Pyg Read online

  Published in Great Britain in 2011 by Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE

  This digital edition first published by Canongate in 2011

  Copyright © Russell Potter, 2011

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  www.canongate.tv

  The illustration of the learned pig is from William Darton,

  A Present for a Little Boy, 1798, reproduced 1804.

  Reprinted by permission of the Toronto Public Library.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on

  request from the British Library

  ISBN 978 0 85786 240 2

  eISBN: 978 0 85786 248 8

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  For Karen Carr

  il miglior fabbro

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  As the editor of this new edition of TOBY’S autobiography, I should like to make a few brief remarks to those readers who may, by chance, take up this volume knowing nothing of the circumstances of its origin or first publication. You hold in your hands one of the most remarkable volumes ever to be published – indeed, the sole known Memoir of any creature of other than the Human race. Such a statement may at first seem to stretch the reader’s credulity, but I hasten to assure you that this narrative requires no suspension of our ordinary notions of reality – only a realisation of how vast, indeed, that reality may be. The accomplishments of TOBY, in regard to his acquisition of Language, and his use of this ability in pursuit of writing a Narrative of his own, are too well documented to admit of any doubt. Many of the luminaries of the Eighteenth Century, the eminent Dr Johnson himself among them, attest to its veracity. As for the historical particulars, however, I shall leave these to the brief appendix that I have inserted after the main narrative, where those who are additionally curious may satisfy that most vital of all human impulses.

  The text of the present volume is based on that of the first edition of 1809, which preserves what is by far the most authoritative text. Only three complete copies are known, one at the Bodleian (which was the copyright deposit), one in the library of the University of Edinburgh, and one in the National Library of Ireland in Dublin. Having compared and collated all of them, I can with assurance state that they are all from the identical impression, and contain no substantive variants besides the inevitable differences in the binding and trimming of the pages. The second printing of 1810, and all subsequent versions, are deficient not only in the main text, but in the great variety of spurious additions and emendations, more with each printing, which insert all manner of asides and comic interludes, so utterly different in tone and style from the original that I am quite certain they are the work of other hands (the more so as they continued to be added to subsequent editions well into the 1840s, by which time the original Author had long since expired). This is, therefore, the very first modern printing to contain the true and accurate account of TOBY’S career, without any ornaments other than those that he gave it himself.

  I have not altered the substance of the text in any way, and I have only modernised the punctuation as much as seemed absolutely necessary to retain the sense; the distinctive use of Capitalisation (quite common in its day) has been retained. It is to be hoped that this modest volume may earn for TOBY a new generation of readers, hitherto unacquainted with his adventures, who will find in them as curious and absorbing a mirror of Nature as did those who first perused these pages more than two centuries ago.

  Russell Potter, Ph.D., MA, BA

  October 2010

  To the Reader

  ENDORSEMENT

  I, William Cullen, MD, Fellow of the Royal Society, member of the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh, do hereby give my Attestation to the Truth of what follows. I have examined the Author of this Narrative on several occasions, entirely free from any Impediment or Collusion, and can Attest that, Unquestionably, the Narrator of this Tale is,

  Anatomically and in every Other Sense, A

  P I G

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  1

  When in Rome, do as the Romans. This adage, instilled within human children at a tender age, ensures the extension of a measure of courtesy and understanding to those whose ways are alien to one’s own, and to that degree it is surely a Wise saying. But—and here I speak from painful experience—most who thus employ it scarce understand it. To demand that Humans regard other humans as being like themselves requires little Effort; such sympathy within the species is no more than any other Race of beings expects without a thought. For it is only among humans that other humans seem less than human; among Pigs (or any other Animal, I am sure), such conceits are utterly unknown. Indeed, I believe that throughout the Animal Kingdom, even and especially when one creature attacks and kills another, there is greater Courtesy extended, in each knowing the other to be a living, breathing thing much like itself, than the ordinary Human extends even to his Friends.

  I myself was born in or about the year 1781 (as near as I have been able to ascertain), on a farm near Salford, a place not far from the great city of Manchester; so close to it, in fact, that I have since been told it has nearly become a Suburb of that Town. In my own day, its Character was entirely Rural, with a criss-cross of hedgerows and pastures such as would be found in the most remote corner of the country. The whole Region was once known as the Hundred of Salford, which was practically a County in its own Right, and might well have become ‘Salfordshire’ had things worked out differently. My own birthplace was adjacent to the ancient manor of Boothes Hall, just to the North of what is now known as Boothstown, which still preserves something of its original character. My farm lay at the end of Lower New Row, though in my day it had no such name but was called, after its only destination, Lloyd Farm Lane. Mr Francis Lloyd was the owner of this farm and, after the fashion of the local Romans, my owner as well.

  Mr Francis Lloyd was a Moderate man in every way: he was Moderately successful as a farmer, Moderate in his politics, Moderate in his treatment of his children, and Moderate in his drinking (which was limited to a Dram before dinner, excepting Sundays). He was not, alas, so Moderate in the treatment of his animals, but that would have been no surprise to his fellow Romans—animals was animals, and one would no more think of extending mercy or kindness to them than one would to a shrub, a stone, or a bit of Tallow. It was not that such creatures had no feelings—surely they did—but only that their feelings were simply not of account. The Squeal of a Piglet was doubtless the expression of some feeling or another, but most of all it was a Noise, a thing to be filtered out of one’s hearing, much as the creak of a floorboard or the sound of wind in the trees. Mr Francis Lloyd raised Pigs to make money, same as he raised Barley or Cows—save that, in the case of the Cows, it was their Milk that was wanted rather than their Blood.

  With some animals—horses, mostly—it has been the habit of Men to name, and keep some account of, a creature’s Dam and Sire, if only to make a sort of Mathematics of success; a good Dam might be joined with a famous Sire to make another Champion to win the garland at the next St Leger Stakes. But when it comes to Pigs, men have long felt that there was little sense in naming them, as their only moment of Note was most commonly their being served for Supper, and found more flavourful or delicate than their predecessor—every one of them nameless save by such Ephemeral sobriq
uets as Loin or Roast. In such a realm of infinite and infinitely replaceable Parts, a row of Dinners one after another, the idea of naming any one such meal appeared as absurd as naming a toenail-clipping, or a Fart. On occasion, when some children from the neighbouring village came to call and wanted to see the pigs, the old Gaffer might call out cheerily to ‘Grunter’ or ‘Stripe’, but as soon as the moment had passed, the name was as forgotten as the dirt at the bottom of a bucket of pig swill. For who did not grunt, or had no stripe? We ourselves might as well have called men ‘Two-legs’ or ‘Hair-head’.

  In my own case, it is difficult to say exactly when I acquired my name. For, at the time ‘Toby’ was first bestowed upon me, it was as much a Noise to me as my grunts were to my masters; I had no idea of Language, or any association between such sounds and my own Being. That Gift was later Bestowed upon me by a bright young lad of the name of Samuel Nicholson, Mr Lloyd’s nephew, who was at the time living at his uncle’s Farm. Sam was fond of pigs, and even without the aid of Language, this was instantly discernible to every Inhabitant of the Sty. Our Elders, who had lived long enough to see the previous generation sent to Slaughter, were of course more cautious than myself and the other younger Pigs, who swarmed about the edge of the Sty in competition for a proffered carrot. And, for reasons that to this day I cannot precisely Determine, Sam took a liking to me, and I to Him. Soon, he would Spy me out as soon as he neared the rail, and begin each Visit with some special treat—a slab of Cabbage, some Greens, or a slice of Turnip—intended only for me, after which he would toss a few kitchen scraps to the rest.

  In part no doubt due to this favourable Treatment, I quickly grew to be the largest and ruddiest of my Farrow (a word then used to Signify the Pigs born alongside one). Sam was delighted with this, as indeed was Mr Francis Lloyd himself, though for Opposite reasons. For his part, Sam fancied that I would, after the fashion of a household Pet, soon come to his Call and form the sort of Intimacy that is common (for example) between Boys and Dogs; whereas Mr Francis Lloyd fancied that I might win the Ribbon at the Salford Horse and Livestock Fair, and earn him a considerable Bonus per pound besides, when the time came after to sell me. As for Sam, he was, as I should express it now, of that very Age which cannot quite Peep over the Sill of adulthood but believes it to be little more than an Extension of childish existence—only on Tip-toes. Thus he had no conception whatsoever of these his Uncle’s plans. And as for the Uncle—why, if there was a thing he thought Less of than his nephew’s connections with one of his Pigs, I cannot imagine it.

  2

  There is scant Consolation, when regarding one’s life with what Humans, who have a proclivity for accidental doublings of meaning, call ‘Hind-sight’, in saying that what happened was Necessary, and what was Necessary indeed Happened, And yet so it was with me: had it not been for the Fortuitous circumstance of Sam’s youthful sentiment, there can be little doubt that, instead of this my Book before you on your Table, you would have a rasher of Bacon and a Rack of Ribs—and that these would be my only mortal remains. And even granted that, it was a far from Easy thing that I would be able to make my Escape with only a Boy of thirteen years as my Guide, for there were many matters still Hanging in the Balance without any of which, each occurring precisely as it did, I would with equal sureness have met the Fate intended by my owner. Among your kind, such things are quite commonly credited to Divine Providence, but as I recall, the good Lord dealt only once with Pigs—which was when he sent into them a Horde of Demons, causing them to leap off a Cliff to their Deaths—so I will, I hope, be forgiven if I do not give Thanks to that particular Source.

  Now, as I say, my Benefactor—that is, young Samuel Nicholson—had no idea in his head of my being bid upon, or sent to be Slaughtered by the highest bidder. On the contrary, much as any other lad his Age, he regarded the Fair as chiefly an occasion for Amusement, for seeing Mr Punch strike Mistress Judy with his long stick, for taking in a Penny Gaff or a Raree show, for wandering the Gypsy stalls amidst great heaps of China plates, and—lastly—for a fine repast of ginger beer and Cake. Of course he had always known there were animals: of the three days of the Fair, one was set aside for Horses, one for Cows, and one for Pigs. Yet his wanderings never brought him to the Pens in which the animals were kept, nor to the auction-yards where they were bought and sold, and least of all to the far edge of the pitch where stood the great wagons, ready to bear their unlucky Passengers on their final Journey to some distant Abattoir.

  In my own case, I was favoured by my owner with a stout and capacious Cart, with rails, that I might make my procession into Town in a manner likely to draw the admiration of other breeders and buyers. Sam took it into his head to decorate this cart, hanging streamers and bits of coloured Foil about its sides, along with a banner upon which he had written, in his own boyish hand, ‘TOBY the Celebrated PIG’. Just what it was for which I was Celebrated he did not specify, but doubtless those who saw it made it out in this Sense: that I was celebrated for being Young and Large, and therefore sweet and succulent. Indeed, as the cart wound its way through the narrow, muddy streets of the market, Sam led the way with a Bell upon a stick, declaring, ‘Make way! Make way! Make way for Toby, the Wonderful Pig!’ He did not realise it, of course, but all this fuss was certain to have but one Effect—to raise the interest of the crowd, and to hasten my Sale to an Eager buyer. I myself did not quite discern the Danger since, as with all Pigs, our first trip to Market was generally our Last, but there were rumours enough among my Brothers and Sisters—and occasionally from the few older and wiser Pigs in the yard—that offered various Explanations, none of them Pleasant, for why none who Went had ever been known to Return.

  From my Cart, I was unceremoniously turned out into a Pen, with the other contenders for the Prize. A Committee of three Judges, chosen from among those Farmers and Victuallers whose experience in the selling and buying of Pigs was longest, made their way round this pen, Examining each one of us—there were Ten in all—with a quite distressing sort of Professional eye. I was peered at, prodded, poked and pondered over; my Mouth was rudely forced open and my Teeth examined, and the same things were done to each of Us, to the great Interest of all present, which they signified with much muttering and grumbling. You would think that it was only by Degrees of dissatisfaction we were to be distinguished, to hear ourselves discussed in such Undertones, but apparently at this High level of appraisal, it was the Lack of Faults that was wanted, and this could not be measured without Counting each of them. I regard it as a great Blessing that I was not at that time acquainted with Human speech, or else I should have begun with a very Poor opinion of myself, which might have prevented the Progress I was later able to make.

  At length, when the judges were apparently satisfied that they had noted down every blemish upon our Characters and Physiognomy, they retired into a little booth to write down their judgment. When they returned, the most senior among them had a length of Blue ribbon in his hand, which he turned and presented—to my great consternation—to Mr Francis Lloyd! Sam, of course, was on his feet in an instant, cheering and proclaiming me the Champion of the Fair, but all I could wonder was Why, after it was I who had undergone such Irksome and provoking examinations, the Ribbon was to be given to my ‘Owner’ and not to me! It is a source of some comfort, despite its Manner of being awarded, that this Prize has since been returned to my Possession, and indeed lies before me now as I undertake to write this, my Life.

  After a brief interval, the other Pigs were discharged to their Owners, and I was returned to my Cart, upon which Sam had affixed the prize Ribbon, for a further procession through the Fair, during which, like a new-Crowned Monarch, I received the Applause of my Subjects. All the while this was happening, however, Mr Francis Lloyd was busy talking with potential Buyers, and by the time I had completed my peregrinations, he had apparently settled upon a Price. I was then turned out into a small crate, that could scarcely accommodate me, then hoisted on a Balance with which I was
duly Weighed, and found to amount to twenty stone, four pounds, a very good Sum, I have since been told, for a Pig under a year old. At the time, I had no notion of this, but was greatly Alarmed that I might be separated from my Benefactor, and looked about most anxiously for him. Sam, alas, had been detained by a group of his Friends, who proposed that my Championship be celebrated with a quaff of Ale they had procured for the occasion from a nearby Tavern, and as he had no idea of the Danger I was in, he happily accepted their Invitation. My attempt to look about was met with a harsh reproach from my new Owner, who promptly struck me with a Bamboo cane, causing me to squirm about so greatly that I Broke out from the weighing-box and, for a glorious moment, had my Freedom.

  It was to be short-lived, as this man—whose name I later learnt was Wilson—was prepared for such Contingencies, and soon had me caught in a sort of Noose at the end of a Pole he kept handy for such Occasions. With this foul Instrument about my Neck, I was led up a narrow ramp into the enormous Cart, which he employed to bring home his new Purchases. I found myself in a dark enclosure, filled with bits of the most filthy Straw, amidst which were not a few of my Brother and Sister animals, in various states of shock and Dismay.

  Now, it is a well-known Fact that Humans, being Sons of Narcissus, quite readily—and kindly, they imagine—extend the Mirror of their Sensibility to other Creatures, assigning them the same sort of feeling and Expression as Themselves. Thus, were they to describe such a Scene, they would make it out that the fellow-feeling among such a group would lead to instant Friendship, and mutual Pledges of assistance. But, of course, this was never So; we Pigs are Alien to such things, having no Idea, nor occasion to Construct, that which Men call a Self. In its place, we have only this poor conceit: that we live, we eat, we shudder and we Die to suit men’s tables. Have we voice? None. Have we some sense of what is to Come? Indeed we do, but little it profits us. Most vitally, we have no more Acquaintance with such a Human thing as Language to either Possess or Express such feelings as the more feeling among Men attribute to us. So, in respect of these my Companions, as well as of Myself, I can say only that we possessed a common and a Mute terror that could not be Communicated if we would, save in squeals and grunts that would do no Justice, either to ourselves or to any People who chanced to hear it—and thus we remained Silent.