We repeat our expression of pleasure, that there has arisen such a general devotion to good St. Valentine, and we are sure that regard to that canonized Christian’s memory will enlarge the spirit of true devotion, so that if we had another saint in the calendar who stood in the same relation to the pagan _Cupid_ which Valentine does to the Luperci, that saint would find his shrine greatly enriched by those who commenced their devotion on the 14th of February. We are glad to see that the regard to good St. Valentine is presenting of works, and that the devotion does not pass away in the breath that utters vows; but, beside the incense that springs from the burning thurible, there are _offerings_ laid upon the altar—rich, tasteful, elaborate, simple, magnificent or humble. Every kind may be had, and will be had from those who minister to the wants of the Valentinans, as of old did the sellers of doves in the temple provide the means of sacrifice to the unprepared devotee. St. Valentine’s day then is becoming, nay, it has become, a national holyday—one that brings smiles of pleasure to the young of both sexes, and the joy of recollected pleasure to the old. It is a festival in which the feelings need no stimulant, and in which it asks no boisterous expression. Beautiful is the anticipation of such a season. Some hearts beat quickly in the thought of what may be sent, and who will send it. Some hopes will be excited by the manner of reception—all will be joyful in preparing to give; all will be gratified in examining the gift. Not all—one at least will go to the shrine where affection has deposited the gift—and as she drops a tear upon the cherished memorial, will send her thoughts far, far upward to the _home_ of the giver—or backward to the hour in which it was given. Yet this is joy—this sanctified Sabbath of the young heart seems doubly hallowed when its light is reflected from the memorial of affection, an affection made sure in _one_ by the icy hand of death; fixed undyingly in the other, by a consecration which no change can divert from its hallowing purpose. * * * * * THE PAST. BY MISS CAROLINE E. SUTTON. When the young bird goes from her early home, Though the swift-winged moments in happiness fly, Though the bridegroom is near with a gentle tone And a truthful love in his deep dark eye— Though the future is strewn with the roses of hope, And peopled with phantoms too brilliant to last— She turns with a tear to the friends of her youth, To those who were dear in the past.