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! CHAPTER III. 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 love with the actor’s life, and felt secret yearnings to quit the university, and throw himself upon the world in quest of adventure—especially in quest of a Marianne, a Philina, and a Mignon! He had not as yet dared to disobey his father’s strict commands—he had never ventured inside a theatre; but he had imbibed the dangerous poison—he had learned to look upon an actor’s life as a life of poetry. The seed was sown!