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 anything which our pathology knows to the contrary, a lover addressing his mistress, in perfect simplicity of feeling, "Madam, my liver and fortune 5 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. 66 ΙΟ 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 15 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 mechan- 20 ical than on other days; you will say, "that is not the post, I am sure." Visions of Love, of Cupids, of Hymens ! — delightful eternal commonplaces, 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 25 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, or some such device, not over-abundant in sense disclaims it, and not quite silly-something between wind 30 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) 5 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 10 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 15 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 20 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 25 Pyramus and Thisbe, and be sure Dido was not forgot, nor Hero and Leander, and swans more than sang in Cayster, with mottoes 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 30 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 5 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. ΙΟ 15 mean; Reverend hermits' hallow'd cells, Where retired devotion dwells! With thy enthusiasms come, Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb! FLECKNO.1 25 READER, wouldst thou know what true peace and quiet wouldst thou find a refuge from the noises and clamours of the multitude; wouldst thou enjoy at once soli- 30 tude and society; wouldst thou possess the depth of thy own 1 "Love's Dominion." spirit in stillness, without being shut out from the consolatory faces of thy species; wouldst thou be alone, and yet accompanied; solitary, yet not desolate; singular, yet not without some to keep thee in countenance; a unit in aggre5 gate; a simple in composite :- come with me into a Quakers' Meeting. Dost thou love silence as deep as that "before the winds were made?" go not out into the wilderness, descend not into the profundities of the earth; shut not up thy casements; 10 nor pour wax into the little cells of thy ears, with little-faithed self-mistrusting Ulysses. Retire with me into a Quakers' Meeting. For a man to refrain even from good words, and to hold his peace, it is commendable; but for a multitude, it is great 15 mastery. What is the stillness of the desert, compared with this place? what the uncommunicating muteness of fishes?— here the goddess reigns and revels. "Boreas, and Cesias, and Argestes loud," do not with their inter-confounding 20 uproars more augment the brawl-nor the waves of the blown Baltic with their clubbed sounds than their opposite (Silence her sacred self) is multiplied and rendered more intense by numbers and by sympathy. She too hath her deeps, that call unto deeps. Negation itself hath a positive 25 more and less; and closed eyes would seem to obscure the great obscurity of midnight. There are wounds, which an imperfect solitude cannot heal. By imperfect I mean that which a man enjoyeth by himself. The perfect is that which he can sometimes attain in crowds, 30 but nowhere so absolutely as in a Quakers' Meeting. Those first hermits did certainly understand this principle, when they retired into Egyptian solitudes, not singly, but in shoals, to enjoy one another's want of conversation. The Carthusian is bound to his brethren by this agreeing spirit of incommunicativeness. In secular occasions, what so pleasant as to be reading a book through a long winter evening, with a friend sitting by say, a wife. he, or she, too (if that be probable), reading another, without interruption, or oral communication?-can there be no sympathy without the gabble 5 of words?-away with this inhuman, shy, single, shade-andcavern-haunting solitariness. Give me, Master Zimmermann, a sympathetic solitude. To pace alone in the cloisters, or side aisles of some cathedral, time-stricken ; Or under hanging mountains, is but a vulgar luxury, compared with that which those enjoy, who come together for the purposes of more complete, abstracted solitude. This is the loneliness "to be felt.". The Abbey Church of Westminster hath nothing so solemn, so spirit-soothing, as the naked walls and benches of a Quakers' Meeting. Here are no tombs, no inscriptions, sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings— but here is something, which throws Antiquity herself into the foreground - SILENCE- eldest of things-language of old Night - primitive Discourser to which the insolent decays. of mouldering grandeur have but arrived by a violent, and, as we may say, unnatural progression. How reverend is the view of these hush'd heads ΙΟ 15 20 25 Nothing-plotting, nought-caballing, unmischievous synod! convocation without intrigue ! parliament without debate ! what a lesson dost thou read to council, and to consistory !—if my 30 pen treat of you lightly—as haply it will wander yet my |