ife, that brilliant bubble of
character, which reflects, for a moment, a world of beauty and sparkle,
and dies in a flash of wit, yet leaves on the mind a want, a tender
regret, which follow one through all the storm and woe of the tragedy.

So it was little wonder, perhaps, that he achieved a decided success,
though incomparably greater artists had failed where he triumphed, and
that, in spite of the doubtful looks and faint praise of the critics, he
became at once a public favorite,--the fashion, the rage. Ladies of the
highest _ton_ condescended to admire and applaud, and hailed as a
benefactor the creator of a new sensation.

Very soon the young actor's aspiring soul rose above all secondary
parts, dropped Mercutio and Horatio for Romeo and Hamlet, and had not
the sense to see that he was getting utterly out of his element, dashing
with silken sails into the tempest of tragedy, soaring on Icarian wings
over its profoundest deeps and into the height and heat of its intensest
passion.

Yet with the young, the unthinking, the eager, the curious, it was then
as it is now and ever shall be,--confidence easily passed for genius,
and presumption for power. Tributes of admiration and envy poured in
upon him,--anonymous missives, tender and daring, odorous with the
atmosphere of luxurious boudoirs, and coarse scrawls, scented with
orange-peel and lamp-smoke, and seeming to hiss with the sibilant
whisper of green-room spite; and the young actor, valuing alike the
sentiments, kindly or malign, which ministered to his egoism,
intoxicated with the first foamy draught of fame, grew careless,
freakish, and arrogant, as all suddenly adopted pets of the public are
likely to do.

At length Mr. Bury played before Royalty, and Royalty was heard to say
to Nobility in attendance,--"What!--Who is he? Where did he come from?
How old is he? Not quite equal to Garrick yet, but clever,--eh, my
Lord?"

This gracious royal criticism, being duly reported and printed, removed
the last let to aristocratic favor; fast young bloods of the highest
nobility did not acorn to shake off their perfumes and air their profane
vocabulary in the green-room, offering snuff and the incense of flattery
together to the Tamerlane, the Romeo, or the Lord Hamlet of the night.

Happily, with the actor's fame rose his salary; and as both rose, the
actor and his wife descended from their lofty attic-room--into whose one
window the stars looked with, it seemed to