Who Saint Valentine was, is not much to the purpose in this place. We will give him credit for having been, however, a very excellent and highly respectable individual. We must therefore utterly protest against the custom which has obtained of late years, making him the tutelary Saint of innumerable silly lovers, mean mischief-makers, and vulgar letter-writers generally.

Unfortunately for the reputation of this inoffensive Bishop, the day noted in the calendar as sacred to his blessed memory, happens to be that on which, according to the auld-wives' legends of Merrie England, there is a universal marrying and giving in marriage among the feathered tribes. The Fourteenth of February seems rather bleak for a grand wedding festival at which any birds but snow birds are expected to attend; but we suppose we must respect the tradition. It seems early too for imitative lads and lasses, who should wait until the warm spring approaches;

and when all nature is bathed afresh in light and love, and inspired with new life.

But, says a French writer, the divine faculty which distinguishes man from the brutes, is the capacity to drink when he is not thirsty, and to make love at all seasons of the year. Whether this "divine faculty" is a God-gift, or a perversion and abuse, the legitimate fruit of the sad tree of knowledge of good and evil, we will not stop to discuss. Man has it in full exercise; and however the birds may grumble at being obliged to hurry up their matrimonial cakes under the very beard and brow of winter, Cupid will be found—like the classical clothes-brusher and job-waiter—"nunquam non paratus"—always ready at your service.

The probability is that the human custom of choosing mates about this time, is more ancient than the notion touching the pairing of birds, and that the latter is a mere fable, suggested by the former. Some commentator on Shakspeare has traced it back "to a pagan custom of the same kind during the Lupercalia feasts of Pan and Juno, celebrated in the month of February by the Romans. We are further told that, the anniversary of St. Valentine happening in this month, the pious promoters of Christianity placed this custom under his patronage in order to indicate the notion of its pagan origin." Unhappy St. Valentine! But we must remember that formerly there was something sweet and poetical in the choosing of mates. Now we are thrilled with tender emotions when poor Ophelia sings her

"Good morrow to St. Valentine's-day."

But somehow, romance dies out in our material age; and beautiful superstitions give place either to cold practical knowledge, or degenerate into farcical caricatures. What a difference between the rapturous and bashful exchange of vows pledged by the youth and maidens in good old times, before reading and writing came in fashion, and the celebrated Valentine composed by the younger Mr. Weller! The vulgarization of the custom has been gradual. Instead of the song-singing invitations to love, under cold windows,

"All in the morning betime,"

lovers began, in the course of human progress, to indite gentle missives to their sweethearts, and to receive autograph replies. This improved method was eagerly adopted by all such as dared not give verbal utterance to their sweet passion, as well as by those who had private malice to vent, and sneaking insults to offer. Then arose the manufacture and merchandise of Valentines, which has of late become so important a branch of industry.

From early in February until late in March, our toy shops and periodical and fancy "depots" appear to traffic mainly in these exceptionable articles. Their windows flame with the vulgar trash. On every corner "Valentines!" "Valentines!" stare us in the face. Some are very choice and costly; we see now and then one inlaid in a rich casket, and prized at twenty-five or even fifty dollars. Others are made of fine fancy paper, adorned with flowers in water colors, or prettily filigreed; with a scroll in the center for the verses expressive of the sender's sentiments.

But the softer heads that indulge in these expensive trifles, are comparatively few. A cheaper luxury satisfies our economical sentimentalists. All kinds of coarsely ornamented note-paper, and large square awkward envelopes, find their ready patrons. Every taste is suited, from the sickliest fastidiousness, to the most clownish ambition for flashy colors and tawdry designs.

In opposition to the sentimental Valentines, we have the gross caricatures which have done more than anything else of this kind to disgust the common sense and good taste of community. It would seem that only the most vulgar minds could be attracted by these; yet the large traffic in them shows that vulgarity is an extensive element in the popular character. No matter how indelicate and disgusting one of these specimens of low invention may be, some fool will be found to purchase it, and send it to another individual whom he either wishes to insult or expects to amuse.

In this way all sorts of printed immoralities obtain circulation. In this way cowards take revenge for imaginary slights or dignified rejections. In this way, for about two or three weeks in each year, some altogether harmless and well-meaning people have been subjected to gross annoyances and serious taxes for postage. Thanks to the law-makers, the advance pay requisition will hereafter put a stop to that species of petty swindling.

Year after year the same foolish figures and senseless mottos are forwarded from the same simpletons to the same victims. We know a musician who for three successive seasons has received that witched caricature, representing a shape—

"If shape it could be called that shape had none,—"

all nose and moustache, blowing a trombone considerably larger than himself.

Our dentist usually enjoys a visit from a caricature suited to his profession—a tooth-drawer with his little head in a vast chasm representing a young lady's mouth. He has learned to expect it; he good-naturedly looks for it, about Valentine's day; and merely opening it when it comes, to see that it is the right one, he quietly tosses it into the fire.

This Valentine sending is a custom like that of a certain drunken revel once popular in Denmark,—"More honored in the breach than in the observance." It is ignored by good society. And as for the victimized, it is a mark of common sense to bestow every Valentine into the grate, unopened, as soon as received.

It is estimated that not less than half a million of these worse than worthless missives pass through the post-offices annually. The cost to the parties purchasing them, forms an aggregate of about $200,000. Over and above this expense is the postage, which is sometimes double, triple, or even four or five times the ordinary rates of single letter postage. Formerly many were unpaid, and often persons to whom they were addressed, indignantly refused to take them from the office. Thus were the mails not only uselessly encumbered with the vile trash, but quantities of the "rejected addresses" were subjected to the formality of visiting the Dead Letter Office, where they finally met with that destruction they so clearly merited. This abuse of the post-office privileges is unworthy of any nation above the capacity of monkeys.

The immoralities circulated and encouraged by Valentines cannot be estimated. Statistics would fail to arrive at the amount of vice engendered by this pernicious breed. One of the worst evils that owe their origin to this cause, is the temptation laid in the way of post-office clerks. A Valentine is often the first provocation to crime. Numerous instances have come under the observation of the writer, in which persons convicted of robbing the mails, trace back their transgressions to no more serious a fault than that of peeping into one of these silly missives. They are often carelessly sealed, and easily opened by third parties without discovery.

Imagine a young man intrusted with the care of a village post-office. He is interested in Miss A. He believes she encourages his sentiments. He hopes her proud father will some day encourage him as an eligible suitor for his daughter's hand. Still he is subject to desponding and jealous doubts. And when, one evening in the middle of February, a Valentine addressed to his paragon strikes his eye as he is assorting the mails, an indescribable pang shoots through his heart. He wonders who sent it. Tom Bellows is at first suspected, but the hand-writing differs from Tom's. "Can it be Robert Cartwright?" says the distressed clerk. "He is partial to Miss A., and she seems pleased with him. What can he be writing to her?"

Such thoughts perplex the young man's brain. The Valentine is not taken from the office that evening; and when all is quiet, he draws it once more out of the box, and again examines the superscription. It is certainly Cartwright's writing. "O dear!" sighs the clerk, "how easy I could open it, and nobody know it!" Aching with curiosity, but calling moral principle and self-denial to his aid, he returns the missive to the box, and goes to bed. But sleep is out of the question. He is awake, thinking about the Valentine, and those supposed to be immediately interested therein. "I wonder if I could open it!" he says to himself. "I've half a mind to try."

He gets up, strikes a light, and a moment later the Valentine is in his hand. "If it comes open," says he, "I'll seal it again without reading it. I only want to see if it can be done without having it show afterwards." Instantly he starts back. The Valentine is open! Really, he did not mean to do it; it came open so much easier than he expected! Although it is night, and he is alone, he cannot help looking over his shoulder to assure himself that the grim individual watching him, exists only in his imagination. "Well," thinks he, "it's done, and who knows it? What's the harm, as long as I'm going to seal it up again?—and after all, I don't see that it will be much worse just to see if there is any name to it, provided I don't read the rest."

Thus excusing himself, he profanes the sacred interior of the missive, and finds the suspicious signature—"Robert." Trembling at the temptation to read more, he hastily folds the sheet, and returns it to the envelope. But the next moment it is out again, and he is reading with flushed cheek and burning eye, the tender words that Robert C. has written to Miss A.

"All this hath a little dashed his spirits;" and he returns to bed feverish and restless. In spite of his reason, which keeps saying stoutly, "what's the harm? nobody will know it," he suffers greatly in conscience. But the Valentine is taken from the office, and the profanation of its mystery remains unsuspected. And in a few days another Valentine appears, addressed to Robert Cartwright. The hand-writing, although disguised, is alarmingly like Miss A.'s. By this time the clerk's jealousy has eaten up his conscience.

"There's no more harm in opening two than in opening one," whispers the devil in his ear.

"I believe you," says the clerk; "but I may yet be found out."

"No danger," says the devil; "only be careful."

He is too ready to adopt the suggestion. He is excusable, he thinks, under the circumstances. The Valentine is accordingly opened and read. Deliberation and forethought add gravity to the offence. The clerk has unconsciously blunted his moral perceptions, and weakened his moral strength; and he is now prepared to open regular letters passing through his hands. At first it is jealousy and rivalry that tempt his curiosity. Then other matters of interest entice him, until one day he discovers, in no little consternation, that he has thrust his fingers into a nest of bank-notes!

"Well, after all," says he, "Mr. B. is rich; he won't mind the loss; it's only a trifle with him. While to me, the sum is considerable. If I don't keep up appearances with Bob Cartwright, I might as well be out of the world. I've a right to live; and destroying this letter and appropriating its contents, is just nothing at all, if I don't get found out. But I'm safe enough—I'm the very last person to be suspected."

The career of this young man need not be traced further.

Nor need the subject of Valentines be pursued. We have written enough to show that they are the offspring of weak sentimentalism or foolish buffoonery; an encumbrance to the mails, an annoyance to those who receive them, a tax to all parties, and a temptation to post-office clerks; and withal, imbecilities and immoralities which all worthy citizens should take every occasion to discountenance, and banish from civilized society.