"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; 66 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!

(By permission of Messrs. Bradbury & Erans.)

THE LEGEND OF THE BELL.

J. E. CARPENTER.

In a very old room of one of the most antiquated buildings in one of the most ancient towns in England, sat five old men. It was in the olden time, but even then the spot of which we are writing was looked upon by the antiquaries of the time, men who have long since gone down into their graves, with inquiring eyes; and many were the old legends, landmarks of history, with which it was associated. The old room was one of those in which the solid beams which supported the upper apartments

projected low down from the ceiling-itself so low that a man of moderate height could touch it with the palm of his hand; its floor was of red tile, and its huge fireplace, or rather hearth--for fire-place there was none, in the modern acceptation of the term-afforded ample space for a dozen individuals to sit beside it, while the crackling log burned at their feet. The building, of which this room formed a portion, was an ancient hostelry, or inn, and, although it was in the main thoroughfare, or street, as we should now call it, there was a wide open space in front of it, about which stood rude benches where the guests were wont to regale themselves in summer. The locality of the town we need not mention, it has since become a city, and would not now be recognised. The five old men, and they were all very old, were the bell-ringers of the venerable church which stood a stone's throw from the hostelry. They were seated in the deep chimney-corner, for it was in the holly-time, and were enjoying themselves in inhaling the smoke of the fragrant Indian weed. For some time they smoked on, apparently buried in their own reflections, At length the eldest, whose long, thin, and silvery locks, and spare visage, proclaimed him to be almost a centenarian, drew a long whiff, and squeaked out halfmusingly :

แ

“I shall live to see it yet!"

"Never, Jansen!" observed the youngest of the party, a hale old man of three-score and ten-"never; 'tis nineteen years last Candlemas, and she looks younger and stronger than ever. What is she? A girl, a very chit, to you or I? And do you think, Jansen, that you, who have already one foot in the grave, can hope to outlive her?"

"I tell you it will come to pass, Willy; the same thing has happened twice before, since I have been bell-ringer at St. Margaret's, and I tell you again that it will come to pass."

"Tell us about it, Jansen," said a third of the party; "you have a wonderful memory, and belike it

will become our turn to tell the old stories of the bells

when you are gone."

"When I am gone! I tell thee, Mat, the old scytheman has passed my door and forgot me; here am I to drink a health to King George the Third, whom heaven grant a life as long as my own! and I tolled yon bell on the death of the merry Charlie. Ay! they were rare times-big Bess was the only bell that then swung in St. Margaret's steeple, and she narrowly escaped being cast into another shape a few years before, in the civil wars. Yes! I have a rare memory."

"And you were a ringer in King Charles's time?" echoed Mat, for they loved to get the old man to tell his odd stories about the bells, though they had heard them scores of times before.

"Yes," replied Jansen, "I was born in his reign; but I was a man when he died, and I have tolled Big Bess for William and Anne, and two Georges since then."

"Few men, as you, Jansen," observed another of the ringers, in the tone of flattery which seemed to please the garrulous old man, "can boast of having lived in six reigns."

"Seven, boy, seven!" continued old Jansen, peevishly, "but no English bell tolled the knell of the last King Jammie.”

"Truth! but have a rare memory!"

you

"Oh, rare!" ejaculated the others; "but tell us about the bells the wedding bells."

"The first wedding peal that was rung on those bells was for the marriage of old Simon Plumtree, the vintner; a sour, miserly beggar, as ever palmed off the thin wines of the Cape for the true Malmsey. Well, he refused the ringers their fees-but I followed him home and again demanded them. He turned me out of the house as he would turn out a strange dog. So I told him I would ring a knell he would little like to hear. In three months after that his wife died-but he paid the dues he begrudged at his wedding-ha! ha!"

"Probably he gained more by the burial than by the bridal," suggested old Matthew.

"Yes," answered Jansen, "his wife brought him three thousand pounds; but his avarice led him to embark that, as well as his own gains, in the South-Sea scheme, and he was buried as a pauper at last."

"The curse of the bell-ringer was on him!" interposed the old ringer who had been addressed as Willy.

"No," said Jansen, "though people had heard the story and chose to say so-it was only his own avarice working out its end-so with the death of his wife, a doctor might have saved her, but old Plumtree saved his guinea and lost his helpmate."

"Was Luke Bradshaw, the mason-his wife lived six years after her marriage-he was sexton of the parish, and refused to fee the ringers, because, he said, he was free of the church-being the servant of it, like ourselves."

"A paltry subterfuge, that couldn't save his wife!" chimed in Matthew; "but your prophecy will hardly come true again. It's twenty years come Candlemas since Peter Shaw married the miller's daughter." "Ay! twenty years-the time is almost up. Peter made a compact with me-we shall see how well he keeps it."

"And the compact was

"This: Peter was a poorer man then, though he had a fair share of trade, and the little money that the miller could give him was to enable him to increase it; he was the last man who ever refused to pay the ringers -for the fate of the two brides became a sort of village gossip, and grew into a superstition. To prove the folly of these old wives' stories, as Peter called them, he also refused to pay the ringers on his wedding-day; but he said, when I paid the customary visit, 'Come to me this day twenty years, and if I do not repent of my bargain I will pay you with interest."

"And the twenty years will be up next Candlemas." "I shall live to do it yet," was the only remark that

the old man made; nor could all the persuasion of his fellows induce him to discourse further of the stories of the bells.

From the above conversation the reader will gather nearly all we have to communicate respecting this singular compact. It was not through parsimony that Peter had refused the customary fees to the ringers on his wedding-day, but to prove he was above the vulgar prejudices of the time. Matters had thrived with him since he married; the old miller had died and left him a considerable sum, and in his own trade he had been equally successful. He had not forgotten his compact with Jansen, and had frequently wondered at the prolonged life of the bell-ringer, never imagining, from his age, that he would ever live to remind him of it, if indeed he had any recollection of the circumstance; which, although Peter doubted, he was determined not to take advantage of. In spite of a strong and wellconstituted mind, the Pewterer could not help feeling some anxiety as the termination of the twenty years approached, and it was with great delight that on the eventful Candlemas-day he found his wife in her usual health. "At least," he said, "the old churl shall see that I have not repented of my bargain," and going into his counting-house, he was about to send for Jansen when the old man came hobbling up to the door.

I was about to

"Well, Jansen, I'm glad to see you. send for you, to prove to you that I have not repented my choice, and to express a hope that you, who have been spared so long, will not go down into the grave without feeling that with the great Disposer of Events rests the fiat of life and death. Here are the ringers' fees, and with such interest as even your scruples will be satisfied," and he placed in the hands of Jansen five little packets, each of which contained ten golden guineas.

The old ringer mumbled out his thanks and sought his companions at the inn.