It appears that the mail bag which contained the letter, was found, on its arrival at New London, so much worn as to be unsafe, and was accordingly condemned by the post master and thrown aside as useless, having first, of course, been emptied of its contents, as was supposed. Two years subsequently, a quantity of old mail bags and other rubbish was removed from the office, and the letter in question took the opportunity to drop out, and return, an epistolary Rip Van Winkle, to the world whence it had retired for so long a time. CHAPTER XXVIII. VALENTINES. Their Origin--Degeneration--Immoral Influence--Incitement to Dishonesty. Who Saint Valentine was, is not much to the purpose in this place. We will give him credit for having been, however, a very excellent and highly respectable individual. We must therefore utterly protest against the custom which has obtained of late years, making him the tutelary Saint of innumerable silly lovers, mean mischief-makers, and vulgar letter-writers generally. Unfortunately for the reputation of this inoffensive Bishop, the day noted in the calendar as sacred to his blessed memory, happens to be that on which, according to the auld-wives' legends of Merrie England, there is a universal marrying and giving in marriage among the feathered tribes. The Fourteenth of February seems rather bleak for a grand wedding festival at which any birds but snow birds are expected to attend; but we suppose we must respect the tradition. It seems early too for imitative lads and lasses, who should wait until the warm spring approaches; "When the South-wind in May days, With a net of shining haze, Silvers the horizon wall, And with softness touches all-- Tints the human countenance With a color of romance;" and when all nature is bathed afresh in light and love, and inspired with new life. But, says a French writer, the divine faculty which distinguishes man from the brutes, is the capacity to drink when he is not thirsty, and to make love at all seasons of the year. Whether this "divine faculty" is a God-gift, or a perversion and abuse, the legitimate fruit of the sad tree of knowledge of good and evil, we will not stop to discuss. Man has it in full exercise; and however the birds may grumble at being obliged to hurry up their matrimonial cakes under the very beard and brow of winter, Cupid will be found--like the classical clothes-brusher and job-waiter--"_nunquam non paratus_"--always ready at your service.