A breathless silence reigned throughout the vast crowd; every eye was fixed upon the stage; and now, with a stately step and a Roman toga falling in artistic folds from his shoulders, Eckhof as Cato stood before them.  Every thing about him was antique; his noble and proud bearing, his firm and measured step, his slow but easy movements, even the form of his head and the expression of his finely-cut features, were eminently classic.  He was the complete and perfect picture of an old Roman; nothing was forgotten.  The sandals, laced with red over the powerful and well-formed leg; the white under-garment and leathern girdle, the blue toga, the cut of his hair, every thing brought before you the noble Roman, the son of Liberty, imposing in his majesty and power.

Eckhof was the first who had the courage to clothe his characters in the costume of the time they represented, to make them move and speak simply as men.  Eckhof did that for the German stage which some years later Talma introduced on the French boards.  Talma was only a copyist of Eckhof, but this fact was not acknowledged, because at that time the German stage had not won for itself the sympathy and consideration of other nations.

As I have said, silence reigned, and from time to time the rapture of applause, which could not be altogether suppressed, was evidenced by thundering bravos.  Then again all was still; every eye and every ear were open to the great actor, true to himself and true to nature; who, glowing with enthusiasm, had cast his whole soul into his part; who had forgotten the line separating imagination from reality; who had, indeed, ceased to be Eckhof, and felt and thought and spoke as Cato.  At the close of an act, Eckhof was forced to come forward and show himself by the wild the stormy applause and loud cries of the audience.

“Do you not find him beyond all praise?” said Fredersdorf.

Lupinus gazed steadily at the stage; he had only soul, breath, hearing, for Eckhof.  His old world had passed away like a misty dream—­a new world surrounded him.  The olden time, the olden time to which he had consecrated years of study and of thought, to which he had offered up his sleep and all the pleasures of youth, had now become a reality for him.  He who stood upon the stage was Cato; that was the Roman forum; there were the proud temples, and the dwelling-houses consecrated by their household gods.  There was, then, outside of the world of books and letters, another world of light and gladness!  What was it, which made his heart beat and tremble so powerfully? why did his blood rush so madly through his veins?  A dark veil had fallen from his face; all around him were life, light, gladness, and rapture.  With trembling lips and silent tears he said to himself:  “I will live; I will be young; I will turn to Eckhof; he shall counsel me, and I will follow his advice as I would a holy gospel.—­Did you not say that you knew Cato?” said he, suddenly awaking from his dream and turning to his companion.