Pyg

by Russell Potter

  Here he cleared his throat, and I thought I saw him suppress a little smile.

  ‘We of the Jury have accordingly discussed this matter among ourselves, and it is our unanimous View that Toby—that is, he of long association with Mr Silas Bisset and Mr Samuel Nicholson—has earned the Laurels in this affair. This court is now concluded, and young Toby’s question has its answer.’

  And there was great rejoicing. I was congratulated by all present, and showered with encomiums too numerous and generous to mention without embarrassment. Yet at that same moment, watching my late Opponent and his man picking up their scattered cards, I felt a terrible sense of Shame, not simply for what I had done, but for ever having Agreed to such a humiliating contest. For not the first time, I reflected that it was quite as Degrading to be poked and prodded by the scrutinising fingers of Science as to be gawped at and jeered by the most unwashed of the human Masses. I wished for nothing more than to share these sentiments with my counterpart, but I could see already in his eyes the twin flickers of fear that revealed at once to me the Brutality of his Master. I endeavoured to Intervene, but before I could attract the attention of any of my Friends, both Pig and Man had disappeared through the same concealed door through which they had entered. I resolved, come what may, that I would find some means of liberating my darker cousin from his unjustified Confinement.

  It was to Miss Seward I turned in this resolve, and although I had to wait until the furore died down, she proved very Receptive to my plea. We had, by that time, retired to Mr Sheldon’s rooms, where the members of the party of the ‘victorious Pig’ were saluting each other with glasses of Tokay. I declined to join in the revelry—I have never in my life imbibed any spirituous liquors, having throughout my career had far too many occasions to witness the behaviour of Humans once in their grasp—but never the less was very much relieved that at last these Proceedings were over. A few of the members of the Jury joined us, although to my regret Dr Cullen had to depart early, as he was very anxious to return to the company of his students at Edinburgh. Mr Aiton proved to be the liveliest of the group, proposing all manner of Toasts, and offering it as his opinion that I was the most remarkable Oddity of Nature ever known. I took some umbrage at this term, which Sam and Mr Sheldon instantly perceived, and the latter offered in rejoinder that the practice of Language was as Odd in one being as another, since no creature was to its usage born, and human children themselves had to Acquire it by practice.

  He recalled an experiment variously attributed to Frederick II or Constantine the Great, in which the learned monarch wished to determine which Language was most original to man. To satisfy his curiosity in this matter, a small boy of scarcely three months age was confined within a chamber deep within the Palace, and provided with a deaf-mute as a wet nurse. The absolute Rule was that no one should speak a word of any language within hearing of the poor lad, although he was fed and cared for decently enough; once he had reached the age of twelve years, he was brought before the King, and made to understand by signs that he should speak. The unfortunate youth then showered the present company with horrid speech, all of a guttural and noisome quality, out of which the wise men present could make out only ‘El el el el el’—on the basis of which they declared that the word was in fact ‘El’—that is , which signifies ‘God’—and that thus Hebrew was the original language of humankind. All present laughed at the absurdity of such a procedure, save myself: I thought only of the child’s long years of confinement, and the unlikelihood of his discovering any happiness in life, having been so long deprived.

  It was after the recounting of this Anecdote, and once the conversation had returned to a more uniform Buzz, that I took Sam aside with me and approached Miss Seward. I explained, as briefly and forcefully as I could, how convinced I was that my late opponent was under the Thumb of a Brute, and must now be in fear for his Life, for having lost the contest in which we had been so publicly Engaged. She at once perceived the gravity of the situation, and summoned Mr Lindsey to our colloquy. That reverend gentleman at once suggested we send for a young acquaintance of his, a Mr Wilberforce, who was already at the age of twenty-five a Member of Parliament, and who had begun to take the strongest interest in the Anti-Slavery cause. Surely such a man would recognise as readily the inhumanity of man to Animal evident in my unhappy Comrade’s situation, and surely a man of his energy and convictions would take action to see him Freed.

  Mr Lindsey made the arrangements, and that very evening we called upon Mr Wilberforce in his chambers. I was, perhaps, even more anxious at this moment than when I had first trod upon the greens at Oxford, for if the lawns of learning were unaccustomed to porcine prints, the steps of Parliament seemed even more so. I recalled with bitterness having been turned away at the British Museum, and called a ‘specimen’—what would be the result here at the hands of these bewigged and booted guards? Happily, Mr Wilberforce spared me any embarrassment by coming down himself, and welcoming us within, in such a graceful and natural manner that the guards simply remained at attention—for if a Member wished to welcome a Pig, who were they to question him? His easy manner and warmth of speech made one instantly at ease, and more than any Human I have ever encountered, Mr Wilberforce treated me just as he would any of his two-legged constituents, without the slightest hint of condescension.

  Once we had been seated, he enquired of me at once about the nature of our visit, and watched attentively as I spelt out my concerns. I had been witness, I declared, to far more than my measure of cruelty, both of human to Human, and human to Animal. Indeed, it was my sorrow to observe that Homo ‘Sapiens’ was by far the cruellest of all creatures, for no other Animal I had ever known took such pleasure in the wanton injury of another. Wolves devoured their prey, and cats pounced upon mice, with infinitely more mercy than malicious Man, whose crime was made worse by the endless Justifications of his Brutality with which he cloaked his conscience. Mr Wilberforce was so taken by my account that, or so it seemed to me, he was almost moved to tears, and several times grew flushed in the face. Last of all, I recounted my contest with the Pig I admitted I had once demeaned as a mere Pretender, and explained how, by long experience of seeing the same, I could read the flicker of fear in his eyes as readily as any Bill of Indictment: here was a victim of cruelty, cruelty inflicted for the purpose of another’s Profit.

  As soon as I had finished, Mr Wilberforce took up his hat and coat, and summoned a carriage. We had earlier obtained from Mr Lingham the address at which my rival and his keeper were supposed to have lodged, and we at once sped thither, regardless of the weather, which had grown cold and blustery as the day went on, and was now breaking into storm. A few moments brought us to the place, a grimy Inn in the vicinity of Limehouse Hole. A few drunken barge-men lay senseless in the street outside, and there was a general sound of clamour within, but as we had brought with us two of the Yeomen of Westminster, we hesitated not at all to step inside. The owner of the Inn, though at first a bull of Bluster, was reduced to a quavering heap of jelly as soon as our guards confronted him with their Pikestaffs, and we mounted the stairs without opposition. We came soon to the room in which dwelt the Man whose cruelty I already knew without seeing—and woe is me, to see what I have seen!

  The room was strewn with filthy straw; its sole features were a rough-hewn table, at which our Man was seated, bibbed and squatting before a greasy trencher, and a rusty Cage, within which my fellow creature was confined, with scarce an inch in any direction where he could move his Limbs. That this cage had never been Cleaned was attested at once by the evidence of our Nostrils; the horrid admixture of man’s food and animal feculence would have brought a lesser soul to his knees. Mr Wilberforce, however, was sustained by the fierce air of his indignation, and at once ordered his officers to take the Man into their custody. This act was not taken kindly.

  ‘I say! Sir! What are you doing? Here I am, a poor man about to take his meal, and you accost me by force? What do you mean by this?’
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  ‘I say to you, Sir, what are you doing? Dare you to take your repast, while this poor Creature lies confined within a space in which he is scarce able to Breathe? I am tempted to say, Sir, that it is you who are the Pig in this room—but I refrain from doing so, for such would be an Insult to a Species which, in fact, is far more Human than you!’

  ‘What right have you to seize me thus? What have these palace Guards to do with a place like this? On whose authority am I grappled?’

  ‘Whose authority? You may take your choice, sir: on the authority of God upon whose Commandments you have trampled; on the authority of this Nation, whose character you have stained; or on my personal authority as a sworn member of this present Parliament of Great Britain and Ireland. I arrest you in all their names, and you may lodge your Appeal with whomever you please!’

  After the Man, whose name, or so we were informed, was Mr John Fawkes, had been led away, we turned our attentions to his unfortunate Pig. Deprived of his crimson waistcoat, and the other trappings of his Act, he presented a very piteous Sight; his hair was uncombed, his backside showed welts from the lashes of a bamboo Cane (which instrument stood near at hand against the wall), and his two hind legs were afflicted with sores where they had rubbed against the bars of his Cage. We at once conveyed him to our carriage, using a board and a bedsheet as a sort of improvised Pallet, and thence to Mr Sheldon’s. That kind and capable gentleman then ministered to my unfortunate cousin with all the care he would have lavished upon any Human patient; he was set up in a spacious enclosure, provided with fresh straw, and nursed back to Health with infinite patience. Within a week, the sores were nearly healed, and he was able to move about without discomfort, and a few days later we thought it proper to bring him his Cards, that he and I might enjoy a porcine Parley, something which—so far as I know—had never been attempted before, or Since.

  He was hesitant at first to take up his Letters, and I could well imagine why: having only fetched them before under the threat of the Lash, it was something new and strange for him to select them on his own, without the nervous glance over his shoulder that had become so habitual to his being. At last, though, he overcame his trepidation, and told me something of his History, which greatly Amazed me. He had been born in Dublin, and it was—or so he was later told—on account of my appearance at Astley’s that his proprietor had been inspired to acquire him. This man’s real name was not Fawkes but Schmidt; he had been given the nickname ‘Fawkes’ as a youth, on account of his fierce temper and tendency to Explode, which it was no surprise to learn. On the departure of Mr Bisset and myself, he went to the Dublin market and made for a stall of suckling Pigs, from which he selected the one he thought the most apt to Training—which was, of course, my unlucky Comrade.

  Mr Schmidt then brought him to his residence, which was in the poorer quarter of the City, and kept him in a tiny and squalid Yard, a sort of accidental gap between the tenements, which deeply shadowed it on every side and was used by the inhabitants to toss refuse and the contents of their chamberpots. From this unhappy abode he was brought, three times a day, to a small room Mr Schmidt had rented for the purpose, where he was given his training. At first, he had only to jump upon a box and through a Hoop; after that he was given his first few letters, and asked to choose the one demanded; any mistake resulted in an instantaneous blow with the bamboo. He quickly learnt them all, but his Education then reached an Impasse, as Mr Schmidt was unable himself to Spell or write anything more than his Name. A second, kinder, man was brought in; but despite their long acquaintance, he never learnt this man’s name, calling him simply ‘the Gentleman’. This man trained him in spelling, reproving his mistakes with only a glance, and rewarding his better efforts with a piece of a turnip or a handful of sweet oats. As his ordinary fare was the worst sort of swill, he laboured greatly to please this Gentleman, and within the next few months, was as capable a Speller as any schoolboy.

  Once these lessons were complete, alas, my friend never saw the man again. Mr Schmidt enquired at Astley’s, and was told they had no further place for such an Act—but from them he learnt the names of the acrobats with whom I had shared the bill, and tracked them down to Manchester, where they were then appearing. Sceptical at first, they eventually added him to their programme on two nights of the week, and the interest of the Audience—stirred up, I do not doubt, by my own appearances in the same part of the Country—grew substantially. There was nothing so self-evidently Profitable as to name this pig ‘Toby’ as well, for in that way the Public was readily led to believe him the very same animal, and indeed every particle of his Act was modelled upon mine. In a few cases, such as the mind-reading trick, the system evaded the (rather limited) capacity of Mr Schmidt’s understanding, and so it was simply left off the bills. By sundry turns, as the acrobatic troupe wound its way towards London for the autumn season, this act became their star attraction, but this proved to be of little benefit to my alter Ego. For, just as his master gained in wealth and reputation, so he increased in Cruelty, even though there was no longer any Call for it, other than to satisfy his degraded sense of Enjoyment, in the wilful infliction of Pain upon another.

  The last few weeks had been the worst of his life, he told me: he had had to learn Latin, as his master knew it was sure to be part of our Contest. For this purpose, Mr Schmidt had brought in another man, no gentleman in his conduct but apparently a Graduate of one of the Universities, and he was just as cruel and sharp as his master, if not more so. To be beaten for improperly conjugating the verbs that signified Love, and Help, and Hope—spero, speras, sperat, speramus!—was a terrible thing indeed. When the contest was lost, he was certain he was to be beaten viciously, or even sold to a slaughterhouse, as his master often threatened when he was in his Cups, but our arrival on the very evening of his defeat had saved him from either fate, for which he was eternally Grateful.

  And then this other Toby made a singular request—one that surprised me at the time, but which I now regard as a sure sign of his native Wisdom. He asked to have his Cards burnt, and never to have to spell again. He knew that, were this done, he would never again be able to communicate with me or with any one, and while he regretted the loss, he considered that his life, looked at in full, would be a far richer and happier one if he never again felt the taste of pasteboard in his mouth, or had to squint against the stage-lights amidst a jeering crowd as he trotted back and forth. I endeavoured to persuade him to postpone so Rash and irrevocable a plan, to wait a while, and then to take a place alongside me, as my companion and my Cohort, and enjoy the kindest treatment, never having to take the Stage again, if that were his wish. But he refused all my entreaties, both with kindness and with firmness, and so we at last consented to his Desire. The very next day, we burnt his cards in the side-yard of Mr Sheldon’s museum, retaining only one—P—as a sort of souvenir. Mr Wilberforce, who as ever maintained the keenest interest in the future of his porcine Ward, had provided him a permanent place at his farm at Marden Park in Surrey, where he would be for ever free from any demands, and kept in safety and comfort until the end of his days, whenever that might be. Scarcely a week later, he was conveyed there by a hired coach; along with the rest of his London friends, I saw him off that chilly morning. We lined up along the edge of the Tottenham-court Road, the men with their hats in their hands, and I received his final Token: the crimson waistcoat he had worn upon the stage. In the end, neither our letters nor all our Words would have been of any comfort or use: we simply bade each other good-bye with our Eyes.

  15

  The abrupt retirement of my esteemed Comrade to his country residence left a deep and persistent feeling of melancholy in its wake. The mood was further darkened by the news, which came only a few days later, of the death of Dr Adams, who had been such an excellent friend and patron of the Arts; in his absence, I knew, it would be impossible for me to return to my studies at Oxford. I found myself at a strange Impasse, with disenchantment at every Door: I had little wi
sh to return to the Stage, for the words of my erstwhile rival had only strengthened my Conviction that such a Life was unsuited to any Animal with a sense of pride or dignity; but with the path to Learning now foreclosed, I knew not where next to turn. Sam and I were quite content with each other’s Company, and Mr Sheldon was most anxious that we remain, and placed his private Library at our disposal as an enticement. This, for a time, was contentment enough, as I was able at last to read according to my Pleasure, and spent many a profitable afternoon perusing the works of the Poets, among whom Shakespeare became a special favourite. Never the less, despite these rich and convenient pleasures, I was restless; having come of age upon the Road, I was ill at ease with a Sedentary life, however well provided. There remained so much I had not seen, and I longed to travel to distant Lands, and take in the wonders of the habitable World.

  But, as so often it chanced to happen in my singular career, I was soon obliged to set aside these plans, and acquiesce to the demands of the Fashionable world. Having taken a subscription to the London Chronicle, I of course regularly browsed the columns in which Amusements were advertised, and was quite taken aback one day to discover that, once again, I had a Rival upon the Stage—indeed, as it turned out, not just one but Two. The rage for educated Pigs—and horses, dogs, and even Fish—seemed unquenchable, and into the Void my absence from the public Eye had left, stept many an upstart, and many a brutish Imitator. The first of these at first caused me great distress, as it seemed to me that here was another poor, exploited creature—the notice spoke of the Pig’s instant compliance with its Master’s commands—and so of course I at once sent word to Mr Wilberforce, and together we went to Mr Hughes’s Royal Circus, the rival of Mr Astley’s establishment, with a demand to see his new Act, and satisfy ourselves that the Animal concerned was being treated humanely.