Pyg

by Russell Potter

  The friendly animosity, and jovial contest that ran between Miss Seward and the learned Doctor seems to have begun soon after this time. Aside from caring for her father, she devoted herself almost entirely to literary composition, with an ‘Elegy on the Death of Mr Garrick’ among her early triumphs. Further elegiac verses upon the expirations of Major André and Captain Cook soon followed, and she had but lately completed her first novel, which was entitled Louisa. Throughout this period she had corresponded with, and was frequently called upon by, Dr Johnson who, though he was publicly dismissive of her ambitions, privately admired her intellect, and relished their literary and philosophical contests. Many were the subjects of their friendly debates, conducted almost entirely via the post; I was at a later date shown a number of these Letters, and earnestly expressed the wish that they might some day be published. In the weeks and months after Dr Johnson’s departure, and with the melancholy news of his Death that came not long after, I often expressed a wish to visit Miss Seward, but was for that time detained by my Studies, which I was most anxious to pursue as long as Dr Adams would permit me.

  That good man in every way endeavoured to Encourage me, and with his help I soon advanced, and embarked upon the reading of several of the more famous speeches of Cicero. Alas, though my Progress was very strong, my path lay strewn with numerous Obstacles, the majority of which were not of my own Making. For, as they say, invidia gloriae comes: a number of the Fellows of the College had taken umbrage at the Attention given me, and took to quoting passages from the College’s Statutes; they claimed that the Master had no authority to admit me as a Pupil, or that if he did I should have to pay for my Tuition, and pass the requirements for Age and Good Character (the former of which I could hardly be expected to meet, as I was very far from my sixteenth year, and by no means sure to live so long, a single Pig year being equivalent to several Human ones). To all these complaints, the Master patiently replied that as he himself was covering all my Expenditures out of his own resources, and would gladly avouch that both my Character and Capability were the equal of any lad of the requisite age, thus my position was entirely proper. Indeed, in the case of my Benefactor, he had already been admitted to the College and (having had the good fortune to be born on Guernsey) been elected the Bishop Morley’s Scholler.

  Never the less, a small group of Fellows continued their grumbling and complaints, and eventually wrote to the Chancellor, Lord North, with a bill against me. Happily, that eminent man was then engaged in a series of agonising political machinations with Pitt the Younger, which so preoccupied him that he could devote no attention to the matter, referring it to the Vice-Chancellor, a certain Reverend Mr Chapman. And that man, being on old and comfortable terms with Dr Adams, came one day to our Breakfast, and was so charmed by my abilities that he declared that, if I must go, then more than half of the Undergraduates must go with me as I was quite clearly their Equal, if not their Better. As a result, I was out of any immediate danger, being—or so I thought then—possessed as I was of the proverbial Friends in High Places.

  And yet there I was soon to be proven mistaken, for the lack of any administrative relief of their Grievances did not, by any means, discourage my opponents; indeed, it emboldened them. It was just after the commencement of Hilary term that a number of undergraduates—encouraged, I am sure, by their Betters—came upon me under cover of the Night, shoved me into a Burlap sack, and made away with me to a nearby Public House, the Eagle and Child. There, they set me up upon a Platter, to which they tied me with a length of stout cord, and stuffed an Apple into my mouth, as though I were to be served up as their Dinner. O tempora, o mores! They then proceeded to exhaust themselves with Toasts, loudly proclaiming that the Establishment should be rechristened the Plover and the Pig, the Swan and the Swine, and other such names, and demanding that the proprietor set me up to Roast. That man, to my eternal Gratitude, refused their requests; knowing that they were from Pembroke, he had some inkling that I might be the celebrated Pig there resident, and did all he could to keep them preoccupied. So, while proclaiming the next round free of charge, he quietly sent round his boy to the Porter’s Lodge; the porter fetched Dr Adams and that gentleman hurried to my Rescue.

  I had, of course, no idea of this, and was as stunned as my captors when the Master strode through the doors in the midst of yet another round of boisterous toasts and taunts. When I look back upon it, despite the mortal terror I was in, I cannot help but laugh at the looks of utter dismay upon their ruddy faces—faces that, only a moment earlier, had been bedecked with grins and laughter. Their vital juices at once drained out of them as quick as beer from an overturned cup, and they made a drunken (and not very successful) attempt to rush out of the back door, which ended in a heap of twisted legs and flailing arms. Dr Adams himself was remarkably calm: he stood, walking-stick in hand, and fixed those young men with such a look that, one by one, they unfolded themselves and stood at attention. He asked them each to state their names (which, of course, he knew quite well already), then dismissed them with a word. He and the proprietor then removed the apple from my jaws and, with the greatest care and kindness, untied me and checked to see that I was unhurt. Having not my pasteboard cards about me, I could not express my Gratitude to them except with Looks, but these I am sure they Understood. At last, in the company of Dr Adams, I was escorted back to my bed in the stables, and given fresh water and oats to aid in my Recovery.

  The lads who had absconded with me were given severe dressings-down, and their cases were referred to the University’s Proctor; they all had to pay fines, and were abjured from any further such mischief on penalty of Expulsion. I was never so relieved in my Life, but it was clear to me at that moment that I could hardly expect to continue my studies under such circumstances. I had become a source of Diversion to the other students, and feared that there would surely be more such incidents; worse yet, I had become a distraction to my Benefactor, who was advancing so well in his own studies. I discussed the whole matter at great length with Dr Adams, who was, I am sure, grieved at the thought of losing me, whom he often called his ‘second most famous pupil’, and anxious that I need never return to the life of Show-Halls and street performances. At length, it was decided that, in such circumstances that—aut disce aut discede—once the regular Term of the University was concluded, Sam and I should at last go to London. There, Dr Adams would take care that we were not made the subject of Vulgar displays for pecuniary compensation, but rather introduced to the members of Learned Societies, Athenaeums and other such Institutions, where my Learning would be continued, and I could demonstrate my abilities in an atmosphere of refinement and proper scientific Enquiry.

  When the time came at last for us to depart, Dr Adams supplied me with letters of introduction, along with money sufficient to undertake our journey; the rest of the sum promised us he had caused to be deposited several weeks earlier in the hands of a London banker of his acquaintance, from whom we could draw on it as needed. Our wagon was cleaned and refurbished, the horses freshly groomed, and the whole load bedecked with banners and ribbons. Despite their earlier pranks, the young schollers of Pembroke turned out in great number and gave us a Roaring send-off, as though we had been a sort of School team. Dr Adams himself was the last to see us off, and I was surprised to see that he had tears in his eyes and Distraction in his Aspect—and he bore in his hands a copy of Dr Johnson’s Dictionary that the Great Man had personally inscribed to him. Against all my protests, he insisted I receive it as a gift, declaring: ‘It will be of far greater service, and more perdurable value, in your possession than in mine. Take it! And, as you read, think on him who, for a time, accompanied you on the road of learning. Docendo discimus, mi alme sus—Good-bye, my friend!’

  13

  And so at last we finally turned our steps to London, which had—ever since our earliest days with Mr Bisset—been promised as our ultimate Destination. We had a journey of three or four days ahead of us, but as we had no anxie
ties for our upkeep, we kept a leisurely pace and took in such sights as presented themselves, in the manner of Gentleman travellers. Our first day’s journey brought us to Tetsworth, a modest hamlet tucked away in the hills off the main road; we stayed there at a well-known establishment by the name of the Swan, whose proprietor was an old acquaintance of Dr Adams, and gave us very pleasant accommodations.

  The next day brought us to High Wycombe, a more substantial market town whose chief feature was its Guildhall, an impressive structure of brick upheld by a series of open, arched colonnades. Here, we were to be the guests of the Earl of Shelburne, whose estate of Loakes House stood nearby, but His Lordship being detained by government business, we were welcomed instead by a friend of his, a gregarious little man by the name of Maurice Morgann. Mr Morgann had known Dr Johnson quite well, and indeed had stayed with him at Loakes House only a few years previous, at which time they had enjoyed a fierce debate over the merits of Shakespeare’s Falstaff. The learned Doctor held that Falstaff was a fool and a knave, while Mr Morgann insisted that, fool though he sometimes seemed, the old knight’s knavery was to a purpose, and formed a vital part of Prince Hal’s education.

  I was inclined to agree with this more kindly view, and indeed I could hardly have imagined a more well-disposed and jovial Host. We commiserated on the news of the death of Dr Johnson, but agreed with Mr Morgann when he declared that the great man’s passing had been, in fashion with his life, most perfectly timed. He had known of his impending demise long enough to make his adieus and set his affairs in order, and knew that his Legacy was guaranteed; what better peace of mind could a man ask for? Mr Morgann himself was, he confessed, on his own way to Retirement; His Lordship’s ministry being at an end, he had been gracious enough to confer upon him a generous Sinecure, placing him in charge of the Hackney Coach Office. He looked forward to setting his affairs in order, and perhaps taking up his new interest in Natural history. To that end, he asked whether I might mind submitting myself to an Examination that I might be entered in his Book, and to this I gladly consented.

  He measured and weighed me most carefully (I was relieved to discover I was now eighteen stone and six pounds, only a modest loss of weight since my days as a Prize Pig), and interviewed me as to my life and background; here Sam was of great assistance, as I had to confess my earliest life to have been a period of absolute Ignorance.

  We passed a most pleasant Evening, and the next morning enjoyed a large and hearty Breakfast. I was relieved to see that, the Cook having rather thoughtlessly prepared a large Sausage, Mr Morgann refused it, sending it back to the kitchen with the wry request that it be given ‘a decent burial’; in its place he and we enjoyed oaten bread, accompanied by fresh milk and Cheese from His Lordship’s estates. Our next day’s journey brought us still nearer to the outskirts of the Great Metropolis, passing through Uxbridge, whose high street was lined with solid buildings of timber, brick and stone. On the edge of the town, we came upon a large brick building of several storeys in height, which we were informed was a Factory for the making of Chairs; a Blacksmith’s forge, a large Brewery and Malt-house stood immediately adjacent, each pumping out its differing Fumes into the Sky. The whole area seemed to be a veritable Hive of industry, and the people, bee-like, were so engaged with the buzz of their Business that the arrival of a wagon proclaiming a Learned Pig within was hardly worth a glance. In their dark monotony, these men reminded me of the poor folk of Drumcondra in Ireland, save that they seemed a more purposeful, hardened, sharp and Flint-like clan as they clanked along the cobbled streets in their hob-nailed boots; theirs was not a life of lassitude but of Labour, the sort of men whose motto might well be absque labore nihil.

  We stayed that night at an Inn with the curious name of the Crown and Treaty; it was here, I was given to understand, that King Charles I had negotiated with the leaders of the Parliamentary forces. Being conveniently situated to the highway, and equipped with large and well-run Stables, it was a favourite among coachmen; our stay there was pleasant enough, although I was constantly awakened through the night as tired horses were brought In, and fresh horses Out, it being the first and last stop for all travellers to and from London to points West and North. We were quite ready to leave the next morning, and took our Breakfast cold, and found that a heavy mist lay upon the road, which shrouded us from the Views of the approaching Metropolis, had there been any. All we could tell was that, the moment the way grew wider, it grew more crowded, as the throng and jostle of carts, horses, pedlars, costermongers, beggars, street-performers and errand-boys grew ever so much faster than the Street (for so it had now become) could manage to accommodate. It was a market-day, and this, I suppose, made things the worse for us, though the natives were so inured to such Bustle, that they had long ago ceased taking Notice of it, and carried on through the Chaos just as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

  We soon found ourselves in the neighbourhood of Kensington, where the traffic grew (if possible) still denser, and we began to despair of making much further progress. Before long, we came upon a narrow Inn, with the name of the Half-Way House, though what points it stood between we did not know; in any case, Dr Adams had advised us explicitly to avoid it, as it was, in his opinion, a frequent resort of Highwaymen and pick-pockets. Instead, we battled our way eastwards, twisting through the narrow avenues of Piccadilly, where the ever-more-malodorous Mist took on the scents of urine, smoke and rotting vegetables. Finally, we came to Drury Lane, passing by the venerable portico of the Theatre Royal, and arrived at last at the hostelry Dr Adams had recommended, the White Hart Inn.

  The proprietor, one Mr Lockyer, welcomed us most warmly, and brought us to a pair of rooms conveniently situated near to the Stables, such that Sam and I shared a communicating Door; these were the usual quarters of the Stablemaster, but had been vacated in our Favour. This singular kindness, our host informed us, was entirely due to Dr Adams, who had written some weeks in advance with a request with which he was very glad to Comply, the learned man having so often been a Guest of his. There was, we later learnt, more to their connection: Mr Lockyer’s eldest son had been in large part supported by Dr Adams while an undergraduate, a favour his father had never forgotten.

  We found the Inn to be most comfortable, and took our Supper in our rooms, while Sam and I looked over our remaining letters of Introduction, to see what our next step should be. Dr Adams had written, with great flourish, to Joseph Banks, the President of the Royal Society, whose offices were but a short distance away at Montagu House in Great Russell Street. We were a little abashed to call upon such a Luminary, but were assured he would receive us; the other letters were addressed to John Sheldon, a leading Anatomist, Richard Kirwan, the Chemist, and William Aiton, the Superintendent at Kew Botanical Gardens. I declared then and there that I would rather meet with Banks than with any of the others, having no desire as yet to be Autopsied, Analysed, or served up with a Garnish; besides, were Banks to take my case in hand, surely the others would follow, whereas if I had my first audience with lesser men, their fellows might still require Persuasion.

  Having no other pressing Business, we headed out on foot the next morning, which we were relieved to see had dawned clear and crisp, the pestilent Fog having lifted, and autumnal breezes scoured the City of its effects. It was but a walk of perhaps ten minutes to Montagu House, which was home to the British Museum as well as the Royal Society; we ascended the front steps, and my Benefactor handed his Card to the uniformed doorman, mentioning that he had with him an introduction to Mr Banks.

  ‘Very well, sir, you may go in—but your pig must remain outside,’ added that gentleman, as we moved to enter.

  ‘He’s not my pig, sir—he is entirely his own—and it is he, specifically, that Mr Banks will most want to see,’ Sam insisted.

  ‘Is he then a Specimen?’

  ‘Certainly not! I’ll have you know Toby is an Educated pig; he has just completed a year of study at Oxford.’


  This was too much for the doorman, who concluded that our visit must be some sort of Prank; he laid his hands on both of us, and forcibly escorted us down the stairs and out of the gate. I urged Sam to make the attempt alone, assuring him that I would not be in the least inconvenienced to Wait for him outside, but a glance from the doorman seemed to threaten even that attempt, and we backed off and slunk away down the street. Having failed in our first Foray into the lair of the Learned, we decided that we might fare better with Mr Sheldon. As Sam reminded me, Sheldon was prominent among those who had insisted that anatomy be pursued by the study of Human cadavers, whereas in the past surgeons had had to study Pigs in their place, and thus, despite his skill with the Knife, he was in fact a benefactor to my Kind. His Anatomical Museum in Tottenham-court Road was not much more than a mile distant, and we arrived there within the hour. The housekeeper who replied to our knock explained that the Museum was closed, but on Sam’s mentioning our letter of introduction, asked us both in (though not without a bemused glance at my Person) and said she would deliver our message.

  We found ourselves in a room walled with glass cases, within which stood a vast array of anatomical specimens, mostly skeletal and mounted, though there were some hanging from armatures, or floating within jars. Two or three complete human skeletons reclined—if that is the right word for it—in a corner, while in another recess were set row upon row of skulls. There was a distant sound of voices, then the determined series of steps that quickly brought to the doorway the figure of Mr Sheldon. He was of modest height, with a sharp but not unfriendly nose; he wore no wig, and his collar was but loosely tied; over his coat he wore a sort of muslin smock, and his sleeves bore the stains of various powdery substances. He looked at Sam, and then at me, and then at Sam once more, seeming to suppress a smile, but maintaining a serious and piercing gaze with his two grey eyes.