Imperial home. There it was sure to make an excitement.
American ladies have married lords and marquises in England, counts and
princes in other countries, and make first-rate lordesses and
marchionesses and princesses too. In fact, just as good as the born
nobility, and better too; but up to this time it is left to a lovely
woman of genius to exalt America into the region of imperial highness.
Money--for your lords, etc., etc., etc., generally want that with
American beauty and grace--money has done its utmost. Now genius comes
in, and modesty crowns itself.

I am satisfied that the great Grand Duke is only waiting, from a feeling
of doubt and modesty. My heart compassionates him. Up to the first of
January, I could do no more. Female propriety forbade it, but now--now
all is changed. Modesty is disenthralled.

It is Leap Year. St. Valentine's Day approaches. The windows of every
book-store are a-blazing with valentines, burning with love, eloquent of
the tender passions, pictorial and poetical.

The Queen of England offered herself to Prince Albert. It must have been
a touching scene. How modestly she suggested the flame that was kindled
in her youthful heart, and still lies smouldering in the ashes of that
good man's grave. I don't think she waited for Leap Year--but I will. No
one shall say that Phoemie Frost has forgotten what is due to her sex.

St. Valentine's Day emancipates the womanly heart. I have bought a
valentine, white satin, surrounded by a frost work of silver lace,
sprinkled with gold stars. On the satin is a little boy with wings,
hiding behind a rose-bush, firing arrows through it from a bow which he
lifts up roguishly. These arrows are aimed at an Imperial figure mounted
on a wild horse, and running down a buffalo--a unique and beautifully
suggestive idea. This was the poem which gushed with spontaneosity from
my disenthralled mind:

Come back, come back, from the buffalo raid!
Here is fairer game for you;
At thy feet the lovingest heart is laid
That ever a Grand Duke knew.
A lady rich in womanly pride,
Whose soul clings unto thine,
Is ready to be an Imperial bride--
Kneel with thee at Hymen's shrine.
Come back, come back, or thy haughty sire
Will command, and all is lost;
But he cannot extinguish this holy fire
In the bosom of----

Sisters, I ask you now, isn't this a gem? It isn't just the thing to put
your name to a valentine