IT was about the first of April, when the weather was delightful, and the nights were lighted by the full moon, that I left Wheeling for Cincinnati, on board the new little steamer “Como.” I had a pleasant voyage of two days and two nights, and might write a good many pages descriptive of it; but that’s old. Moreover, it is not John-Smithian.

As I wished to remain in Cincinnati for a month, I hired a lodging-room for that length of time, paying the money in advance, because it was not perfectly clear that I wasn’t a “deep-dyed villain.”

The landlady, for the sum of eighteen dollars, placed me in possession of a neat, tidy room, upstairs, and I there wrote and slept for one month; taking my meals at a neighboring saloon.

The proprietress of my lodging-house, who was a German lady—one of the Germanest I ever saw—accompanied me to the hall-door as I walked out to have my trunk sent up. On reaching the foot of the stairs in the hall, I noticed a room on the left-hand side, with the door standing open, and, involuntarily glancing in, perceived that it was handsomely furnished.

“Dat,” said the landlady, whose knowledge of English, it will be perceived, was very imperfect, “is—is—two—ah—ah—play-mens—actors, you knows. Dey rent it from me. Dirty-five tollar pays.”

“Quite reasonable,” said I. “A nice room. Where do they play?”

“At de—de Deaters, you knows.”

I had naturally inferred as much, but pretended to receive this as a piece of extraordinary information, and said:

“Ah? Indeed?”

“Yes. Dey gets—lots—great big much—vat you call ’em—vages.”

“O, yes. They get good wages?”

“Yes, von pig much tollars.”

I had my trunk sent to my new quarters, then took a leisurely stroll through the “City of Pork.” I first called on my friend Major J. P. Kline, on Sixth street, and before I left him, he made me promise to accompany him to the theater that night, stating that Proctor was to play the tragedy of “Virginius,” at the I-forget-the-name-of-it Theater. I then took a further walk, and in a couple of hours returned to my lodgings and wrote a letter to an eastern paper, in which I gave a great deal of valuable information concerning Cincinnati—considering my limited knowledge of it.

I accompanied my friend to the theater that evening, and saw Proctor play “Virginius.” He performed his part well; but there was one actor, of lofty mien, who personated Icilius in the tragedy, and who attracted my attention and won my admiration more than any other. He was perfectly majestic. I thought he should have been born a king, at least. He uttered every word with a loftiness and dignity, and in clear, ringing, impressive, awe-inspiring tones, that would have graced an emperor. Every word he uttered he seemed to feel; and whenever he was on the stage, I fancied I was looking on the genuine Icilius, himself, and on those real tragic events that occurred in the days of the Decemviri; instead of a mere representation of them.

Virginius was cheered, applauded, encored; but Icilius more than “brought down the house.” When he came out with the eloquent and brilliant passages which it was his office to repeat, the effect was electrical. The audience was dumb with admiration, and seemed ready to rise up in the air on the wings of enthusiasm, bear Icilius to the skies, and have him enrolled among the gods!

That night, on reaching my “apartments” on Plum street, (having loitered by the way,) I observed that the ground-floor room I mentioned was lighted, and that its occupants were at home. As I entered the hall and closed the street-door behind me, I observed that the room-door stood wide open; and I heard voices within. One of them, who was standing at the center of the room, adjusting the gas-burner, just then vexedly exclaimed to his companion:

“Pshaw! Gol-darn it, Bill! Where’s me pipe?”

Wondering if a person so harsh-spoken could be one of the actors mentioned by the landlady, I involuntarily glanced in, as I walked past the door toward the hall-stairs. The face of the speaker, who continued to growl about “me pipe,” was toward the door, and the glare of several gas-burners shone full upon his visage.

Ye mythic gods! Ye gods, Grecian and Roman! Ye gods, from great Jupiter down to the nude little cuss with the bow and arrows, inclusive! It was Icilius! Where now his gallant bearing—his majestic mien—his glittering armor—his proud helmet—his waving plume—and the burnished sword I had seen him flourish, as though it were a king’s scepter? Where!! Where, too, was that noble look of defiance with which he had confronted Claudius Appius? Where that expression of more than mortal anguish that had settled upon his god-like face when beautiful Virginia, loved Virginia, his Virginia, was slain with a butcher-knife by her own father, to avert dishonor? All gone! Gone!!

“Dash it, then, give me a cigar,” I heard him say, as I passed the door.

He was in his shirt-sleeves, his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and carelessly thrown open to let the air in upon his manly breast, after his exertion; and, instead of the “raven locks” he had worn that night, his head was covered with short, stiff, reddish hair—locks not so easily broken. Still, in his eyes, features, and voice, with all his change of dress and bearing, I recognized Icilius! “How are the mighty fallen!” Was it for him I had that night stamped, clapped my hands, and screamed “Encore?” I felt small, and said, to myself, “Icilius! I-cili-us! I silly ass! To think how I yelled, cheered, and encored this night for such a worm as thou!” I then went up to my room, resolving never to applaud an actor again, without knowing him to be a “star.” It is perfectly safe then, for we seldom see them in dishabille.

Next day Major Kline and I visited a pleasant resort on the river shore, several miles above the city, known as “Ohmer’s Zoological Gardens.” “Pete” Ohmer, the proprietor, was a friend of Major Kline, and he cheerfully accompanied us through his pleasant grounds, showed us the numerous animals which he had on exhibition, and explained their peculiarities. They were all in cages, because some of them were dangerous, while the others might run away.

He had one “gentle” bear that was a perfect pet, and would fondle upon one like a dog. (That sentence is ambiguous. I do not mean that he would fondle upon one who was like unto a dog, (the son of a female dog,) but that he would fondle in a manner similar to that of that sagacious animal.) I put my hand in his mouth, and he playfully closed on it with his excellent teeth, just enough to make the blood come: no more. After that, I patted him affectionately on the head and left the cage. As I did so, he left the marks of his teeth on my crutch, and growled a pleasant “good-by.”

Another cage we visited contained an animal which I thought looked fully as good-natured as the pet bear.

“What animal is this, Mr. Ohmer?” I asked, as I walked up to the cage, and was about to thrust my hand through the bars and pat the gentle-looking creature on the head.

“That is the Cal——Look out! Don’t put your hand in! Were you going to?”

“Yes: he looks so pleasant, and——”

“O, it’s well you didn’t. You think him a good-natured fellow, eh? That’s what we call a California Tiger. Watch me stir him up, if you think him a pleasant fellow.”

He picked up an iron rod, thrust it into the cage, between the bars, and gave the creature, which had the honor to hail from California, an abrupt poke on the ribs. The result fairly startled me. The animal, which had appeared as docile as a kitten a moment before, now sprang up, uttered a growl as fierce as thunder only ten yards distant, displayed a mouthful of sharp white teeth an inch long, and fastened upon the iron rod with its savage jaws. At the same time its eyes glared like balls of fire, and seemed ready to dart out at me. Altogether, the savage creature looked as though it could bite a man’s leg off without noticing that there was a bone in it.

“What if you had put your hand in?” said Major Kline.

“It would have bit it off, I suppose,” I returned; “and I couldn’t well afford to lose it.”

“Yes,” said Pete Ohmer, “he could snap your hand off in a second, and eat it up; and it would only give him an appetite to eat the rest of you.”

I could not help congratulating myself on my narrow escape, and resolved never to trust my hand to an unknown animal, merely because I liked its gentle appearance.