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Hail ;/ato thy returniial, old Bishop Valentine! Great is thy na in the rubric, thou enerable Ar of Hyn! Iortal Go-between! who and what nner of person art thou? Art thou but a ypifying the restless principle which iels poor huns to seek perfe in union? or wert thou indeed a rtal prete, With thy tippet and thy rochet, thy apron on, a wn sleees? Mysterious personage! like unto thee, assuredly, there is no other tred father in the dar; not Jero, nor Arose, nor Cyril; nor the signer of undipt infants to eternal tornts, Austin, whoall thers hate; nor who hated all thers, en; nor Bishop Bull, nor Archbishop Parker, nor Whitgift. Thou est attended with thousands ahousands of little Loes, 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 stical arrow is borne before thee.
In other words, this is the day on which those g little ssies, ycleped Valentines, cross and intercross each other at eery street and turning. The weary and all for-spent twopenny postn sinks beh a load of delicate earrassnts, not his own. It is scarcely credible to what aent this epheraurtship is carried on in this loing town, to the great enrit of porters, arint of knockers and bell-wires. In these little isual interpretations, no eleis so on as the heart, -- that little three-ered epo;q;/qt of all our hopes and fears, -- the bestud bleedi; it is twisted and tortured into re allegories and affectations than an opera hat. What authority we hae in history or thology f the head-quarters aropolis of God Cupid in this anatocal seat rather than in any other, is not ery clear; but we hae got it, and it will sere as well as any other. Else we ght easily igine, upon so other systewhich ght hae preailed for any thing which our pathology knows to the trary, a loer addressing his stress, in perfect silicity of feeling, quot;Mada lier and fortune are entirely at your disposal;quot; or putting a delicate question, quot;Anda, hae you a driff to besto;quot; But has settled these things, and awarded the seat of seo the aforesaid triangle, while its less fortunate neighbours wait at anil and anatocal distance.
Not ny sounds in life, and I include all urban and all rural sounds, eceed in i a knock at the door. It quot;gies a ery echo to the throne where Hope is seated.quot; But its issues seldoao this oracle within. It is so seldothat just the person we want to see es. But of all the crous isitations the welest iion is the sound that ushers in, or see to usher in, a Valentine. As the raen hielf was hoarse that arance of Dun, so the knock of the postn on this day is light, airy, fident, aing ohat brih good tidings. It is less ical than on other days; you will say, quot;That is not the post, I asure.quot; Visions of Loe, of Cupids, of Hyns -- delightful eternal on-pces, which quot;haing been will always bequot; whio school-boy nor san write away; haing your irreersible throne in the fand affes -- what are your transports, when the happy iden, opening with careful finger, careful not to break the eletic seal, bursts upon the sight of so well-designed allegory, so type, so youthful fanot without erses -
Loers all,
A drigal,
or so such deiot oer abundant in sense -- young Loe disci it, -- and not quite silly -- sothiween wind and water, a chorus where the sheep ght alst join the Shepherd, as they did, or as I apprehend they did, in Arcadia. All Valentines are not foolish; and I shall not easily fet thine, kind friend (if I y hae leae to call you so) E. B. -- E. B. lied opposite a young iden, whohe had often seen, unseen, frohis parlour window in C--e-street. She was all joyousness and innoce, and just of ao enjoy reg a Valentine, and just of a teer to bear the disappoi of ssing oh good huur. E. B. is an artist of no on powers; in the fancy parts of designing, perhaps inferior to none; his na is known at the bottoof ny a well eecuted ige in the way of his profession, but no further; for E. B. is dest, and the world ets nobody half-way. E. B. ditated how huld repay this young iden for ny a faour which she had done hiunknown; for when a kindly face greets us, though but passing by, and neer knows us again, nor we it, we should feel it as an obligation; and E. B. did. This good artist set hielf at work to please the dael. It was just before Valentines day three years since. He wrought, unseen and unsuspected, a wondrous work. We need not say it was on the fi gi paper with borders -- full, not of os aless allegory, but all the prettiest stories of loe froOid, and older poets than Oid (for E. B. is a schor.) There yras and Thisbe, and be sure Dido was not fot, nor Hero and Leander, and swahan sang in Cayster, with ttos and fanciful deices, such as beseed, -- a work in short of gic. Iris dipt the woof. This on Valentines ee he eo the all-swallowing indisate orifice--(O igrust!) -- of the on post; but the hule diudid its duty, and frohis watchful stand, the -- he saw the cheerful ssenger knock, and by and by the precious charge deliered. He saw, uhe happy girl unfold the Valentine, dance about, cp her hands, as oer ohe pret;bdo;/bdoty ele unfolded theeles. She danced about, not with light loe, or foolish epectations, for she had no loer; or, if she had, none she khauld hae created those bright iges which delighted her. It was re like so fairy present; a God-send, as our faliarly pious aors terd a be receied, where the beor was unknown. It would do her no har It would dood for eer after. It is good to loe the unknown. I only gie this as a spe of E. B. and his dest way of doing a cealed kindness.
Good-rrow to Valentine, sings poor Opheli and er wish, but with better auspices, we wish to all faithful loers, who are not too wise to despise old legends, but are tent to rank theeles hule dios of old Bishop Valentine, and his true church.
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