when he wrote his famous “Ecclesiastes,” Aubrey sank unconsciously, and,—­to do him justice,—­most unwillingly.  His was naturally a bright, vivacious, healthy nature—­but he was over-sensitively organised,—­his nerves did not resemble iron so much as finely-tempered steel, which could not but suffer from the damp and rust in the world’s conventionalities.  And some “little rift within the lute” chanced to him, as it often chances to many, so that the subtle music of his soul jarred into discord with the things of life, making harsh sounds in place of melody.  There was no adequate cause for this,—­neither disappointed love nor balked ambition shadowed his days;—­it was something altogether indefinable—­a delicate, vague discontent which, had he known it, was merely the first stirring of an embryo genius destined one day to move the world.  He did not know what ailed him,—­but he grew tired—­tired of books—­tired of music—­tired of sifting the perplexing yet enchanting riddles of science—­tired of even his home and his mother’s anxious eyes of love that watched his moods too closely for his peace,—­and one day, out of the merest boyish impulse, he joined a company of travelling actors and left America.  Why he did this he could never tell, save that he was a student and lover of Shakespeare.  Much to his own surprise, and somewhat to his disgust, he distinguished himself with exceptional brilliancy on the stage,—­ his voice, his manner, his physique and his bearing were all exceptional, and told highly in his favour,—­but unfortunately his scholarly acumen and knowledge of literature went against him with his manager.  This personage, who was densely ignorant, and who yet had all the ineffable conceit of ignorance, took him severely to task for knowing Shakespeare’s meanings better than he did,—­and high words resulted in mutual severance.  Aubrey was hardly sorry when his theatrical career came thus untimely to an end.  At first he had imagined it possible to become supreme in histrionic art,—­one who should sway the emotions of thousands by a word, a look or a gesture,—­he had meant to be the greatest Shakespearean actor of his day; and with his knowledge of French, which was as perfect as his knowledge of English, he had even foreseen the possibility of taking the French stage as well as the English by storm.  But when he gradually came to discover the mean tricks and miserable treacheries used by his fellow-actors to keep a rising comrade down,—­when he felt to the core of his soul the sordidness and uncleanness of his surroundings,—­when he shudderingly repulsed the would-be attentions of the painted drabs called “ladies of the stage",—­and above all, when he thought of the peace and refinement of the home he had, for a mere freak, forsaken,—­the high tone of thought and feeling maintained there, the exquisite gracefulness and charm of womanhood, of which his mother had been, and was still a perfect embodiment, some new and far stronger spirit rose up within him, crying—­“What is this folly?  Am I to sink to the level of those whom I know and see are beneath me?  With what I have of brain and heart and feeling, are these unworthy souls to drag me down?  Shall I not try to feel my wings, and make one bold dash for higher liberty?  And if I do so, whither shall I fly?”