With regard to the origin of this festival in the calendar, there are many conflicting opinions. St. Valentine, who suffered martyrdom in the reign of the Emperor Claudius, was eminently distinguished for his love and charity; and the custom of choosing Valentines, or special loving friends on this day, is by some supposed to have thence originated. The following solution is, however, the more probable one. It was the practice in ancient Rome, during a great part of the month of February, to celebrate the Lupercalia, which were feasts in honor of Pan and Juno, whence the latter deity was named Februata, or Februalis. On this occasion, amidst a variety of ceremonies, the names of young women were put into a box, from which they were drawn by the men, as chance directed. The pastors of the early Christian church, who by every possible means endeavored to eradicate the vestiges of pagan superstitions, and chiefly by some commutations of their forms, substituted, in the present instance, the names of particular saints, instead of those of the women; and, as the festival of the Lupercalia had commenced about the middle of February, they appear to have chosen Valentine's day for celebrating the new feast, because it occurred nearly at the same time. "MUSTARD TO MIX." A RECEIPT FOR YOUNG HOUSEKEEPERS. BY THE AUTHOR OF "MISS BREMER'S VISIT TO COOPER'S LANDING," "GETTING INTO SOCIETY," "BOARDING-HOUSE POLITICS," ETC. "And the ice it isn't water, and water isn't free--and I can't say that anything is what it ought to be." _Cricket on the Hearth._ "_I feel as if I should fly!_" No wonder poor Mrs. Bunker longed for the wings of a dove, if they could bear her to anything like rest. It was Monday--washing-day--and _blue_ Monday into the bargain. The parlor was in disorder (the Bunkers always sat in their parlor on Sunday, and held it sacred the rest of the week); the front hall tracked and littered up with the arrival of a visitor's baggage--the spare room was not ready--the clothes not counted out--the girl idling away her time at the pump--the breakfast dishes unwashed--and the baby screaming, as only a cross child can scream, in its mother's arms, showing not the least symptom of a morning nap, or, indeed, of _anything_ but colic. Mrs. Bunker, as she sat in the midst of this confusion, and expressed her desire to fly, bore no resemblance whatever to an angel--except that angels are usually represented with loose robes and unconfined hair. We question if she had looked at a brush since the day before, and her morning-dress was of the style denominated "wrapper"--a not over-clean chintz. The room itself was cheerful enough, so far as sunshine and comfortable furniture would go; but nothing was in its place; and this disorder, added to the forlorn appearance of Mrs. Bunker, holding the baby in its sour, crumpled night-dress and soiled flannel, was anything but an inviting prospect to a newly arrived guest.