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Hail to thy returning festival, 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 name, typifying the restless
principle which impels poor humans to seek perfection in union?
or wert thou indeed a mortal prelate, With thy tippet and thy
rochet, thy apron on, and decent lawn sleeves? Mysterious personage!
like unto thee, assuredly, there is no other mitred father in
the calendar; not Jerome, nor Ambrose, nor Cyril; nor the consigner
of undipt infants to eternal torments, Austin, whom all mothers
hate; nor who hated all mothers, Origen; nor Bishop Bull, nor
Archbishop Parker, nor Whitgift. Thou comest attended with thousands
and ten thousands of little Loves, and the air is
Brush'd with the hiss of rustling
wings.
Singing Cupids are thy choristers and
thy precentors; 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 beneath a load of delicate
embarrassments, not his own. It is scarcely credible to what an
extent this ephemeral courtship is carried on in this loving town,
to the great enrichment of porters, and detriment of knockers
and bell-wires. In these little visual interpretations, no emblem
is so common as the heart, -- that little three-cornered
exponent of all our hopes and fears, -- the bestuck and bleeding
heart; it is twisted and tortured into more allegories and affectations
than an opera hat. What authority we have in history or mythology
for placing the head-quarters and metropolis 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 contrary,
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 custom has settled
these things, and awarded the seat of sentiment to 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 interest a knock
at the door. It "gives a very echo to the throne where
Hope is seated." But its issues seldom answer to this oracle
within. It is so seldom that just the person we want to see comes.
But of all the clamorous visitations the welcomest in expectation
is the sound that ushers in, or seems to usher in, a Valentine.
As the raven himself was hoarse that announced the fatal entrance
of Duncan, so the knock of the postman on this day is light, airy,
confident, and befitting one that bringeth good tidings. It is
less mechanical than on other days; you will say, "That is
not the post, I am sure." Visions of Love, of Cupids, of
Hymens -- delightful eternal common-places, which "having
been will always be" which no school-boy nor schoolman can
write away; having your irreversible throne in the fancy and affections
-- 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 fancy, not without verses -
Lovers all,
A madrigal,
or some such device, not over abundant
in sense -- young Love disclaims it, -- and not quite silly --
something between 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 forget 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 innocence, and just of an age to enjoy
receiving a Valentine, and just of a temper to bear the disappointment
of missing one with good humour. E. B. is an artist of no common
powers; in the fancy parts of designing, perhaps inferior to none;
his name is known at the bottom of many a well executed vignette
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 Valentine's day
three years since. He wrought, unseen and unsuspected, a wondrous
work. We need not say it was on the finest gilt paper with borders
-- full, not of common hearts and heartless allegory, but all
the prettiest stories of love from Ovid, and older poets than
Ovid (for E. B. is a scholar.) There was Pyramus and Thisbe, and
be sure Dido was not forgot, 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 Valentine's eve he commended to the all-swallowing indiscriminate
orifice--(O ignoble trust!) -- of the common post; but the humble
medium did its duty, and from his watchful stand, the -- next
morning, he saw the cheerful messenger knock, and by and by the
precious charge delivered. He saw, unseen, the happy girl unfold
the Valentine, dance about, clap her hands, as one after one the
pretty emblems unfolded themselves. She danced about, not with
light love, or foolish expectations, for she had no lover; or,
if she had, none she knew that could have created those bright
images which delighted her. It was more like some fairy present;
a God-send, as our familiarly pious ancestors termed a benefit
received, where the benefactor was unknown. It would do her no
harm. It would do her good for ever after. It is good to love
the unknown. I only give this as a specimen of E. B. and his modest
way of doing a concealed kindness.
Good-morrow to my Valentine, sings poor Ophelia; and no better wish, but with better auspices, we wish to all faithful lovers, who are not too wise to despise old legends, but are content to rank themselves humble diocesans of old Bishop Valentine, and his true church.
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