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 voluble 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 Macready—which 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.