But there is no doubt I have given the Imperial heart some anxiety. _His_ manner was so impressive; his spy-glass was levelled at my countenance so often, that it is not to be wondered at if the violence of his passionate admiration did get about and fly on the wings of the wind to his 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----