In this conviction, with the contagious spirit of curiosity, I mounted upon a seat, and looked about me on every side; but unable still to catch the object which seemed to attract the rest, as I was about to resume my place, my eyes fell upon a well-known face, which in an instant I remembered was that of my late fellow-traveller the courier.  Anxious to avoid his recognition, I attempted to get down at once; but before I could accomplish it, the wretch had perceived and recognised me; and I saw him, even with a gesture of delight, point me out to some friends beside him.

“Confound the fellow,” muttered I; “I must leave this at once, or I shall be involved in some trouble.”

Scarcely was my my resolve taken, when a new burst of voices arose from the pit—­the words “l’Auteur,” “l’Auteur,” mingling with loud cries for “Meerberger,” “Meerberger,” to appear.  So, thought I, it seems the great composer is here.  Oh, by Jove!  I must have a peep at him before I go.  So, leaning over the front rail of the box, I looked anxiously about to catch one hasty glimpse of one of the great men of his day and country.  What was my surprise, however, to perceive that about two thousand eyes were firmly rivetted upon the box I was seated in; while about half the number of tongues called out unceasingly, “Mr. Meerberger—­vive Meerberger—­vive l’Auteur des Franc Macons—­vive Franc Macons,” &c.  Before I could turn to look for the hero of the scene, my legs were taken from under me, and I felt myself lifted by several strong men and held out in front of the box, while the whole audience, rising en masse, saluted me—­yes, me, Harry Lorrequer—­with a cheer that shook the building.  Fearful of precipitating myself into the pit beneath, if I made the least effort, and half wild with terror and amazement, I stared about like a maniac, while a beautiful young woman tripped along the edge of the box, supported by her companion’s hand, and placed lightly upon my brow a chaplet of roses and laurel.  Here the applause was like an earthquake.

“May the devil fly away with half of ye,” was my grateful response, to as full a cheer of applause as ever the walls of the house re-echoed to.

“On the stage—­on the stage!” shouted that portion of the audience who, occupying the same side of the house as myself, preferred having a better view of me; and to the stage I was accordingly hurried, down a narrow stair, through a side scene, and over half the corps de ballet who were waiting for their entree.  Kicking, plunging, buffetting like a madman, they carried me to the “flats,” when the manager led me forward to the foot lights, my wreath of flowers contrasting rather ruefully with my bruised cheeks and torn habiliments.  Human beings, God be praised, are only capable of certain efforts—­so that one-half the audience were coughing their sides out, while the other were hoarse as bull-frogs from their enthusiasm in less than five minutes.