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 floor, when half a sack was the allotted 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 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. “Everything, 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, Shakespeare, 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.” “Very well, Sir; if he must be measured, Sir, he must,” said the author. “It is 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 not 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.