Before there were dating apps, texting, Facebook, Instagram, or the humiliating experience of having someone leave you on “read,” there were personal ads. And if the ones I recently stumbled across from an 1870 newspaper are any indication, people in the nineteenth century were just as confused, desperate, flirtatious, secretive, and occasionally creepy as we are today. The difference is that instead of swiping left, they placed an advertisement in the newspaper and hoped the intended person happened to read it.

Take this one: “Send Saturday five instead; very well; I hope you are. S.O.P.” That’s it. No context. No explanation. Just a mysterious demand for five dollars—or possibly five something else—followed by “I hope you are.” I can only imagine the recipient reading it over breakfast and thinking, Well, I hope I am, too.

Then there’s: “Stephen—You had better come to me before you are lost beyond recovery.” Now that is a message. Forget “Hey, what’s up?” This person is apparently one missed appointment away from eternal damnation.

Then we have a man whose romantic reputation apparently needed correcting: “Someone is deluded. McG— is not the chap. His romantic proclivities have subsided. He is not constant.” I love the phrase romantic proclivities have subsided. That sounds less like a man who has reformed and more like a medical condition that has temporarily gone into remission.

“Is McG— still courting three women?”

“No, no. His romantic proclivities have subsided.”

“Thank goodness.”

And then comes one of my favorites: “Will the charming lady who addressed gentleman as ‘Doctor,’ yesterday morning on corner Twenty-third Street and Sixth Avenue permit further acquaintance? She will not regret it. Do please address Doctor Rutherford, Herald Office.”

Was he or wasn’t he a doctor? Or did she mistakenly call this man “Doctor” and instead of letting the awkward moment die naturally, he took out a newspaper advertisement to find her.

There’s also an ad seeking Emma Smith, who is asked to contact someone at an address on West 27th Street. Good luck with that. In 1870, “Emma Smith” was probably about as useful as putting “John” on a lost-dog poster. But my favorite may be the gentleman who encountered a lady in a scarlet suit:

“Will the lady in scarlet suit, who noticed gentleman yesterday, between Canal and Lispenard Street, at one o’clock, grant him an interview?” That’s romance, 1870-style. No name. No phone number. No photograph. Just: I saw you. You saw me. You were wearing red. I was there. You know who you are. Now find me.

And finally, there’s the advertisement from Wallace’s Theatre: “Two of the gentlemen to the left on back sofa would be pleased to correspond, if agreeable, with either of the young ladies in front.”

I have so many questions. Which two gentlemen? Which young ladies? How did the gentlemen determine that the ladies were interested? Was there eye contact? A raised eyebrow? A strategically dropped handkerchief? And why did they need the newspaper to continue the conversation? They were apparently sitting in the same theater. Perhaps the young ladies were too shy to turn around. Or perhaps the gentlemen had already been staring at them so intensely that a direct approach would have resulted in a restraining order—if restraining orders had existed.

Reading these ads, I realize that the more things change, the more they stay the same. People have always been trying to find one another, apologize, flirt, reconnect, send money, clarify rumors, and locate the mysterious stranger they saw across a crowded room. The technology changes. The longing doesn’t. And apparently neither does the inability to simply say, “Hi. I’m interested in you.”

Although I have to admit, “Charming lady, please meet me because I think you’re hot” probably wouldn’t have fit quite as elegantly in a Victorian newspaper. And somehow, “romantic proclivities have subsided” has a certain ring to it. I may have to use that one myself.