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A PICTURE-BOOK
EIGHTEENTH EVENING.
I looked down upon a great theatre,—said the Moon,—the whole house was full of spectators, because a new actor made his debut; my beams fell upon a little window in the wall; a painted face pressed its forehead against the glass; it was the hero of the night. The chivalric beard curled upon his chin; but there were tears in the man’s eyes, because he had been hissed—hissed with reason. Poor fellow! but the realm of art will not endure the feeble. He deeply felt and passionately loved art, but she did not love him.
The prompter’s bell rung;—according to the piece, the hero stepped forth with a bold and determined air—thus had he to appear
