Pyg

by Russell Potter

  I thanked him much for that, although I was taken aback by the strange vision it painted of a world of Porcine attainments—for myself, as for my Fellows, I was sure that we wanted only to be left to our own Devices, and would count ourselves fortunate to live out our lives untroubled by human Affairs—but his intention was so clearly generous that I said nothing of it.

  Following the conclusion of my final performance, and after taking innumerable Bows, I processed with my friends to the northern side of the Grassmarket, where the crowd divided and dispersed into the several public Houses located there: some to the White Hart, some to the Black Bull, and some—Sam and myself included—to the Bee Hive Inn, which had become our favoured place of resort. As I have already mentioned, I never partake of spirituous liquors or Ales, but the manager of this place was so very Kind and accommodating that he himself often took the trouble to bring me a pail of cold porridge in-between my performances. He and Sam had become fast friends, and we would often, in company with Dr Cullen and others of our Edinburgh acquaintance, gather there at the end of the day. That evening, we were the Toast of the Town, and it was late indeed before the last of the revellers who desired to Drink to my Health departed, and Sam and I could at last have a moment to ourselves.

  In the calm retreat of our corner table, with no sound other than that of the proprietor washing out the stoups, the world seemed almost too quiet, and I wondered whether I would miss the sound of Applause, and the noise of a crowd astounded at my feet. It gave me a curious feeling to Reflect on my long career upon the Stage, whence I had been thrust at such a Tender age, that I could scarcely imagine a life without it. To most who have lived their entire lives in the Public Eye, such a thought may well seem Impossible, for they have come to feel fully alive only in the glow of those delightful Beams of adulation, the loss of which would bring on a fearful Darkness. And yet I was unlike them: an Actor may play many parts, however briefly he struts upon the Stage; a Musician can learn to play other sorts of Songs; a Conjuror is always learning and perfecting new Tricks, as an Acrobat new stunts and routines—whereas my one real Act was my mere Existence, and my demonstration extended only so far as to prove that I possessed those capacities common in Man, but so rare among Pigs. Thus I reasoned that, for me, the retirement from my theatrical role was—in a manner profound and strange—never really possible: whether Reading at my leisure, attending a Lecture, or simply patching a torn spot on my Waistcoat, whether seen by a crowd or by a single Observer, I was, so long as I lived, condemned to a sort of Perpetual display. Truly, for me, all the world was a stage, and there could be no exit from the latter, until I departed the Former.

  This given, I reflected, I would, by pursuing my studies, at least improve my private capacity for enjoyment, whereas to make any alteration in my outward life would be far more difficult. Indeed, there was only one manner in which I could shuffle off my status as a Freak of Nature, and it was the one thing I dreaded most: to shed my singularity and return to the common multitude of pigs, sans education, sans waistcoat and—ultimately—sans self. So, from that time forward, I resolved to devote myself to study, and to learning as much as was possible, given the more modest span of life allotted my Race.

  And so my learning began in Earnest. Through the kindness of Dr Cullen, I removed to a small room in a building directly adjoining the Surgeons’ Hall. From there, without assistance, I could navigate the corridors that would bring me to Lecture-hall and Library, and—by means of a small Lift or ‘dumb-waiter’—descend to the ground floor, and thence make my way to any of the neighbouring buildings. Of the fact that I could manage all this on my own, I was justly proud but, never the less, Dr Cullen insisted that Jamie be lodged in an adjoining room, and ready to assist me whenever I required it—and to this I consented, for he was as kind-hearted and reliable a lad as any I had known; he reminded me very much of Sam when he was younger, save that when he Spoke his words came out in softly bristled Scots brogue.

  Being under the immediate tutelage of Dr Cullen, I began with a course in Chemistry, of which he was past professor; the current holder of that Chair, Mr Joseph Black, was a good friend of his and proved a ready teacher. I attended his Lectures twice weekly, as well as attending his Tutorials, in company with several other Undergraduates, in his chambers, which were just down the hallway from my Own. At the same time, I undertook a course in Natural History under Professor Walker, another close colleague of my mentor’s. This difficult and extensive Subject was carried forth over both terms, moving from Meteorology, Hydrology and Geology in the first, to Minerals, Plants and, finally, Animals in the second half of the year. I was thus obliged to save my favourite subject for Last, but I was not disappointed: Professor Walker was, by that time, sufficiently impressed with my Abilities that he proposed revising the entire Taxonomy of Linnaeus, removing Pigs entirely from the family Bestiae and placing them alongside Man in a new grouping, Animalæ rationis, which I felt showed a remarkable insight and ability to adapt to new Knowledge.

  In the year following, I studied Literature and Belles Lettres with Professor William Greenfield, successor to the brilliant Hugh Blair, by whose work the reputation of this fairly novel field of Enquiry had been very much advanced. Alongside this, I pursued the subject of Moral Philosophy with Dugald Stewart. Stewart was a far harder man to please: his entire course concerned the ‘moral powers of man’, and he was quite bitterly disinclined to so much as acknowledge my presence in the lecture-hall. From his tutorials I was utterly excluded, and it was only through the offices of a kindly fellow-student that I was able to obtain notes of these meetings, which enabled me to pass his course. He held throughout to his view that ‘animals, considered individually, discover but a small degree of sagacity’, although he was latterly persuaded to add that they ‘make some small acquisitions by experience, as sufficiently appears, in certain tribes, from the sagacity of old, when contrasted with the ignorance of the young; and from the effects which may be produced on at least some of them, by discipline and education’. I like to think that it was on My account that he added this last sentence, but our relations, alas, were never as cordial as those with my other Professors.

  At last, these courses of my education Done, I was ready to sit for my examinations, and apply for matriculation as a Bachelor of Arts. In preparation, I did much as my human fellows did, burning the ‘midnight oil’ in great quantities, and taking part with several of my fellow-students in the mock-examinations and Interrogations with which we did our best to anticipate our final Test. Finally, the day came, and I was very nearly in a Panic, when I found that the Hall where the examinations were to be held could only be entered by a very steep flight of Steps, which it surpassed the ability of my short legs to Ascend. I could not help thinking of poor Dr Johnson in his last Infirmity, unable to enter the Bodleian—and then, just as I was on the Precipice of Despair, there was Jamie to help me Up. I took my place in the very back row just as the great Bell rang, which announced that the doors must be closed. As had been previously arranged, I had a special Examiner to give me my questions, who then transcribed my answers, which I spelt out as fast as ever I could. It took me until the very instant of the closing bell, by which time I was quite overcome with Nervous exhaustion, and barely able to waddle out of the Hall.

  I slept for nearly fourteen Hours that night, with (or so I was later told) both Sam and Jamie ministering at my side, concerned for my safety in such a State—but Dr Cullen reassured them that such a Rest was entirely natural, given my circumstances. When I awoke, I was at first quite groggy as to my surroundings, and it seemed to me that the faces of my Friends only gradually emerged out of a veritable Porridge of blurred and fragmented Forms. After taking a small Breakfast, I felt at once Revived, as if I had been recalled, Lazarus-like, from the Realms of the Dead, and took a stroll out upon the Balcony, which overlooked the great City of Edinburgh with all its wide Environs. Whatever might come next, I resolved then and there that I would Remai
n here, in the midst of this vast and variegated City from which I had received my greatest Welcome.

  The very next day, I was visited at an unusually early Hour by no less than Dr Cullen himself. In his hand he held a beribboned Scroll, which I knew must contain the results of my Examination, for which I trembled in my very Soul. It was not for Myself that I feared—I would get on well enough, with or without any great Credentials—but for my Friends, who had laboured so dearly on my Behalf, and granted me such an array of Advantages, that I would be very deeply ashamed to Disappoint them. I quickly took up my letters, and spelt out my fearful query:

  H-A-V-E I P-A-S-S-E-D.

  ‘Have you passed?’ echoed Dr Cullen. ‘My dear Toby, you must know that we could not hold you in any higher Regard, whatever the result of your examination. But here I must tell you that the Result of your efforts has been something so Unusual that I scarcely know how to communicate it.’

  U-N-U-S-U-A-L, I spelt, with excruciating slowness.

  ‘Toby, according to the Examiners for Degrees in the Faculty of Arts, you have earned not only a passing mark, and not only the designation primi ordinis, but the highest score of your entire class, entitling you to the degree of Bachelor of Arts cum laude.’

  They tell me that, upon receipt of this News, I suddenly Fainted, but I can only relate that when I Awoke, some uncertain time later, I was by any measure the happiest Pig on Earth.

  18

  It has been some years now since the experiences recorded in the precedent pages, and although in that time my travels have been entirely of the Interior variety, I am confident that they have been just as extensive—if not more so—than any I undertook in my early days as a peripatetic Pig, for whom the Road was more home than any settled place. Musco lapis volutus haud obvolvitur, as Publilius Syrus says—moss covers not the moving stone!—but a great deal can be gained without the least Motion, though moss may have its day. In the years that have followed my journeys, I have had both time and Cause for reflection, both upon my own life and the far stranger Lives of the creatures I have found myself among—those known as ‘Homo sapiens’—that is, reasoning Man—or, as Dean Swift far more wisely preferred, ‘Homo rationis capax’—man capable of Reason, but who all too often eschews his capacity and revels in his own Filth far more deeply than he supposes Pigs do.

  Having completed my degree at the University of Edinburgh, I thought myself as capable, if not more so, than any Man in comprehending the ways of this wide and Troublesome world, in which so great a portion of Things to come is left to Chance. I read, of course, the daily papers, but took most pleasure in continuing my Literary and Philosophical studies, within which I discovered many of the curious mechanisms of Man, which are devoted (if I may say so) far more to making his actions seem reasonable, than to actually making them so. I travelled widely in the works of Hobbes, and sojourned with Swift in his Gulliverian mode; with Pope I devoured his Essay on Man, and accompanied Smollett on the road in company with Peregrine Pickle and Humphry Clinker.

  But the most Curious and unexpected Book I ever encountered never came from the Pens of these famous Wits. I had at the time a standing Order with Creech’s, to bring for my review any Works of note new imprinted in England, Scotland or Wales, which might bear upon my Interests. Atop this pile one day I was stunned to discover a new Book, which shamelessly proclaimed itself My autobiography! Boldly entitled The Life and Adventures of Toby the SAPIENT PIG, with his Opinions on Men and Manners, this spurious compendium made sport of its Subject, subjecting me to the most Ridiculous impositions imaginable: that my Mother had gained her ‘knowledge’ by eating a portion of her master’s Library; that I had in my ‘previous lives’ been incarnated as a dog, a scorpion, and even a Fly; that even my name was a corruption of ‘to be or not to be’—and more. The author of this treatise, indeed, could not resist a Pun, declaring my favourite play to be Hamlet, my favourite authors ‘Hogg’ and ‘Bacon’, and so forth. Most incredibly of all, this portmanteau Porker had the audacity to declaim against the distortions of the Press: ‘They twisted me badly, some of the editors; from what they wrote, I firmly believe they had never been there.’

  It was the receipt of this pamphlet—for it was really no more than that—which persuaded me at last that I must write my own Memoirs, if only to set forth clearly and without scurrilous embellishment the actual transit of my Career. Indeed, as I foresaw that my time upon earth was drawing near its Close, I feared, as did that noble Dane, ‘what a wounded name, things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me!’ And so I set forth to un-wound, and unwind my Life, a project to which I was uniquely suited. Sam and I had retained copies of all of our Bills, along with the notices from the Papers, which we kept in several large scrap-books; these were the only aid to Memory that I sought, or needed, besides a copy of that one invaluable reference, Laurie and Whittle’s New and Improved English Atlas, Divided into Counties, which I do not hesitate to recommend to anyone who is recalling, or planning, a long Journey.

  My principal assistant throughout was Jamie, who had some time since grown into a strapping young Man, but who maintained himself with me throughout my declining years. I should mention that Sam, just as he had at Oxford, was also able to attend the University, becoming at first a Bachelor and later a Master of Arts, and eventually opening a small country School, for the education of less fortunate Children than himself. I often visited him there, and on occasion, at the demand of the Children, would put on a small performance, the only ones I ever did after my official ‘retirement’ from the stage. Having Jamie enabled me to carry on my work, and Sam to live his own Life, a change that, though distressing in some respects, was both Necessary and Beneficial to us Both.

  For the purpose of composing such a lengthy text, cards were far too cumbersome; instead, I invented a Device, in form much like a large pasteboard clock-face, whose ‘hands’ I could direct at the letters and numbers ranged round its circumference. By grouping the most common letters, such as E, T, A and O, together near the point of Noon, and far less frequently employed ones—X, J, Q and Z—towards six o’clock, I obtained remarkable speed and efficiency, and could quite frequently manage several pages a day. These Jamie transcribed into a large bound ledger, whence he later made a Fair Copy, for delivery to my Publishers. Thus equipped, my Literary progress was completed in just under a Year, and brought out by Creech that same November, whence it has received the kind of warm, widespread Interest and Acclaim that I could scarcely have Hoped for it. As for the Specious narrative penned by that ‘other’ Toby, it has proven to be a mere passing Novelty, quite washed away with the Tide of the true and Correct story of my Life, and I can only hope that in years to come, it will entirely be Forgotten.

  The hope that one’s inner spirit may be Captured in language, like a fly in Amber, perpetually present even after its Owner has taken leave of his material body, is a very old one. Plato, as I recall—or perhaps it was Socrates: my memory has grown rather cloudy—discerns a Difference between our ‘mortal’ children, that, is, our Offspring, and our ‘immortal’ ones, which are our Ideas. Of course, not everyone’s ideas can last for ever, and one may recall that even Plato once inveighed against the art of Writing, which he feared would diminish our Capacity for Memory. Yet it is only because his declamation was written down that we have any idea of it; the world of those Ancient Greeks is long gone, with Ruins immemorial in its place. So therefore it is my hope that, once my own Carcass has, as is very likely, returned into the Sod whence it sprang, leaving only a small scattering of Bones, these my words, and this my Story, which you now hold in your hands, will live on.

  F I N I S

  CHARACTERS AND PLACES OF NOTE IN THE PRECEDING

  NARRATIVE

  Given in order as to the page of their first appearance, and with historical notes by the present editor, along with glosses of the Latin words and phrases.

  (2) Mr Francis Lloyd. It would be immensely gratifying to know the exact
place of TOBY’S birth. However, although the inscription ‘Boothes Hall’ appears on some old maps, there does not seem to be any certain record of Mr Francis Lloyd. The name itself was quite common: a Francis Lloyd was a member of the House of Commons in 1692; another was Rector of Trottesclive (now Trottisclife, Kent) in 1759; yet another was said to be a manufacturer in London c. 1830—he had a son, Julius, who became Rector of St Philip, Salford, in 1891—which is as close as the name can be placed to our hero, albeit it comes a century too late.

  (4) Samuel Nicholson. Information about Mr Nicholson is, alas, very scattered, and we are obliged to rely on fragmentary accounts. In his book Learned Pigs and Fireproof Women (1986), Ricky Jay offers the most extensive account: he states that in 1784 Mr Nicholson appeared in London with a troupe of Animals nearly identical with those of the late Mr Bisset (p. 11); he also recounts TOBY’S appearance at the Academy Room in the Lyceum in 1786, as well as his ‘Scottish Tour’. Jan Bondeson, in her book The Feejee Mermaid and other Essays in Natural and Unnatural History (1999), says only that ‘Mr Bisset’s pig was taken over by a certain Mr Nicholson, about whose previous career little is known’; she also describes the first leg of his northern tour (though she later confuses him with his rival at Sadler’s Wells), and notes that he ‘surfaced’ in Edinburgh in late 1787, where he was seen by Robert Burns.

  None of this is entirely satisfactory: we have neither a definite time nor place of birth, nor any notion of his career before or after his association with TOBY. We are left with only glimpses, as in this account from the Glasgow Mercury:

  Among the infinite number of curiosities hitherto offered to the inspection and attention of the public, there are none which lay so great a claim to our attention and approbation as the wonderful and astonishing performances of the ‘learned pig’ now exhibiting in Mr Frazer’s Dancing Hall, King Street, from eleven o’clock, forenoon, to three in the afternoon, and from five to nine at night, where it may be seen this and every day in the ensuing week, at the expiration of which the proprietor is under engagement to set off for Edinburgh.