“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.