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 school-man 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.