Hail to thy returniival, old Bishop Valentine! Great is thy name in the rubric, thou venerable Arch-flamen of Hymen! Immortal Go-between! who and what manner of person art thou? Art thou but a ypifying the restless principle which impels poor humans to seek perfe in union? or wert thou indeed a mortal prelate, With thy tippet and thy rochet, thy apron on, a lawn sleeves? Mysterious personage! like unto thee, assuredly, there is no other mitred father in the dar; not Jerome, nor Ambrose, nor Cyril; nor the signer of undipt infants to eternal torments, Austin, whom all mothers hate; nor who hated all mothers, en; nor Bishop Bull, nor Archbishop Parker, nor Whitgift. Thou est attended with thousands ahousands of little Loves, and the air is
Brushd with the hiss of rustling wings.
Singing Cupids are thy choristers and thy pretors; and instead of the crosier, the mystical arrow is borne before thee.
In other words, this is the day on which those charming little missives, ycleped Valentines, cross and intercross each other at every street and turning. The weary and all for-spent twopenny postman sinks beh a load of delicate embarrassments, not his own. It is scarcely credible to what aent this ephemeral courtship is carried on in this loving town, to the great enrit of porters, ariment of knockers and bell-wires. In these little visual interpretations, no emblem is so on as the heart, -- that little three-ered expo of all our hopes and fears, -- the bestud bleedi; it is twisted and tortured into more allegories and affectations than an opera hat. What authority we have in history or mythology for plag the head-quarters aropolis of God Cupid in this anatomical seat rather than in any other, is not very clear; but we have got it, and it will serve as well as any other. Else we might easily imagine, upon some other system which might have prevailed for any thing which our pathology knows to the trary, a lover addressing his mistress, in perfect simplicity of feeling, "Madam, my liver and fortune are entirely at your disposal;" or putting a delicate question, "Amanda, have you a midriff to bestow?" But has settled these things, and awarded the seat of seo the aforesaid triangle, while its less fortunate neighbours wait at animal and anatomical distance.
Not many sounds in life, and I include all urban and all rural sounds, exceed in i a knock at the door. It "gives a very echo to the throne where Hope is seated." But its issues seldom ao this oracle within. It is so seldom that just the person we want to see es. But of all the clamorous visitations the welest in expectation is the sound that ushers in, or seems to usher in, a Valentine. As the raven himself was hoarse that annouhe fatal entrance of Dun, so the knock of the postman on this day is light, airy, fident, aing ohat brih good tidings. It is less meical than on other days; you will say, "That is not the post, I am sure." Visions of Love, of Cupids, of Hymens -- delightful eternal on-places, which "having been will always be" whio school-boy nor san write away; having your irreversible throne in the fand affes -- what are your transports, when the happy maiden, opening with careful finger, careful not to break the emblematic seal, bursts upon the sight of some well-designed allegory, some type, some youthful fanot without verses -
Lovers all,
A madrigal,
or some such deviot over abundant in sense -- young Love disclaims it, -- and not quite