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? “Do you think Franz greater than any of your English actors?” he asked, fretfully. “Why, I cannot say that exactly. But I was amazingly struck with his performance. My observation, however, principally applied to the general ‘getting-up.’” “But Franz—Franz. I wish to hear your opinion of him.” “He is young,” I replied; “has a fine figure, a noble voice, a grand carriage, and, although new to the stage, and consequently deficient in some technical matters, yet he has that undefinable something which men call genius.” “Hm!” was the significant answer. 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 _fraüleins_ have demonstrated the capacity of the human stomach to be such as would make our beauties stare.