Pyg

by Russell Potter

  Mr Hughes, a sharp-faced man with the practised step and voice of a veteran showman, welcomed us into his office. As soon as he had heard our case, he burst out laughing uproariously, so much so that he could scarce contain himself, despite Mr Wilberforce’s evident and growing anger. At last he held up his hands, resumed his serious demeanour, and bade us follow him into a room behind the stage of the Circus, where the sundry stools, ladders, steps and other props of the show were kept. He led us around to a large pedestal of polished wood, upon which was a figure draped with a linen sheet. Bowing, just as he would to open a new act, he at once drew back the cloth, to our utter and absolute amazement.

  ‘Gentlemen, behold! Here is the learned Pig you seek! And yet, I am afraid, you may find him a little unresponsive, as he’s badly in want of winding!’

  There upon the plinth we saw a Pig indeed—a Pig of brass and silvered sheen, with hoofs of ebon and a nose of polished Copper, his eyes a pair of carbuncles and a tail of twisted Iron. Up along one of the rear legs of the figure, we could see a number of wires and cogs, through which we surmised the actions of the figure were controlled. We had to laugh ourselves, then, to see how we had been deceived—we had come to help a fellow creature, and had encountered only a clever Facsimile, a mere mechanical manqué whose ‘well-being’ would better be attended to with an oil-can and a polishing-cloth than with Oats or Straw. Mr Hughes then briefly explained the act, in which the pig would seem to eat, and then excrete, its food, would stamp its forelegs for simple sums of Arithmetic, and then answer questions from the audience, shaking its head up and down for ‘Yes’ and from side to side for ‘No’. It seemed to me a rather limited set of possibilities, but Mr Hughes assured us that, in the hands of the pig’s inventor and proprietor—the eminent mechanic-showman Signor Spinetti—it provided ample material for a fifteen-minute pantomime, which formed the Entr’acte between the bareback riders and the rope-dancers.

  My second encounter with a swinish Simulacrum came scarcely a fortnight later, in the form of a handbill pasted upon the hoardings adjacent to the King’s Concert Rooms, not far from Mr Sheldon’s museum. ‘THE WONDERFUL PIG OF KNOWLEDGE,’ declared the bill, ‘UNDER THE DIRECTION OF SIEUR GARMAN, lately arrived from PARIS, where he appeared with enormous Success for more than twenty weeks with his “COCHON SAVANT” at the Amphitheatre Anglois.’ The main feature of the bill was a large woodcut depicting a pig picking out a letter from a heap under the direction of a man in a riding outfit holding a Stick, above which dangled a ribbon on which was inscribed ‘LE MIEUX COCHON SAVANT DU SIEUR GARMAN’, which, though I had but little acquaintance with French, was clear enough—a boast at My expense!

  Here I must in frankness admit that it was not Charity but Envy I felt upon seeing this boastful claim, and the more so as the pig’s particulars—counting the number of Persons in attendance, telling the time, even reading the minds of Ladies—were all abstracted from my own Act. That a Frenchman should make such claims also pricked my pride, for although I would hardly have said that I had any especially warm feelings for my Native land, I never the less felt that such claims impinged upon the originality and capability of Britain as much as on my own. And so at first I hurried to speak with Sam, desiring that he assist me in finding some way to Spy out this new Rival, but as before there seemed no way for me to attend such a show without drawing Notice. I had little appetite for another Contest, doubted indeed that the Public would—and yet, try as I might, I could not rid myself of the feeling that I must somehow answer this Injustice, and reclaim my pre-eminence in the Pantheon of Pigs, such as it was. There seemed nothing for it but a return to the Stage, although both Sam and I were most Reluctant to revive our past productions.

  At just that moment, happily, we received a Letter from Dr Cullen, in which that excellent gentleman invited us to pay him a visit in Edinburgh, as he was anxious to acquaint us with Friends of his there, and perhaps offer some demonstration of my Skill to the sceptical among his Colleagues. Sam and I at once considered that, were we to accept this invitation, we could work our way Northwards by degrees, proclaiming this our Farewell tour, and concluding in Edinburgh. Under the consideration that this would be my final set of Appearances, I was delighted to consent; we could now Answer the Challenge, and offer the World a last opportunity to see the Original Sapient Pig. Of course, there could be little doubt that there would be Rivals and Successors yet to come, but once we were embarked upon the road, they could little trouble us there. ‘He who is tired of London, is tired of Life,’ Dr Johnson used to say—but it seemed to me then that the sooner I could quit that City, the sooner I would be rid (at least) of the more proximate and Numerous of my competitors, and able to find a way through the world that would truly be my Own.

  As a favour to Mr Lingham, we agreed to open our Tour in the Academy Room at the Lyceum, and there, over the three weeks that followed, we enjoyed an unbroken run of full houses. Whether it was because the Public accepted my claim that I was, after all, the only true Original Pig of my kind, or because we had repapered every wall and Hoarding in London with our Handbills, or because of the quality of our Act, I could not say, but it was immensely gratifying no matter what its Cause. For this tour, we made a quite deliberate decision to leave behind all our other Animal players; Mr Lockyer had attended to them throughout our stay in the City and had so grown in affection for them that he was loath to part with their company, and so those among our Cats, our Monkeys, Dogs, Birds and the Hare that yet lived were suffered to remain with him. We planned only to take our Horses, and rebuilt our Wagon along the lines of a Gypsy’s Caravan, with a capacious interior room divided into accommodations for Sam and myself. Our itinerary was designed to include as many of our previous Venues as possible, including a stop at Oxford to visit my old College, and a visit to the place of my Birth in Salford (where still, for all that we knew, Sam’s uncle yet kept his farm), and Chester, going from thence up the coast to Glasgow, and concluding in Edinburgh.

  Our Act comprised all of the best features of all we had done before, including reading and writing, a session of Latin verbs, and the ever-popular ‘reading’ of the minds of ladies in attendance—this time with the written assurance on our bills that ‘Toby never divulges the thoughts of any Lady in the company but by her permission.’ Two innovations were made: the First a game of Whist, which was easy for me, as I had played it quite regularly with Sam and others over the years; the Second a tableau, which we dubbed ‘Animal Magnetism’ after the notions of Franz Mesmer, whose ideas were much discussed at the court of Louis XVI and elsewhere—Monsieur Garman had such an act, and we thought we could readily do him one Better. Our version consisted of a pantomime of porcine Distress, in which I seemed to Eat something that caused me great pain, at which Sam would play the Doctor and attend to me by passing a series of magnets over my prostrate form; this effected a Miraculous cure, and ended with doctor and Patient cavorting about the Stage to the accompaniment of a Fiddle.

  The notices were full of the highest praise, but our real satisfaction came when we had word that Monsieur Garman had announced, with the showman’s usual flair of turning poor returns into good news, that ‘the incessant demands of the Irish public’ had obliged him to end his show early and embark for Dublin. This news came on the afternoon of our final London show, and I will not exaggerate if I tell you that it lent considerable extra Verve to that evening’s performance, turning Pacing to Prancing, Bows into Genuflections, and mere Spelling into the most elegant Orthography. We did three curtain calls and an Encore, and retired to a reception at Mr Lindsey’s rooms, which lay only a short walk away. All our London friends were there; Miss Seward had been so kind as to return for a final Visit, as had Mr Kirwan and Mr Aiton; among the many others who honoured us with their presence were Mr Wilberforce, Sir Joseph Banks, the painter Mr Benjamin West and his wife, and another neighbour, John Flaxman, a sculptor of some repute. Mr Flaxman introduced to me a young Engraver by the name of Mr Blake,
and pressed upon me a volume of the young man’s poetry, which had lately been imprinted by Mr Flaxman’s Aunt. This little book I gladly accepted, and in later years I have often reflected on its being the first in the career of a truly astonishing Poet.

  At last, we had to say our final ‘adoos’ and retire to make the most of what remained of the night, for we were pledged to commence upon our Tour the next morning. We stayed, of course, at Mr Sheldon’s, and I should like to note here that gentleman’s enormous and unfailing Kindness to us in every regard, which was essential to our London success, as well as our future fortunes. It was with a genuine feeling of Distress that we parted the next morning, which I would not do until I extracted from him a promise to visit us in Edinburgh at his earliest possible convenience. Our horses and wagon having been brought round the night before, and every thing placed in readiness, we set out at last upon the road to Oxford by way of Uxbridge. And, although the buildings, the streets and the dreary tide of humanity were much the same, I could not help but reflect on how much had changed since my arrival in London only a few short months before. I had tasted Fame—of a rare sort—but had also seen ignominy, and found that men of Science, ultimately, have the same tastes and desires as other men; their natures were, it seemed to me, as divided as my Own.

  For what was I? A freak of nature? But if I were, might not Sir Isaac Newton, or Galileo, or Shakespeare be similarly regarded as freaks? One model of existence—the more popular, I should say—imagines the young as empty vessels, ready to be filled with the Stuff of Learning, and entirely creatures of such training; your average human scholler was in this case no more, and no less, a product of his schooling than I. But if, instead, there lay within some, but not all, souls a certain indefinable Spark of genius, which required only sufficient Tinder to set the world ablaze, then all such men were Freaks, and there was no more point in trying to produce such fellows through mere Learning than there was in lecturing to Stones to make them capable. It seemed that Nature, alas, far from being the handmaiden of Genius, was in fact far better adapted to cultivate enormous herds of Mediocrity, whether of human or Porcine race, than she was to nurture Singularities.

  It was with these thoughts in my Mind that I watched the great Metropolis of London dwindle into its Suburbs, and fade into its country Environs; the sight seemed to me no more, and no less, than the diminishment into distance of an enormous Sty.

  16

  Of our exhibitions in the course of our northward Progress, I will say little, for there is—in truth—very little worth saying. It was, of course, gratifying to find that my Reputation had not been in any way Diminished, either by the passage of Time or by Rival Pigs, for our shows were well attended in every Town, and in all sorts of Weather. In Oxford, I was gratified to meet with some of my former fellows at Pembroke, as was Sam; we were, however, disheartened to discover that Dr Adams had been buried in Gloucester, which we could not reach given our existing commitments for our Tour. We contented ourselves by making a small donation in his name to the College, as well as to a fund that was being taken up to place a Memorial in Gloucester Cathedral. From there we retraced the steps of our former passage, revisiting our old venues at Banbury, Coventry, Stafford and Crewe. We at last drew near to the valley of the river Irwell, in the vicinity of Salford, not far from the place of my Birth. On our previous Tours, I had always taken care to avoid the area, being none too sure as to my Reception there. But now, on this my final tour of Britain, it seemed only just to call upon the place of my Origin, if only to reflect on the enormous distance I had travelled, both physically and spiritually, since my being there.

  We took the precaution of having with us in our company a Mr John Tipping, one of the Constables of the city of Manchester. He was a jovial fellow, who recalled having seen our show some years previous in Liverpool, and was only too happy to Protect us, should we encounter any threats of violence against Pig or Person. And yet, though he accompanied us as a Friend, I could not help but think on that other Constable, who gave Mr Bisset such a thrashing that I fear he never truly recovered; indeed I believe it was a principal cause of his Death. As we came down the old lane that led to Lloyd Farm, I felt a strange sensation indeed, as though the entire Narrative of my Life were running crazily Backward, like a Moving Panorama gone off its Spools. Here, indifferent save by a few fence-posts that were perhaps more Askew than before, or a Hedgerow that had grown in size and wildness, was the very road I had first taken when Mr Lloyd brought me to Market—ah, how that word now Resonated within me. For, having once gone off to be Marketed, I wondered whether such Vending had ever really Ceased, or simply changed its venue and its Rates. What do I hear for the Learned Pig?

  But when we came to the Farm itself, I could see at a glance, as could we all, that we had come too Late. The Gate was in a sad state, its leather latch long gone, and the whitewash rained away from stone and lath. The gravel path that once led to the front door was almost entirely obscured by Weeds, and the House itself—such as we could make it out—was practically overtaken by Vegetation, as though the Earth would swallow it entire. There could be no doubt that no active Hand had overseen the farm for some time, and that Mr Lloyd—were he still extant—must long ago have left the premises. We poked about, idly, and I spied the rotted ruin of the Shed that had once adjoined my Sty, but of the place itself we could only guess its outlines by the undulations of the soil, and the rankness of the vegetation that grew taller and darker where once our Swill had been poured out to us, and where my Mother—of whom I could scarce recall more than a shadow’s shadow—had dwelt. Tempus fugit, non autem memoria!

  We did not linger at the spot, but pressed onwards with our Tour, for the Season was growing late, and our road yet stretched out long before us. Our next stop was Lancaster, which we reached by way of the villages of Walkden, Chorley and Scorton, passing through many a stretch of open country, and many a desolate mere. As we came into the outskirts of the town, we could see upon the horizon the looming form of Lancaster Castle, an imposing edifice that from time immemorial had housed one of the principal of His Majesty’s Prisons, and a notorious one as well; here it was that the Preston Witches had been hanged nearly two centuries past, and the gallows still stood from which they had dangled. We dared not approach the castle that evening, preferring to lodge at the White Cross Inn, which stood at the city’s edge near the ancient foundation of the Knights Hospitallers, which gave the district its Name.

  Our performance here was to be at a new Theatre, which had been established in St Leonard’s Street, in the northeastern corner of the city. The proprietor, a Mr Charles Whitlock, anxious to gain for the place the reputation of a legitimate House, had been hesitant to make any Engagement with us; it was only (so we were told) after Mr Dibdin wrote on our behalf that he at last agreed to our appearance. He attended our rehearsal in a state of some Anxiety, which, despite all our skill and our professional demeanour, we seemed unable to Relieve; the poor man simply could not reconcile himself to the idea of a Pig upon his stage.

  We had the happiness to prove him wrong, for we drew a full, indeed an overflowing, house, with a standing Ovation at the conclusion of our Act, and he afterwards came directly to us to offer his Apologies, and introduce us to his sister-in-law, the distinguished actress Mrs Siddons. I at first felt considerable trepidation in meeting that Luminous woman, whose piercing gaze seemed to penetrate one’s very Soul—but as soon as we met, she laughed, and Curtsied, and told me she had a very good Report of me from her good friend Miss Seward, which gracious lady had written to her on my Account! It turned out to be her urging, and not Mr Dibdin’s, that had secured us a place there, a kindness for which I at once expressed my undying gratitude. And, indeed, I later received from my dear Patroness a poem in her praise, which has been very well received, and which begins,

  SIDDONS, when first commenc’d thy ardent course,

  The powers that guard the Drama’s aweful shrine,

  Beauty, and
grandeur, tenderness, and force,

  Silence that speaks, and eloquence divine!

  All of which, I can personally avouch, is true.

  The next morning we breakfasted at our Inn, then made our way through the narrow streets of that ancient City, pausing at the foot of the deeply shadowed edifice of the Castle, at a place yet known as ‘Hanging Corner’. Here, hard against a stone wall and a fortified Turret, stood an enormous Scaffold of dark wood, untenanted for the present, but ever ready to receive new Visitors. And, though it may indeed be said that its ‘frame outlasts a thousand tenants’, it is yet still true that the gallows does well by doing ill. No Animal but Man could, I aver, have ever conceived of such a structure, whose entire motive force is directed to the mechanical Extinguishment of a Life. Every other creature of the Earth knows, and all too well, that time on Earth is measured, and that many a Rascal may outlive a goodly creature, but Man alone presumes to take Fortune’s very Wheel in his hands, and break it over the head of his Fellows.