper lace, with all the interstices proper to the
particular kind which the design represents. The
dies are removed from the presses, and with the
embossed sheets handed over to a distinct set
of workmen in another room. These workmen,
who practise this branch of the manufacture
solely and exclusively, lay the embossed paper
neatly on the die, adjusting it exactly by means
of regulating pins at the corners, and then with
flat iron tools covered with fine sand-paper, rub
off the projecting bosses on the paper. This
process is very neatly and rapidly performed,
and a strip of Valenciennes or Mechlin starts
out under the tool at every rub. In this room
a dozen workmen do nothing else all day long
but use the sand-paper file. It is a very
magical way of making lace, and the operation
seems easy, but it is not so easy as it seems. It
requires great nicety of touch not to tear the
paper. One of the pressmen down stairs, who
essayed to complete the process for my benefit,
signally failed with the sand-paper file, and tore
what might have been a gorgeous messenger of
love, all to tatters.

Let us follow our valentine step by step from
its cradle to – I will not say its grave, but to
that neat white box in which it is packed, with
others of its kind, to be sent out to the trade.
Let us say that we begin with the sheet of
paper bearing the plain, unadorned presentment
of the lady and gentleman lovingly wending
their way towards the sacred fane. We have
seen them encompassed by an embossed border;
we have seen that border magically transformed
into lace. But still, with all this, the valentine
remains in the penny plain condition. Now,
however, it passes into the twopence coloured
department – a long room, containing some twenty
neat-handed nymphs seated at a bench, each
with a little pot of liquid water-colour at her
elbow. Valentine comes into the hand of
nymph number one. Nymph lays it flat before
her, and places over its surface a perforated
sheet of cardboard, the perforations in which
correspond exactly with, say the pathway. The
brush is dipped in the pot of pale brown and
daubed over the perforations. Behold the pale
brown pathway! The valentine passes to nymph
number two, who uses another stencil plate of
cardboard, and daubs in the salmon-coloured
church. Number three in the same manner
dashes in the gentleman's blue coat, number
four his yellow waistcoat, number five his lilac
continuations, number six the lady's green