AMIDST a storm of applause the curtain fell. The applause continued, and the curtain rose once more; and the favourite actor, worn out with emotion and fatigue, reappeared to receive the homage which an enthusiastic multitude paid to his genius.

I saw a proud flush of triumph steal over his wan face, which lighted it for a moment with almost supernatural expression. As he passed behind the scenes, amidst the rustling dresses of the rouged and spangled crowd, I observed his face contracted by a pang, which struck me the more forcibly from its so quickly succeeding the look of triumph. He passed on to his room without uttering a word-there to disrobe himself of the kingly garments in which he had "strutted his brief hour on the stage ;" and in a little while again passed me (as I was hammering out compliments, in yoluble but questionable German, to the pretty little *

*) in his sober

suited black, and, stepping into his carriage, drove to the Behren Strasse.

I knew he was going there, as I had been earnestly pressed to meet him that very evening; so, collecting all my forces, I uttered the happiest thing my German would permit me, and accompanying it with my most killing glance, raised the tiny hand of

** to my lips and withdrew, perfectly charmed with her, and perfectly satisfied with myself.

There was a brilliant circle that night at Madame Röckel's. To use the received phrase, "all Berlin was there." I found Herr Schoenlein, the great actor, surrounded by admirers, more profuse than delicate in their adulation. He was pale; looked wearied. He seemed to heed that admiration so little-and yet, in truth, he needed it so much! Not a muscle moved-not a smile answered their compliments; he received them as if he had been a statue which a senseless crowd adored. Yet, fulsome as the compliments were, they were never too fulsome for his greed. He had the fever-thirst of praise upon him now

more than ever-now more than at any period of his long career, during which his heart had always throbbed at every sound of applause, did he crave more and more applause. That man, seemingly so indifferent, was sick at heart, and applause alone could cure him! Had he not applause enough? Did not all Germany acknowledge his greatness? Did not, Berlin worship him? True; but that was not enough: he hungered for more.

I was taken up to him by Madame Röckel, and introduced as an "English admirer." Now, for the first time, he manifested some pleasure. It was not assuredly what I said-(for although, of course, I am always "mistaken for a German," so pure is my accent, so correct my diction!)—it was the fact of my being a foreigner -an Englishman-which made my praise so acceptable. I was a countryman of Shakspeare's, and, of course, a discerning critic of Shakspearian acting. We rapidly passed over the commonplace bridges of conversation, and were soon engaged in a discussion respecting the stage.

With nervous energy, and a sort of feverish irritability, he questioned me about our great actors-our Young, Kean, Kemble, and Macreadywhich gave me an opportunity for displaying that nice critical discrimination which my friends are kind enough to believe I possess-with what reason it is not for me to say.

When I told him that, on the whole, I was more gratified with the performances of Shakspeare in Germany, he turned upon me with sudden quickness and asked

"In what towns?"

"At Berlin and Dresden," I answered.

"You have seen Franz, then?"
"I have."

His lip quivered. I saw that I had made a mistake. I am not generally an ass-nay, I am believed to possess some little tact; but what demon could have possessed me to talk of an actor to an actor?

I then saw whither my stupidity had led me. This, however, I will say for myself, if ever I do get into a dilemma, I have generally readiness of mind enough to extricate myself. I do not say this out of conceit, for I am not at all conceited-I merely mention it as a fact. This is how I turned my blunder to account.

"Although," said I, "he has not your mastery, yet he reminded me a great deal of you. I cannot pay him a higher compliment."

To my surprise he did not see the flattery of this, but moved to another part of the room; and I did not speak with him again till supper.

This little incident excited my attention. I puzzled my brain for an explanation of the riddle which his conduct presented, and spoke to several of my friends about it, who could only tell me that Schoenlein was jealous of this new actor Franz.

Did you ever sup in Berlin, reader? If not, let me inform you that supper there is a most substantial affair. I had not read Miss Bremer's novels when first I went there; so, not being prepared for the infinite amount of eating and drinking which is transacted in the north, I confess my astonishment was a little mingled with disgust to find a supper begin with white-beer soup, (capital soup, by the way,) followed by various kinds of fish, amongst them, of course, that eternal hideous carp-roast veal, poultry, pastry, and dessert. To see the worthy Berliners sup, you would

fancy they had not dined, and to see them dine next day, you would fancy they had not supped, and breakfasted twice.

Eating is an art. It is also-and this fact we are prone to overlook-a habit. As a habit it may be enlarged to an indefinite extent; and lisping frauleins have demonstrated the capacity of the human stomach to be such as would make our beauties stare.

It must not be supposed that I am a coxcomb, since nothing can be farther from the truth; nor must I be held to share with Lord Byron his horror at seeing women eat. In fact I like to see the darlings enjoy themselves: but-and I care not who knows it to see German women eat, is more than I can patiently endure.

Let me cease this digression to remark that, except myself, the great tragedian was the only person at table who was not voracious-and that because he was unhappy. While knives and forks were playing with reckless energy he talked to me, but there was a coldness and constraint in his manner which plainly told me that my praises of Franz had deeply mortified him.

Poor Schoenlein! Unhappy he came to Madame Röckel's; for, amidst the storm of applause which saluted him at the theatre, he heard the applause which was saluting his rival at Dresden; and he had left the theatre for a friendly circle of admirers only to hear his rival praised by an Englishman. All the applause of all Berlin weighed as nothing against one compliment paid to Franz!

It was nearly twelve, and the company had gradually departed. I was left alone with Madame Röckel; and, as usual, I stayed half-an-hour later than the others, to have a quiet chat with her. I wanted to ask her for an explanation of Schoenlein's conduct. Much as I had seen of the vanity of actors-well as I knew their petty jealousy of each other-I was not prepared for what I had seen that night.

Madame Röckel had resumed her knitting-the never-failing accompaniment of a German lady-and I drew a chair close to the sofa, and told her what had passed.

what it is, in a slight degree, when we grow old. Do we ever grow old, and know it? When our glass still tells us we are young, that the bloom is still upon our cheeks, the lustre in our eyes, the witchery in our smiles, now as of yore-and yet what the glass tells us, what our feelings confirm, we do not see mirrored in the admiration of those around us! We also know what it is when we see our former adorers pass to newer beauties, and we perhaps overhear such a phrase spoken of us as, 'Yes, she has been handsome!'

But even we cannot know the actor's triumph or the actor's humiliation. To feel that our presence is the signal for applause, that every word we utter is listened to with eager interest, that every part we play is an image which we engrave upon the minds of thousands, there to abide as a thing of beauty and of wonder this is beyond us."

"But, my dear Madame Röckel, I see no diminution of admiration for Schoenlein in Berlin. Surely no audience can be more enthusiastic. Why should he fear a rival?"

"You might as well ask a beauty," she replied," why she is jealous of a woman less pretty than herself. The why is not to be explained by logic, for envy does not calculate-it feels."

"Yet, when Franz comes to Berlin, which will be next month, there will then be no possible doubt as to which is the finer actor."

"Perhaps not. But the public will nevertheless applaud Franz; and however slightly they do so, to the envious ears of Schoenlein it will sound like thunder."

The clock striking twelve warned me to depart, for in Berlin they keep early hours; and I went away thinking of what I had just heard, and feeling no small contempt for Schoenlein's preposterous jealousy: "What a contemptible feeling is envy!-as if only one person in the world had a right to admiration!"

At that moment I stepped into a droschke, and was driving to my rooms, when I passed that miserable puppy Fürstenberg, whom, I am sorry to say, little * * * admires so much; though, for the life of me, I never could see wherefore. Yet this uncouth German, aping the dandy, usurps all her conversation, even when I am by !

It is not that I am jealous, for that is not my character; but I cannot bear to see so charming a girl so miserably deceived in any one as she is in Fürstenberg!

Schoenlein did not play for a fortnight, and, as the time of Franz's engagement was drawing near, I imagined he was sulking. I communicated my suspicions to Madame Röckel.

"I would wager fifty thalers," she replied, "that he has gone to Dresden to see his dreaded rival, and judge for himself."

It was as Madame Röckel said: goaded by irresistible jealousy, Schoenlein had set off for Dresden to see his rival play.

Arrived there, he was three days before he could summon resolution to enter the theatre. Franz's name met him every where. At the table-d'hôte he heard nothing but praises of Franz: in the newspapers he read nothing but invidious comparisons between Franz and himself, in which the palm was awarded to his rival. "Franz," it

the hour drew near, he was seated at a table on that beautiful terrace, which no one who has visited Dresden can ever forget, and which the HahnHahn has so graphically set before us in her Faustine. He was smoking a meditative cigar, gazing abstractedly at the promenaders, who, in their gay dresses, passed to and fro in light happy talk, while the sounds of a good orchestra in the Café came mellowed by the distance, and lent another charm to the exhilarating scene. His thoughts were not at all in harmony with that happy scene-they were fixed mournfully on his own condition. He felt the sadness of a fallen favourite.

There he sat, and saw the sun go down over the antique bridge-saw its last rays shimmering on the placid bosom of the Elbe, which winds its undulating course beneath the terrace -saw the groups of promenaders gradually disappear, and the tables all deserted. The calls for ices, for cigars, for "light," were becoming rarer and rarer. The music had ceased-night had shut in. Still he sat there in the same mournful mood, tempted to go to the theatre, so close at hand, but repelled by the idea of hearing Franz applauded.

At the conclusion of the third act, several playgoers reappeared upon the terrace, to cool themselves in the evening air, and to take an ice. Their conversation, of course, turned but upon one man, and that man was Franz. They spoke of his Hamlet

as the finest part he had yet played.

Three men seated themselves at Schoenlein's table. In the midst of their enthusiastic criticism one of them remarked

"Well, Franz is certainly very fine; but it is absurd to compare him with Schoenlein."

"I think him better," said another. "Nonsense!-you would not say so if you could see them together. You will find that in a little while the public will come round to my opinion. Let them once get over the novelty, and they will judge correctly."

A thrill ran through the actor's frame as he heard this. He called the waiter; paid; rose; departed. In another instant he was in the parterre of the theatre, feverishly impatient for the curtain to rise.

The brief scene between the King and Queen, which opens the fourth act, seemed to that impatient man as if it never would end; and when Rosenkranz was heard within calling, "Hamlet, Lord Hamlet!" the perspiration burst from every pore, and he trembled like a leaf as Hamlet appeared, uttering the "Soft--what news? Who calls on Hamlet ?"

Schoenlein heard no more. The tones of that voice raised a mist before his brain-stung and perplexed him with rage and astonishment. He heard nothing, saw nothing his brain was in a whirl.

The Hamlet before him-Franz, the dreaded rival-was his son!

It is necessary here to take a retrospective glance into Schoenlein's history, that we may understand the horror which possessed him at the discovery of his son upon the stage.

We may readily conceive how his dislike to his profession made him very sedulous of keeping his child from all contact with it, lest its fascination should mislead him also. He had never permitted him to see a play. He brought him up strictly, religiously, austerely. He had no friends among actors: acting was never spoken of in his presence. Yet, by an inconsistency easily enough explained, the works most constantly read and

talked about by him were those of Shakspeare, Molière, Göthe, and Schiller. These were his household gods. Young Franz was early initiated into their beauties, and would declaim, (in private,) with great gusto, all the long speeches.

Franz was sent to the university of Leipsic, where it was his father's fond hope he would distinguish himself as a student of theology. For the first year he was assiduous enough; but theology grew inexpressibly wearisome, while poetry became irresistibly alluring to him. Göthe's Wilhelm Meister fell into his hands, and was read with rapture. He fell in