THE MANAGER'S PIG.

"Some people are not to be persuaded to taste of any creatures they have daily seen and been acquainted with whilst they were alive. * * * In this behaviour, methinks there appears something like a consciousness of guilt; it looks as if they endeavoured to save themselves from the imputation of a crime (which they know sticks somewhere) by removing the cause of it as far as they can from themselves.”— MANDEVILLE.

ARISTIDES TINFOIL, it is our fixed belief, was intended by nature either for lawn sleeves or ermined robes: he was, we doubt it not, sent into this world an embryo bishop, or a lord-chief-justice in posse. Such, we are convinced, was the benignant purpose of nature; but the cruel despotism of worldly circumstance relentlessly crossed the fair design; and Tinfoil, with a heart of honey and a head of iron, was only a player-or, we should rather say, a master among players. Tinfoil might have preached charity-sermons till tears should have overflowed the pews; no matter, he acted the benevolent old man to the sobs and spasms of a crowded audience: he might, with singular efficacy, have passed sentence of death on coiners and sheep-stealers; circumstance, however, confined his mild reproofs to scene-shifters, bill-stickers, Cupids at one shilling per night, and white muslin Graces.

"Where is Mr. Moriturus?" asked Tinfoil, chagrined at the untoward absence of his retainer. "Where is he?"

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Ill, sir," was the melancholy answer;

66 very ill."

"Ill!" exclaimed Tinfoil, in a tone of anger, quickly subsiding into mild remonstrance; "Ill!-why-why doesn't the good man die at

once ?"

A pretty budding girl had, unhappily, listened to the silvery tongue of a rival manager. "Take her from the villain!" exclaimed Tinfoil, to the sorrowing parent; "bring her here, and then-then I'll tell you what I'll do."

"Dear, kind Mr. Tinfoil, what will you do?"

"I'll bring her out, sir-bring her out in-" and here the manager named a play in which the horrors of seduction are painted in bold colours for the indignant virtuous; "I'll bring her out in that, sir; and, more than that, sir, as a particular favour to you, and sympathizing as I must with the affliction you suffer, I-I myself will play the injured father, sir."

These, however, are but faint lines in the strongly-marked character of Tinfoil, and merely showing them to awaken the attention of the reader to what we consider a most triumphant piece of casuistry on the part of our hero-to an incident which admits of so many hundred worldly illustrations-we shall proceed to the pig. The subject, we own, may appear unpromising from its extreme homeliness; yet, as the precious bezoar is sought for in deer and goats, so may a pearl of price be found even in a pig.

It is our fervent wish to be most exact in every point of this little history; yet cannot we remember the exact year in which Tinfoil, revolving in his managerial mind the very many experiments made under his government, on the curiosity and sensibilities of the public, in a golden moment determined upon the introduction of a pig, in a

drama to be expressly written for the animal's capacities. In the slang of the craft, the pig was to be measured for his part.

We cannot take it upon ourselves to avow, that an accident of late occurrence to a brother actor, did not, at least remotely, influence the choice of Tinfoil. The mishap was this. A few miles from Londonfor the sake of unborn generations we conceal the name of the townthe dullard denizens had manifested an extraordinary apathy to the delights of the drama. In the despairing words of one of the sufferers, "nothing could move 'em." However, another of more sanguine temperament, resolved to make a last bold effort on their stubborn souls, and to such high end, set a pig at them. Mingling the blandishments of the lottery with the witcheries of the drama, he caused it to be printed in boldest type to the townspeople of, that a shower of little bits of paper would take place between the play and farce, and amidst this shower, a prize would descend, conveying to the lucky possessor the entire property of a real China-bred porker! Inconceivable as to us it is, the scheme failed-the pig] remained livestock upon the hands of the projector, who, the next morning, walked to town; and, recounting his adverse fortune to the calculating Tinfoil, supplicated any employment.

"And you still possess the pig? Humph!" mused Tinfoil; "perhaps, we may come to some arrangement."

In few words, the applicant was admitted among Tinfoil's troop; the pig, at a nominal price, passing into the hands of the manager.

The pig was no sooner a member of the company, than the household author was summoned by Tinfoil, who, introducing the man of letters to the porker, shortly intimated that "he must write a part for him."

"For a pig, sir!" exclaimed the author.

"Measure him," said Tinfoil, not condescending to notice the astonishment of the dramatist.

"But, my dear, sir, it is impossible that-"

"Sir! impossible is a word which I cannot allow in my establishment. By this time, sir, you ought to know that my will, sir, is sufficient for all things, sir,-that, in a word, sir, there is a great deal of Napoleon about me, sir."

We must admit that the dramatist ought not to have forgotten this last interesting circumstance, Mr. Tinfoil himself very frequently recurring to it. Indeed, it was only an hour before, that he had censured the charwoman for having squandered a whole sack of sawdust on the hall, when half a sack was the proper quantity. "He, Mr. Tinfoil, had said half a sack; and the woman knew, or ought to know, there was a good deal of Napoleon about him!" To return to the pig.

"Measure him, sir," cried Mr. Tinfoil, the deepening tones growling through his teeth, and his finger pointing still more emphatically downwards to the pig.

"Why," observed the author, "if it could be measured, perhaps " "If it could! Sir," and Mr. Tinfoil, when at all excited, trolled the the monosyllable with peculiar energy-" Sir," I wouldn't give a straw for a dramatist who couldn't measure the cholera-morbus."

"Much may be done for an actor by measuring," remarked the dramatist, gradually falling into the opinion of his employer.

"Every thing, sir! Good God! what might I not have been, had I condescended to be measured! Human nature, sir,-the divine and glorious characteristic of our common being, sir, that is the thing, sir, by heavens! sir, when I think of that great creature, Shakspeare, sir, and think that he never measured actors-no, sir—"

"No, sir," acquiesced the dramatist.

"Notwithstanding, sir, we live in other times, sir, and you must write a part for the pig, sir."

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Very well, sir; if he must be measured, sir, he must," said the author.

"It's a melancholy thing to be obliged to succumb to the folly of the day," remarked Mr. Tinfoil; "and yet, sir, I could name certain people, sir, who, by heavens! sir, would not have a part to their backs, sir, if they had not been measured for it, sir. Let me see: it is now three o'clock-well, some time to-night, you'll let me have the piece for the pig, sir."

Now, whether the writer addressed was by his "so potent art" enabled to measure a pig-to write a perfect swinish drama in a few hours or whether, knowing the Buonapartean self-will of the manager, the dramatist thought it wise to make no remonstrance, we cannot truly discover certain it is, with no objection made, he took his leave.

"An extraordinary young man, sir-I have brought him out, sir-a wonderful young man, sir," observed Mr. Tinfoil to a friend and neighbour, a dealer in marine-stores. "Only wants working, sir-requires nothing but being kept at it, sir."

"Well, it must be a puzzling trade," remarked the dealer in miscellaneous articles.

Puzzling, sir! By heavens! sir, my heart bleeds for men of letters, sir-they are great creatures, sir-wonderful natures, sir-we cannot think too highly of them, sir-cannot sufficiently reward them, sir! Now, sir, it is perfectly unknown my liberality towards that young man! But then, sir-it is my delight, sir, when I find real genius, sir-when I meet with a man of original mind, sir-by heavens! sir," again cried Mr. Tinfoil, resorting to the exclamation as an outlet for his overcharged feelings.

The pig was duly measured--the piece prepared-and, having been produced at an enormous expense, was sealed with the unqualified approbation of a discerning public.

The pig-drama had been represented about twenty nights, when the author of the piece in friendly converse with his patron manager, remarked "that the porker had been a most profitable venture."

"Why, sir," replied Mr. Tinfoil, "tolerably well; but the fact is, I am obliged to bolster him. He has had the advantage of three new afterpieces, and therefore can't complain that he has been let down. Still, the pig has done very well, and perhaps may run a fortnight more.' Saying this, Tinfoil quaffed from a brimming glass of his chosen fluid.

"At all events," remarked the author, "the pig possesses an advantage, not to be found in any other of your actors.'

"And what, sir," asked Mr. Tinfoil, "what may that be?"

"Why, after the pig has done his work, and the piece is put by, you may eat the pig."

The manager started from the inhuman man of letters with a look

of mingled horror, disgust, and pity. When he had somewhat recovered from his amazement, he asked with evident loathing, "What did you say, sir?"

"I said," replied the insensible author, "that when the pig had played out his part, you might eat him.”

Mr. Tinfoil, gently stirring his brandy-and-water, fixed an eye, like that of death-darting cockatrice upon the author, and after swallowing the liquor, and thereby somewhat regaining his self-possession, he addressed the thoughtless man of letters in words and tones that, as he since declared, can never cease to vibrate in his memory.

"Sir!" thus spoke Mr. Tinfoil. "I regret-much regret, sir, that any thing in my conduct could have induced you, sir, to think so uncharitably of my disposition, sir."

"I assure you, sir—'

"Hear me out, sir. What, sir! think me capable of feeding upon an animal that I have played with-a creature, whose sagacity has almost made it my humble friend- -a pig that has eaten from my handthat knows my voice-that I-I eat that pig-good heavens, sir!" "I'm sure I didn't mean

"No, sir," cried Tinfoil," "not were I starving, sir-not were I famishing, sir, could I be brought to taste that pig.'

Much more did Mr. Tinfoil deliver declaratory of his horror, at the bare idea of setting his teeth in the flesh of his quadruped actor; and the rebuked man of letters quitted the manager with an exalted notion of his sensibility.

The pig-drama continued to be played to the increasing satisfaction of the public; the audience, however, only being admitted to view the professional abilities of the animal, his suppers-from some extraordinary omission of Tinfoil-not being eaten before the curtain. Great, however, as was the success of the pig: at about the fortieth night, his prosperity began to wane,-he was withdrawn and passed into oblivion. A few weeks had elapsed, and the author was summoned to the dwelling of his manager, to write a play for a stud of horses. Tinfoil was at dinner; whereto he courteously invited his household scribe. "You oughtn't to refuse," said one of the diners; "for this" and the speaker pointed to some pickled pork in the dish-" This is an old friend of yours."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the dramatist, looking reproachfully at Tinfoil. "Why, not the pig?"

Tinfoil somewhat abashed, coughed and nodded.

Why, you said that nothing on earth would tempt you to eat that pig."

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"No more it could, sir," cried the assured manager. No, sir,no more it could,-unless salted!"

Of how many applications is this casuistry of the manager susceptible!

"When, sir," cries the pensioned patriot, "I swore that no power in the universal world could make me accept a favour at the hand of such men,-I meant-"

"Unless salted!"

How often is it with men's principles, as with the manager's pig; things inviolable, immutable-unless salted!

D. J.