San Andreas independent., 1858-02-06

happiness. When confined to its pristine in
nocence and expression of sentiment, We can
not conceive anything more harmless or more
calculated to produce pleasant feelings. The
silent adorer tells the truth. The fair reader
feels that the soft tongue of flattery seeks not
concealment, but that true manly and honora-
BILE sentiment expresses itself, veiled by the
custom of the day, she knows the power she
may exert upon one devoted heart, and per-
haps it stirs up the good angel within, to exert
that power for good. To the young man, the
reception of such a mssive is a source of real
delight. There can be nothing in the world
SO calculated to incite to good and noble ac-
tions, as the consciousness that we possess the
love of pure and virtuous woman, or that
one such feels an interest in our welfare.
Life may be dark and thrcatning. Disap-
pointments may hover in thick clouds. Sor-
rows may make our hearts their dwelling pla-
ccs, and the bark of man may be nearly
wrecked, but the loyc of good woman is the
magnet by which he may direct his ship. To
it may he look for guide, when all else is
lost, and even though Valentine may be the
means of letting him know that such exists,
yet will it produce its effect upon him.
Then hail to the good old day! Old? 1t
must be. We can almost imagine the gentle
Rebecca, with her pitchers, at the well. The
Chaldean maiden as she traversed the porticoes
of the Babyonish capitol. The dark-eyed
Jcwess, or the stately Roman matron, when
she was young. The pale, parian browed
France in its earliest history, when the Druid
split the fairest blood, proptious sacrifice to
their gods, stealing out in the calm, still moon
light of the EARTH DER its records of crime and
passion, were as they now are, and recording
their VOW of love silently and sweetly to the
bronzed warrior, or the tuneful minstrel, in
whom their loves were centered. Yea as early
as the birds first sang their matutinal hymns,
and sang an epithalamium at their own mar
riage. This is the true date of the day we COM
memorate, and instead of calling it st. Valen-
tines Day, it should be called the Season of
Love.
But while we think this day should be con-
secratcd to the young and budding affections,
yet it is sadly desecrated b.: those whose souls
are dark as Erebus, in their vain attemps at
MISUNDERSTANDING the trades, traits and
personal deformities of their neighbors. We
have no punishment too great for such. They
would sneer at all that is good or great they
would defacc the proudest and most beautiful
monuments of antiquity. Vandals at best,
they would throw around the tenderest and
best emotions of the heart the defilings oftheir
own imaginings, and even as may be found
below, parody the finest effusions of genius.
Hear one of them defacng one of the most
pieces of Miss Alice Carey: Pic
lures of Memory
Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Menory's wall
Is one Of \ dim old forest,
That seeineth the best of all
Not for its gnarled oaks oldrn,
Dark with the mstletoe,
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not Tor the milk k-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant hedge,
COquettlng all day with tie sunbcams.
And stealing their golden edge:
Not for the vines on the upland
Where the bright red berries rest
Nor the pinks. nor the pale sweet cowslip
1t seerneth to me the best
ance had little brother
With eyes that dark and deem.
In the lap Of that old dim forest
He lieti in peace aseep;s
Light as the down Of the thistle
Free as the winds that blow
We roved there the beautiful summers
The summers of long ago:
But his feet on the hills grew weary
And, one Of the autumn ewes,
made for my little brother
bed OF the yellow leaves.
Sweety his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light Of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face, e
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright
He fell in his saint like beauty
Asleep by the gates of light
Therefore, OF all the pictures
That hang Memory's wall
The one OF the dim old forest
seemeth the best Of al.
Is not this beautiful and vat we find one If
these vandals desecrating it and the day, by
one of the most shameful parodies that ever
emanated from the pen of -. What name
shall we give the defacer?
rHR rErSrEg-EDrroRs VALENTINE.
Among the various pictures
Which hang on the office wall
There's one of mean old Valentine:
The meanest one of em ALL
It's that of a mean old printer.
Whose face is furious red
printer and editor
With q worn-out hat on his head
Ills form is bulky and bury
Ills hair Is ragged and gray:
His glance is savage and surly,
As he pulls at the bar away
I've seen pictures thought were uclv
And some that were pretty and tall
But that of the mean old Valentine
Is the meanest of 'em ALL
We have no sympathy with parodists, but
when they select such beautiful poems as the
one thus defiled VIC would say to all, Let
not such be trusted"
aPoNYn ExPREss.-Mr. VIM. VI. Denis is no
onger the pony-a new ''pony" has taken the
icld, well "readn in the literary and news de-
,artmcnts. Mr. E. Lobenstein (as will be seen
" the advertisement in another column,) has
upcrccdcd the old !" hoss" in the Express bu-
iness, and he will be "pony' no more. Mr..
:. will punctually make regular trips to all
POINTS advertised, and carry letters and papers
o all who may entrust him with their busi-