There was a poor, broken-down English actor with a passion for Chaucer, whom I was wont to encounter in the Library of Congress.

His voice was quite gone.

Now and again I had him join me in a square meal.

Once in a while I paid his room rent.
I was loath to leave him when the break came in 1861, though he declared he had "expectations," and made sure he would not starve.
I was passing through Regent Street in London, when a smart brougham drove up to the curb and a wheezy voice called after me.

It was my old friend, Newton.