We had a succession of black nights, going up the river, and it was observable that whenever we landed, and suddenly inundated the trees with the intense sunburst of the electric light, a certain curious effect was always produced:  hundreds of birds flocked instantly out from the masses of shining green foliage, and went careering hither and thither through the white rays, and often a song-bird tuned up and fell to singing.  We judged that they mistook this superb artificial day for the genuine article.  We had a delightful trip in that thoroughly well-ordered steamer, and regretted that it was accomplished so speedily.  By means of diligence and activity, we managed to hunt out nearly all the old friends.  One was missing, however; he went to his reward, whatever it was, two years ago.  But I found out all about him.  His case helped me to realize how lasting can be the effect of a very trifling occurrence.  When he was an apprentice-blacksmith in our village, and I a schoolboy, a couple of young Englishmen came to the town and sojourned a while; and one day they got themselves up in cheap royal finery and did the Richard III swordfight with maniac energy and prodigious powwow, in the presence of the village boys.  This blacksmith cub was there, and the histrionic poison entered his bones.  This vast, lumbering, ignorant, dull-witted lout was stage-struck, and irrecoverably.  He disappeared, and presently turned up in St. Louis.  I ran across him there, by and by.  He was standing musing on a street corner, with his left hand on his hip, the thumb of his right supporting his chin, face bowed and frowning, slouch hat pulled down over his forehead—­imagining himself to be Othello or some such character, and imagining that the passing crowd marked his tragic bearing and were awestruck.

I joined him, and tried to get him down out of the clouds, but did not succeed.  However, he casually informed me, presently, that he was a member of the Walnut Street theater company—­and he tried to say it with indifference, but the indifference was thin, and a mighty exultation showed through it.  He said he was cast for a part in Julius Caesar, for that night, and if I should come I would see him.  If I should come!  I said I wouldn’t miss it if I were dead.

I went away stupefied with astonishment, and saying to myself, ’How strange it is!  We always thought this fellow a fool; yet the moment he comes to a great city, where intelligence and appreciation abound, the talent concealed in this shabby napkin is at once discovered, and promptly welcomed and honored.’

But I came away from the theater that night disappointed and offended; for I had had no glimpse of my hero, and his name was not in the bills.  I met him on the street the next morning, and before I could speak, he asked—­

‘Did you see me?’

‘No, you weren’t there.’

He looked surprised and disappointed.  He said—­