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Hail ></a>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 isBrushd 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 exponen<q></q>t 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 silly -- somethiween wind and water, a chorus where the sheep might almost 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, my kind friend (if I may have leave to call you so) E. B. -- E. B. lived opposite a young maiden, whom he had often seen, unseen, from his parlour window in C--e-street. She was all joyousness and innoce, and just of ao enjoy receiving a Valentine, and just of a temper to bear the disappoi of missing oh good humour. E. B. is an artist of no on powers; in the fancy parts of designing, perhaps inferior to none; his name is known at the bottom of many a well executed vige in the way of his profession, but no further; for E. B. is modest, and the world meets nobody half-way. E. B. meditated how he could repay this young maiden for many a favour which she had done him unknown; for when a kindly face greets us, though but passing by, and never knows us again, nor we it, we should feel it as an obligation; and E. B. did. This good artist set himself at work to please the damsel. 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 gilt paper with borders -- full, not of os aless allegory, but all the prettiest stories of love from Ovid, and older poets than Ovid (for E. B. is a scholar.) There yramus and Thisbe, and be sure Dido was not fot, nor Hero and Leander, and swans more than sang in Cayster, with mottos and fanciful devices, such as beseemed, -- a work in short of magic. Iris dipt the woof. This on Valentines eve he eo the all-swallowing indiscriminate orifice--(O igrust!) -- of the on post; but the humble medium did its duty, and from his watchful stand, the -- m, he saw the cheerful messenger knock, and by and by the precious charge delivered. He saw, uhe happy girl unfold the Valentine, dance about, clap her hands, as oer ohe pret<bdo></bdo>ty emblems unfolded themselves. She danced about, not with light love, or foolish expectations, for she had no lover; or, if she had, none she khat could have created those bright images which delighted her. It was more like some fairy present; a God-send, as our familiarly pious aors termed a be received, where the beor was unknown. It would do her no harm. It would dood for ever after. It is good to love the unknown. I only give this as a spe of E. B. and his modest way of doing a cealed kindness.
Good-morrow to my Valentine, sings poor Ophelia; and er wish, but with better auspices, we wish to all faithful lovers, who are not too wise to despise old legends, but are tent to rank themselves humble dios of old Bishop Valentine, and his true church.
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