be in time to see the object of my adoration walking up and down the
platform outside the booth before the performances commenced. This
incomparable creature wore a blue petticoat spangled with tinfoil, and a
wreath of faded poppies. Her age might have been about forty. I thought
her the loveliest of created beings. I wrote sonnets to her--dozens of
them--intending to leave them at the theatre door, but never finding the
courage to do it. I made up bouquets for her, over and over again,
chosen from the best flowers in our neglected garden; but invariably
with the same result. I hated the harlequin who presumed to put his arm
about her waist. I envied the clown, whom she condescended to address as
Mr. Merriman. In short, I was so desperately in love that I even tried
to lie awake at night and lose my appetite; but, I am ashamed to own,
failed signally in both endeavors.

At length I wrote to her. I can even now recall passages out of that
passionate epistle. I well remember how it took me a whole morning to
write it; how I crammed it with quotations from Horace; and how I fondly
compared her to most of the mythological divinities. I then copied it
out on pale pink paper, folded it in the form of a heart, and directed
it to Miss Angelina Lascelles, and left it, about dusk, with the
money-taker at the pit door. I signed myself, if I remember rightly,
Pyramus. What would I not have given that evening to pay my sixpence
like the rest of the audience, and feast my eyes upon her from some
obscure corner! What would I not have given to add my quota to
the applause!

I could hardly sleep that night; I could hardly read or write, or eat my
breakfast the next morning, for thinking of my letter and its probable
effect. It never once occurred to me that my Angelina might possibly
find it difficult to construe Horace. Towards evening, I escaped again,