before him. "It is peaceful: it is we who are the blots upon the beauty of the earth. Oh, why—why are we false to the beautiful and heroic, as the author of the Lady of Lyons would observe? Why are we false to the true? Why do we drink too much and see double? Standing amidst the supreme silences, with breathless creation listening to our words, we look up to the stars that looked down upon the philosopher of the cave; and we feel that we have retrograded." Here the eminent tragedian gave a lurch, and seated himself with some violence and precipitation on the kerbstone. "We feel," he repeated, "that we have retrograded. It is a pity!"
"Now, who's to pick him up?" inquired the Smasher, looking round in silent appeal to the lamp-posts about him. "Who's to pick him up? I can't; and if he sleeps here he'll very likely get cold. Get up, you snivelling fool, can't you?" he said, with some asperity, to the descendant of Thespis, who, after weeping piteously, was drying his eyes with an announce bill of the "Tyrant of the Ganges," and by no means improving his personal appearance with the red and black printer's ink thereof.
How mine host of the Cheerful Cherokee would ever have extricated his companion from this degraded position, without the timely intervention of others, is not to be said; for at this very moment the Smasher beheld a gentleman alight from a cab at a little distance from where he stood, ask two or three questions of the cabman, pay and dismiss him, and then walk on in the direction of some steps that led to the water. This gentleman wore his hat very much slouched over his face; he was wrapped in a heavy loose coat, that entirely concealed his figure, and evidently carried a parcel of some kind under his left arm.
"Hi!" said the Smasher, as the pedestrian approached; "Hi, you there! Give us a hand, will you?"
The gentleman addressed as "you there" took not the slightest notice of this appeal, except, indeed, that he quickened his pace considerably, and tried to pass the left-handed one.
"No, you don't," said our pugilistic friend; "the cove as refuses to pick up the man that's down is a blot upon the English character, and the sooner he's scratched out the better;" wherewith the Smasher squared his fists and placed himself directly in the path of the gentleman with the slouched hat.
"I tell you what it is, my good fellow," said this individual, "you may pick up your drunken friend yourself, or you may wait the advent of the next policeman, who will do the public a service by conveying you both to the station-house, where you may finish the evening in your own highly-intellectual manner. But perhaps you will be good enough to let me pass, for I'm in a hurry! You see that American vessel yonder—she's dropped down the river to wait for the wind; the breeze is springing up
