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Fancies, passions, fears,
Subtle and sublime,
Things of pale love years,
Flowers of all time;

Hope, that springs and falls,
Doubts which pass away,
And insatiate fire

Beyond all decay:

And so on:-One might proceed in this style for

ever.

I own that I am somewhat of a devotee. I love to keep all festivals, to taste all feast-offerings, from fermety, (or frumety-frumentum,) at Christmas to the pancakes at Shrovetide. These things always seem better on those days: as the bread "in the holy-days," is ever better than the bread at school, though it come from the same oven. Then it must be the same? By no means -to us. Freedom and home plant a different relish upon the tongue, and the viands are transmuted, sublimed.

What is the + on a Good-friday's bun,-is that nothing? What is the goose at Michaelmas? What is the regale at a harvest home,--is that nothing? Are the cups, the kissing, the boisterous jollity, the tumbling on the fragrant hay, the dancing, the shouting, the singing out of tunenothing?

Why then, the world and a that's in't is nothing;
The covering sky is nothing, Bohemia nothing.

It is WE who make the world. No sky is blue, no leaf is verdant. It is our vision which

hath the azure and the green. It is that which expands, or causes to diminish, things which are in themselves ever the same. It is our imagination which lifts earth to heaven, and robes our women in the garb of angels. And is this not better, and wiser, than if we were to measure with the square and the rule, and to fashion our enjoyments by the scanty materials, (the clay,) before us, instead of subliming them to the uttermost stretch of our own immortal capacity?

So it is, that Valentine's Day, which with the Laplander and the Siberian is clad in a cold grey habit, is with us rose-coloured and bright. We array it before hand with hues gayer than the ́ Iris. Our fancies, our hopes, are active. Custom has decided that it shall be a day of love; and though Custom is but too often a tyrant and spurned at, in this case he has always willing subjects. A Valentine-who would not have a Valentine? I ask the question again.

Hark! the postman is sounding at the door. How smart is his knock, how restless his tread upon the pavement. He comes burthened with gay tidings, and he knows it. Door after door is opened before he knocks. The passages are filled with listeners, and the windows thronged with anxious faces. How busy, how expectant are the girls. Observe, the copper is parted from the silver, and ready for immediate payment-or the solitary sixpence is brought forth with a doubt, (between hope and fear,) as to its being required. The carrier of letters is pitied, "because he has such a load;" the neighbours are noted,--those

who receive Valentines, and particularly those who have none. If you look from an upper window, you will see the parlour crowded. You may hear the loud laugh, and see the snatch, the retreat, the struggle to get a sight of the Valentine. In general the address is in a feigned hand; sometimes it is very neat, and written with a crow quill; but oftener the letters are so staring and gaunt, that the serious postman forgets his post and almost smiles. The giver, the receiver, the messenger, are all happy for once. tory by land or by sea do as much? gle, (though it succeeds,) on a first night's play? a dinner-a dance—a coronation? No; some of

Can a vicCan a strug

these are sensual, and all have their drawbacks. It is only on Valentine's Day that enjoyment is pure and unalloyed. Never let us permit the splenetic to rail at it without defence. Above all, never let us allow its pleasant privileges to fall into disuse or decay.

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-Having gossipped thus much, I will e'en conclude my say, " with a Valentine of my own. And I will address it to Miss M. Tree, the pretty Sylvia, the shipwrecked Viola. Why I do this is of no importance. Perhaps it is because she is, (is she not the fair Sylvia?) beloved by Valentine. Perhaps it may be because I like her rich under tones, beyond all that Miss or Miss can utter. I am a little out of the habit now of writing Valentines, (thirty years in a warm climate make a difference in a man now-a-days,) so the reader will excuse imperfections.

TO THAT FAIR SIREN, MISS M. TREE,-A VALENTINE.

1.

Why is the rose of the East so fond

Of the bird on the near palm-tree? 'Tis because he sings like the murmurings Of the river that runs so bright and free.

2.

And why doth the paradise creature sing
To the silent and clear blue air,

When many a sound from the woods around
Doth speak like a spell to entice him there?

3.

'Tis because the blush of his love is rich,
And richer grows in his glances gay:
'Tis because the flower which fills his hour
With beauty, would pine were he away.

4.

Yet what is the red of the rose to thine?
And what is the nightingale's soft love-eye?
Thy glance is as bright as the clear star-light,
And the blush of thy cheek hath a deeper dye.

5.

Therefore, and because that thy reed-rich song
May vie with the best of the Muses nine,
Do I, a poet, (though none may know it,)
Choose thee, fair girl, for my Valentine.

ON THE

INCONVENIENCES RESULTING

FROM

BEING HANGED.

I AM One of those unhappy persons whose misfortunes, it seems, do not entitle them to the benefit of pure pity. All that is bestowed upon me of that kindest alleviator of human miseries, comes dashed with a double portion of contempt. My griefs have nothing in them that is felt as sacred by the bystanders. Yet is my affliction in truth of the deepest grain. The heaviest task that was ever given to mortal patience to sustain. Time, that wears out all other sorrows, can never modify or soften mine. Here they must continue to gnaw, as long as that fatal mark

Why was I ever born? Why was innocence in my person suffered to be branded with a stain which was appointed only for the blackest guilt? What had I done, or my parents, that a disgrace of mine should involve a whole posterity, in in

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