“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 Great, however, as was the success of the pig, at about the fortieth night his prosperity began to wane—he was withdrawn, and passed into oblivion.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.” “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,” cried the pensioned patriot, “I swore that no power in the universal world could make me accept a favour at the hands 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_? [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] SOME ACCOUNT OF A STAGE DEVIL THE “principle of evil,” as commonly embodied in the theatre, has been a sorry affair; the stage devil, in a word, a shabby person. From the time of the mysteries at Coventry to the melodramas of the phosphoric pen of the blue-fire dramatists, the father of iniquity has made his appearance in a manner more provocative of contempt than of peace; a candidate for our smiles, rather than a thing of terrors; we have chuckled where we should have shuddered.