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 
hut 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 wonderous 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 besure 
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 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 pre- 
sent ; 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 un- 
known. I only give this as a specimen of E. B. and his modest way of doing a concealed kindness. 
In towns, says William Howitt, it is a cheering sight, even while all without is frosty and wintry, to see, 
as we pass, in cottage windows, tufts of crocuses and snowdrops flowering in pots; and in those of wealthier 
dwellings, hyacinths, narcissi, &c. in glasses, displaying their bulbs and long fibrous roots in the. clear water 
below, and the verdure and flowery freshness of summer above. It is a sight truly English. It is in accord- 
ance with our ideas of home-comfort and elegance. If we are to believe travellers, in no country is the do- 
mestic culture of flowers so much attended to as in this. I trust this will always be a prevailing taste with us. 
There is something pure and refreshing in the appearance of plants in a room ; and watched and waited on 
as they are generally, by the gentler sex, they are links in many pleasant associations. They are the 
cherished favourites of our mothers, wives, sisters, and friends not less dear ; and connect themselves in 
our mind with their feminine delicacy, loveliness, and affectionate habits and sentiments. 
The Wood-sorrel, says the author of “The Sentiment of Flowers,” vulgarly called “cuckoo’s bread,” 
flowers very freely about Easter. This pretty little plant shuts its leaves, closes its corollas, and the flowers 
hang pendant and drooping from the stems. They seem to yield themselves to sleep ; but at the first dawn 
of day we may say that they are filled with joy, for they throw back their leaves, and expand their flowers : 
and we doubt not it is on this account that peasants have said that they sing the praises of their Creator. 
“The Sorrels,” says Gerarde, “ are moderately cold and dry.” 
The Wood-sorrel is the emblem of Joy. 
