In London this day is ushered in by the thundering knock of the postman
at the different doors, through whose hands some thousands of Valentines
pass for many a fair maiden in the course of the day. Valentines are,
however, getting very ridiculous, if we may go by the numerous doggrels
that appear in the print-shops on this day. As an instance, I transmit
the reader a copy of some lines appended to a Valentine sent me last
year. Under the figure of a shoemaker, with a head thrice the size of
his body, and his legs forming an oval, were the following rhymes:--

Do you think to be my Valentine?
Oh, no! you snob, you shan't be mine:
So big your ugly head has grown,
No wig will fit to seem your own
Go, find your equal if you can,
For I will ne'er have such a man;
Your fine _bow_ legs and turned-in feet,
Make you a _citizen_ complete."


The _fair_ writer had here evidently ventured upon a pun; how far
it has succeeded I will leave others to say. The lovely creature was,
however, entirely ignorant of my calling; and whatever impression such
a description would leave on the reader's mind, it made none on mine,
though in the second verse I was certainly much pleased with the fair
punster. I wish you saw the engraving!

W.H.H.