PYG

A Pig Abroad

2012-02-23T01:49:00.001-08:00

As Toby makes his way around the world, I've enjoyed the curious spectator sport of seeing how each new edition re-imagines him. The first version of Toby, illustrated by Greg Dearth for the original Canongate edition, will probably always be my favorite; from the moment I saw this cover, I recognized Toby, just as I had imagined him, and better. The way he sat, his waistcoat, and his wistful look all seemed absolutely perfect. A sly surprise awaited on the back cover, with Toby looking over his shoulder at the reader, as though the book actually contained him in three dimensions.

This version of Toby has since emigrated to Sweden, where his book is known as Den Lärda Grisens Memoarer; for this edition the cartouche surrounding him was made smaller, and "PYG" spelt in cards replaced with "TOBY" -- and sensibly enough, as I doubt "PYG" would signify anything to Swedish readers. And he has appeared again, and quite spectacularly, on the cover for the Canadian hardcover edition, with a golden sunburst pattern and the book's title raised up a notch with a large serif font followed by a tastefully expanded sans serif subtitle.

But the most dramatic re-imagining of Toby came from Grady McFerrin, who was commissioned to do a new cover for the Penguin edition, due out on July 31st. There was a conscious desire on their part to signify that, though whimsical, this was an adult book, and as I understand it this pig went through several drafts before I laid eyes on it. And again, although the style and conception were quite different, I recognized my old friend, grown somewhat more portly, and with a considerably more sly look on his face. His waistcoat had a new cut and pattern, and he stood before what looked like a suitably eighteenth-century country home, framed by delicate tracery that also evoked the period perfectly. And "PYG" was now spelled out in hand-drawn decorative letters with a whimsy of their own, which to my mind formed the perfect finishing touch.

Toby is due to arrive soon in several other countries -- Italy and Turkey among them -- and he may yet have further journeys to make, and further ways to surprise me. In any form, in any language, I feel sure I will always recognize him.

An automaton pig

2012-02-04T07:07:00.000-08:00

One of the most curious of all of the rival "sapient pigs" encountered by Toby was not in fact a pig at all, but an automaton replica that mimicked the moves of its more learned model: it could nod and bow, pick out a letter by pointing, and move about, apparently on command. The existence of such a pig is attested to by that authoritative volume, Thomas Frost's The Lives of the Conjurors, where its exhibitor, one "Signor Spinetti," is said to have appeared in at the Royal Circus in a pantomime play, "The Talisman of Orismanes," accompanied by two automata: one was a tight-rope walking monkey and the other "imitated the singular performances of the Learned Pig." The affair is further complicated by the fact that this "Spinetti" had but lately replaced another conjuror, the illustrious Signor Pinetti, who was also known for his tight-rope walking automata, and had performed many times before his Majesty King George III. Pinetti's career is well-known, and the curious may read this account by Henry Ridgely Evans; as to Spinetti, we know almost nothing. It is also to be regretted that this latter-day Signor left, apparently, no trace of his automaton pig, and an exhaustive search has so far failed to produce any illustration of its mechanism.

Which is not to say that this is the end of our story -- far from it, for there appear to have been nearly as many mechanical rivals to the famous Toby as there were actual porcine ones. The fabulous collection showcased by the House of Automata includes one especially lovely late-nineteenth century pig automaton (pictured above in a disassembled state), which squeaks and walks about in a most life-like way, as can be seen in this video. It's credited to the firm of Roulet and Decamps, which according to this article in the French Wikipedia were famed for their life-like automata figures of animals, and only ceased operations in 1995!

And doubtless there will be other such pigs. There exists, for instance, a rather haunting image of a contemporary robotic pig, which it is implied may be seen at a Whole Foods location in Houston, Texas, but leaves one wondering as to its form and purpose. The author of this blog would appreciate it if anyone in Texas can clear this matter up, or tell him more about the design and capabilities of this rather disturbing-looking apparatus.

(With thanks to Michael Start at the House of Automata for permission to use the image above)

Music to My Ears

2012-01-28T08:00:00.000-08:00

I have read that other novelists compose their words as music plays in their ears, at least some of the time. Many seem apologetic about the practice, as though drawing inspiration from another artistic source somehow sullies the creative force of the their own work. In answer to this, I would recount a legend associated with the famous Judge, Ooka Tadasuke:

Once upon a time there was a poor man who could afford only a diet of rice. Fortunately for him, his lodgings were on the second floor above a local restaurant, and he got into the habit of eating his rice at the window, so that the wonderful smells of the food being cooked below would enrich the flavor of his humble meal. When the restaurant owner heard of this, he was enraged, and took the poor man to court, suing him for the value of this "stolen smell." The wise judge listened to his complaint, and turned to the accused: "Do you have five copper pieces?" he asked. The poor man, for whom this sum was all he had in the world, reluctantly acknowledged that he did. "Produce the money!" commanded the judge. The unfortunate fellow complied, sure he would lose his entire savings. "Now pour the coins from one hand to the other!" He did so, trembling as the coins clinked into a small heap in his hand. Judge Oooka turned to the restaurant owner: "You have now been paid. Case dismissed." "But your honor," pleaded the man, "I have received nothing!" "Not true!" intoned the judge. "For the smell of food, you have received the sound of money!"

I've always listened to music as I write. For one, having headphones on is a great way to filter out the random noises of the world at large -- especially if you live in an urban neighborhood as I do. There's nothing for killing concentration like the sound of a couple arguing in the street outside your window. But it can't just be any music. Each novel has its own landscape, emotional and sonic, and the wrong music would kill the words as surely as a scream in the street. And, since writing a novel is the occupation of many months, or even years, one has to find and keep finding music that works; despite the fact that repetition is a key part of my own soundtrack, it is possible to hear something one too many times.

So what did I listen to while writing Pyg? What I wanted was music that set the scene of the English countryside, and evoked the mood of the eighteenth century. "Wordy" tunes don't work for me, but songs that are in, or draw from, the ballad tradition work well, as long as they are interspersed with instrumentals. The number one artist on my porcine playlist, without a doubt, was Kate Rusby. The way she handles traditional ballad material -- from "Sweet William's Ghost" to "The White Cockade" to "Under the Stars" -- and especially, "The Lark" -- these songs were the sweet soil in which, it seemed, every seed of an idea found what it needed to grow. "The Lark" is especially lovely as it is what I call a "circular" song, one which revolves on the harmonic wheel in such a way that the only resolution of its final chord is the renewal of its first.

But there were many other traditional tunes in the mix as well: "The Lass of Peatie's Mill," "The Rocky Road to Dublin," "Sidh Beag, Sidh Mór," "Plaxty Irwin," and many others of the tunes of the blind harper Turough O'Carolan, most of them in Derek Bell's memorable and definitive versions. And, for some reason, "The Death of Queen Jane" (in both the Bothy Band's and Trian's versions) -- even though its recollection of a Tudor tragedy was far apart in space and time from my novel, proved ideal for scenes of especially delicate feeling.

And not all of the material was "folk" music, by any means. Certain Handel Arias -- especially "Ombra mai Fou" -- proved to be just perfect for a concluding scene; I had always loved the version by Lorraine Hunt Lieberson, but in the latter part of my writing, I came upon that of Andreas Scholl, and it soon swept me away. There's definitely a period feel in this song, the more so since Handel in his lifetime found a warmer welcome in the British Isles than at home (his "Messiah" premiered in Dublin) I had a definite feeling of place as well as time embedded in those lovely notes. And yet, though intended for a totally different scene and time, Marvin Hamlisch's soundtrack to the film version of Sophie's Choice, particularly the track "Stingo and Sophie Together," was at times on very heavy rotation.

I'm just in the process of beginning again -- and in finding the tone, the pitch, and the cadence -- of both my prose and the music that will be its constant accompaniment.

Friends of Toby: Robert Burns

2012-01-25T05:48:00.001-08:00

Among all the noted figures of his day encountered by Toby, none left a more vivid impression than the poet Robert Burns. We know both from Toby's memoirs and from Burns's own letters that the two met during Toby's final fortnight of performances at the Grassmarket in Edinburgh, which Burns attended. I'll let Toby describe the scene himself:

A few days into our run, I received a singular Visitor, a man whose star was just then most Ascendant in the sky: Robert Burns, the Ayrshire ploughman-turned-poet. He arrived in fine fettle, in the company of Mr Creech, a local bookseller who had just then undertaken to publish a new edition of his Poems, along with a large gaggle of miscellaneous Followers, whose exact connection with the Poet was hard to Ascertain. They made, never the less, for a most colourful audience, and Sam at once arranged for them to be seated together, and issued tickets gratis, which would have offended those yet waiting to attend had it been any other person but Burns. The great poet himself, remarkably, seemed unaffected by this adulation: he retained a sturdy rustic dignity which seemed to regard all Praise as superfluous; his countenance possessed at all times a constant, even Temperament, and it was only in his eyes that there glimmered—or so I thought—an intensity of Feeling that belied his modest appearance and calm comportment. Truly, I have never beheld a pair of eyes such as those, before or since, and when—at the conclusion of my performance— we were introduced, I felt myself quite under their spell. We exchanged only bows and polite glances, but I am sure I was not alone in sensing a strange feeling of kinship between us, these two simple Country creatures whose capacity for Language was similarly made out to be some remarkable Spectacle, eliciting adulation that would somehow be lessened had we both been born not sons of Toil but to a gentler class.

Toby apparently left an impression on Burns as well; in an anecdote related by several of Burns's biographers, he was at that time invited to a soirée by an unnamed noblewoman; feeling that the invitation was merely made because he was considered, like Toby, a "curiosity," he made the following reply: "Mr Burns will do himself the honour of waiting upon her on the ninth inst., provided Her Ladyship will also invite the Learned Pig." This could be taken, perhaps, as reflecting poorly on our porcine protagonist, but Toby declared himself pleased by the reference:

This has, since then, been interpreted as far from complimentary, by a great many ignorant and idle commentators who have supposed that for Burns to compare himself to Me was a reflection of a perceived insult, rather than—as I am sure it was meant—a most generous avowal of our abiding sense of kinship. Poor Burns: though the span of life granted Man is (generally) many times that allotted to Pigs, he had scarce another nine years of life, while I have lived to mourn his death, and regret the brevity, though not the brilliance, of his poetic Career.

Alas, it was true: Burns died on 21 July 1796, at the age of thirty-seven, while Toby lived, as far as I his editor have been able to ascertain, at least to 1809 or thereabouts. Today, on the 253rd anniversary of Burns's birth, let us remember them both with gratitude for the remarkable works they left behind.

A Pig's Library

2012-01-20T06:26:00.001-08:00

No Learned Pig -- and no Editor of such a Pig's memoirs -- could get far without having some books within reach. Toby himself mentions owning and a copy of Johnson's Rasselas, along with Samuel Croxall's edition of the Fables of Æsop, the ever-popular Ruddiman's Rudiments of the Latin Tongue, and Laurie and Whittle's New and Improved Atlas, Divided into Counties, the last of which he singles out as a worthy work of reference. He also tells us that he had a "standing order" from Creech's, the well-known Edinburgh bookseller, such that he could have a look at all their new titles, and purchase those that interested him. He mentions Swift, Smollett, and Pope as among his favourites, and he must have accumulated an impressive personal library; it is an immense shame that it no longer -- apparently -- survives.

As Toby's editor, I too had at hand a library of vital books, although the most useful references were those available online, through whose contents I could search for just the information needed. The most invaluable of these, by far, was British History Online; with its project of scanning all the various county histories, it's possible to take a certain town on Toby's route -- such as High Wycombe -- and instantly discover its features as of the mid-1780's, complete with a little woodcut of the Guildhall he singled out for mention. For biographical details of many of the people Toby encountered, the online Oxford Dictionary of National Biography was inavluable; a subscription is required, and I'm fortunate that my college library has one. And, although it is sometimes criticized for issues of accuracy, I found the English Wikipedia to be generally quite reliable. Yet no online resource can provide the real feeling and texture of history; for that, I was fortunate to have at hand such texts as Richard Altick's magisterial The Shows of London, David Coke's delightful book Vauxhall Gardens (where, though Toby did not himself appear, so much of the variety of life and amusements characteristic of his time could be found), and Roy Porter's English Society in the Eighteenth Century. And of course, along with Toby, I too sojourned with a variety of characters from the tales of his time, from Humphry Clinker to Tom Jones. For it is from and within books that Toby's world truly comes to life; for him, his manner of relating adventures were modeled upon the stories he had read and enjoyed, and penned -- I am sure -- out of a desire to see his life represented on equal and common terms with them.

Ten favourite historical fictions

2012-01-16T07:43:00.000-08:00

Jorge Luis Borges famously remarked that every author "invents his precursors," and that's even more true, I think, when it comes to historical fiction. And so, although when writing Pyg I was in a literal sense alone, in a literary sense it was a crowded room. Of course, a book's readers arrive at a text from their own circuitous gardens of forking paths, and my own thread of influence will inevitably be different from theirs; I can speak as an author, but am no authority. Never the less, here are some of the faces that stood out -- for me -- from this crowd:

1. Daniel Defoe, Journal of the Plague Year. Defoe practically invented the genre of historical fiction, and with it the idea that there was something a weaver of fictions could do with a pile of old documents, drawing from them in detail to make the past uncannily, frighteningly present.

2. Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose. This may well be the richest of all historical fictions, not just for its perfectly constituted monastic world, but for the ingenious ways Eco plays out his Holmesian conceits (“William of Baskerville”) without ever missing a medieval beat.

3. Ursula K. Le Guin, Always Coming Home. It takes a singular variety of genius to write a historical novel set in the future, and provide it with all the artifacts and documents we’d expect if we were excavating it from the past – not only texts, but maps, artwork, poetry, and music (the original edition came with a cassette of this music, which now can be had online or on CD).

4. Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Humor is hardly out of the question in historical fiction – in fact, it may be all the more vital, lest the dust of seriousness settle and seal book and reader alike in a sort of tomb – happily, with Twain, there’s little danger of that.

5. Thomas Berger, Little Big Man. One crucial element in any novel of this kind is a voice you can believe in. Berger’s Jack Crabb speaks fluent, nineteenth-century Old West vernacular, with the kind of craggy authenticity you’d follow just about anywhere.

6. Brian Selznick, The Invention of Hugo Cabret. A graphic historical novel for kids? This must be among the first, and it folds together many different elements of marvel: the cinema of George Méliès, the writing automatons of Henri Maillardet, and one persistent, intelligent boy. It's also the basis of the current film Hugo, which adapts it both playfully and faithfully.

7. Dominique Fortier, On The Proper Use of Stars. In my other (academic) life, I’m a scholar of the history of Arctic exploration, and so I’m always delighted when a bright new fictional voice such as Fortier’s takes up the famously doomed expedition of Sir John Franklin. Fortier brings to this novel a blend of lyricism and historical grit unlike anything else being written today.

8. Steven Millhauser, Martin Dressler. One of my favorite books by my favorite author; Millhauser’s Dressler slyly inserts itself into the history of the rise of hotels from mere cubbyholes of humanity to true social destinations. And, as is so often the case in his novels, by the end it’s delightfully impossible to discern just where history has left off, and fancy triumphed.

9. Glen David Gold, Carter Beats the Devil. Gold not only takes his readers back to the classic age of American stage magicians, but subtly and slowly raises the stakes to the point where the trick is to make the President of the United States disappear – and to do so in the seeming “plain sight” of a knowing narrator.

10. J.M. Coetzee, Foe. Is there such a thing as postmodern historical fiction? If there is, then Foe may be its best example; Coetzee introduces a young woman into the realms of Crusoe, Friday, and the author known simply here as “Daniel Foe” – and does so in a way that is so intimately entangled with the original tale that it seems to have reached back and altered it forever.

Pig's Latin

2012-01-06T06:51:00.000-08:00

One of Toby's most notable achievements, singled out for praise by Dr Johnson, was his understanding of the Latin language. By his own account, he was instructed personally by Dr Adams, Master of Pembroke College at Oxford, using what was, at the time, the standard school text, Ruddiman's Rudiments of the Latin Tongue. The happy alliteration of the phrase, with both man and title dactylic in meter, made for a memorable combination -- so much so that, as late as 1857, a hundred years after the death of Mr. Ruddiman, a book of that title was still being printed. It seems that, rather like the name "Webster's" for American dictionaries, the fame of his name was so persistent that it became a by-word and eponym for any good student Latin grammar.

Toby also mentions that Dr Adams presented him with a little book of "Sententiæ Antiquæ." This text is harder to identify; while many there were numerous collections of old Latin saws, none bears this exact title. Popular compilations of the kind were made by Charles Hoole (1610-1667), William Noy (1577-1634), and Giles Jacob (1686-1744), though since these were compendious volumes intended primarily for students of the law, they hardly meet the description "little book." This volume may indeed have been a small, privately printed or even handwritten text, a sort of a primer or sourcebook for the beginning student.

Never the less, though the volume may be hard to identify, the Latin phrases from it are all familiar, and seem to have almost immediately found use in Toby's life; he frequently resorted to quoting from them in his Memoirs. Toby was also, at the same time, studying from Cicero's orations again Cataline, and phrases from these were a special favorite. When Toby is kidnapped by a group of rowdy undergraduates, he exclaims "O tempora! o mores!" (O the times, the customs!), and when he grows exhausted by his contest with a rival Pig of Knowledge, asks "Quo usque tandem" ("How much longer," a famous phrase from the First Oration).

Sometimes, Toby rather alters the sense of these sayings; the phrase "Absque Labore, Nihil" -- usually taken to mean that you must work to get anything, is used by Toby to comment on the men he sees working at harsh and tedious employments; to him, it meant that, aside from their labors, these men had, literally, nothing. In some cases, the version of the sayings he quotes are unusual; in the place of Publilius Syrus's usual "Saxum volutum non obducitur mosco" he gives "Musco lapis volutus haud obvolvitur," a version of "Moss grows not on a rolling stone" otherwise attested only in a little-known Spanish volume. Whatever their source, by his use of such phrases, Toby acts and "speaks" much as would any other educated person of his day, and by choosing the apt maxim for the apt moment, demonstrates his learning, with just a very small -- and appropriate -- blush of pride.

A Plethora of Learned Pigs

2012-01-03T12:31:00.000-08:00

"Toby," the original Learned Pig and the subject of my novel, Pyg, had in his day to contend with a number of porcine rivals, among them another English pig of the same name, a French cochon savant, and even an automaton pig, a thing of cogs and springs that could never complain about a harsh master or foolish questions. The tradition of such pigs extended well through the nineteenth century, as a search of historical newspapers readily demonstrates; we've already mentioned Mr Pinchbeck in these pages, but there were a host of others. Mr. James L. Hazard, whose handbill is shown here, appeared in several towns in New England around 1839; little else is known of him. In 1843, a Learned Pig was exhibited in Toronto; this one specialized in card tricks, which he performed, by one account, "with a precision and quickness that would do honor to an Egyptian magician." He also was able to spell "even the abstruse and obsolete words," a sign that his learning was not merely a matter of rote. In Cleveland, Ohio, the city of my birth, an advertisement for a Learned Pig to be shown at Doan's Corners (now the intersection of Euclid Ave. and East 107th street) appeared in 1848. The advertisement contained so many errors of spelling and grammar that it elicited widespread scorn, with a writer for the Sandusky Register giving it as his opinion that "if the pig is not more 'learned' than his master, he is no great shakes."

The great majority of these pigs took the name of their illustrious forebear, but there were some exceptions of note; a pig shown in Richmond, Virginia in 1870 was known as "Wicked Ben"; an especially sagacious pig in New Orleans in 1849 was called "Lord Byron," and a pig shown in Kalamazoo in 1884 was dubbed "Jumbo," a name perhaps consciously designed to echo that of P.T. Barnum's famous elephant, who was still alive at the time. Their acts all had similar elements -- spelling out of words, telling the time, and so forth, with a few variations: a pig shown in New York in 1872 was said to excel at euchre, a feat which elicited "great applause from the brokers and bankers of Wall and Broad Streets, who find a pleasant relaxation from financial cares in witnessing piggy's antics." A few years previous, a gambling pig appeared on Broadway, which "learned grunter" was said to have won $250 from his unlucky human opponent.

The act seems finally to have faded from popularity in the early twentieth century, with a few scattered exceptions, many of which were attached to cheap "dime museums" that appeared at country fairs. One of these, operated by man calling himself "Professor Worth," which appeared at a number of venues in and around Coney Island early in the century, included a learned pig among its attractions, but his show ended with the professor's death in 1917. After that date, nearly all the references to the Learned Pig are articles about long-past exhibitions, or punch-lines for poor jokes (e.g. "Which pigs are paid a salary? Those who are sty-penned!"). It's a loss not to be lamented, I fear, as Toby's own story illustrates; many, doubtless, were the cruel masters, and few the kind, and aside from Toby no other creature seems to have managed to free himself from being exhibited to the public as a "freak of nature."

The Words of a Pig

2011-12-28T06:03:00.000-08:00

Many readers have commented on the language of Pyg, especially its evocation of the style of a late 18th-century novel. Of course it would be both foolish and impossible to actually try to recreate the precise diction of the period, but one can, with care, manage a sort of allusive modern take on this language, creating something that has all the antique feel but -- hopefully -- is eminently readable today, a language the novelist David Mitchell has dubbed "bygonese." And yet, along with the careful use of just the right admixture of the musty and the immediate, there was another challenge awaiting me: I did not want to use any words or phrases that were unknown as of the book's imagined publication date of 1809. Few people would have noticed, I suppose, but it seemed to me vital not to have any anachronistic words or phrases -- particularly Americanisms! -- in a novel meant to evoke a very particular period in British history.

In this task, I called upon the support of several allies. First and foremost was my copyeditor Hazel Orme, whose eye for detail was precise and observant. Second, I had the collective wisdom of the Oxford English Dictionary, certainly the best historical dictionary of its kind. All the same, I found that a third resource -- Google books -- was important as well. For all their wisdom, the editors of the OED had not the ability to scan at once through millions of pages of text; they had to rely on individual readers submitting slips. True, the resources exist today, but revising something as massive as the OED is a considerable task; Rome wasn't built in a day, and the OED won't fully benefit from older digitized books for some time to come yet. Thus, I was able at times to find a word in use during the period the novel is set, even though the OED showed only later examples.

Speaking of Rome, the adage which opens the novel -- "When in Rome, do as the Romans" -- was itself a bit of a "squeaker"; while the Latin form of this proverb dates back many centuries to St. Ambrose, and was famously Englished by Robert Burton, it did not take the exact form used in the novel until 1780 -- scarce a year before Toby's birth. And while we're on "squeak," though that verb was indeed attributed to pigs, along with "squeal," the word "oink" -- the one most readers would specifically associate with pigs -- turns out to be an American coinage dating to the 1930's! Among the many other Americanisms which had to go were "passel," the "leg" of a journey, "on the house" (in the sense of complimentary), and "a tad."

And yet there were a few hardy survivors as well: "sticking plaster," "autopsied," and "feel the taste" among them. Hazel thought that "sticking plaster" might be anachronistic, but Google Books turned up a recipe for it in John Quincy's Pharmacopoeia Officialis of 1782 (he recommended a mixture of "common plaster" and "yellow resin"). As for "autopsied," the OED gave 1839, but Google Books pushed the earliest reference to 1823, close enough I thought. Lastly, when Toby vows that he will never more "feel the taste of pasteboard in [his] mouth," I was able to find this synesthesiac phrase in an Edinburgh medical journal from 1771. Google books, indeed, is especially useful for phrases, for which comprehensive reference works are scarce.

I learned caution as well -- many Google books are inaccurately tagged by date -- a date on a bookplate or a call slip is often mistaken for a date of publication, and many books have generic dates such as "1800" which can be as much as 99 years off, or entirely inaccurate; one must use the date range restriction with care. And it certainly can't provide negative evidence as to the lack of a certain usage; the abundance of OCR errors in its searchable text precludes it. Nevertheless, it's a fabulous supplement to the OED, and an invaluable one for any historical novelist seeking to avoid the jangling sound of a word uncurrent to the novel's era.

A Learned Pig in Providence

2011-12-22T06:14:00.000-08:00

Mr Pinchbeck, whose advice on how to train a Learned Pig was featured in my previous post, enjoyed enormous success with his own sapient animal in the northeastern states of America in the late 1790's. And, among the numerous cities and towns on his itinerary, I was delighted to discover that my longtime home of Providence, Rhode Island, was indeed visited; man and pig appeared there late in 1798 at a venue described as "the Sign of the Golden Ball," whose proprietor was one "Mr. Ammidon." On researching this fine establishment, I was amazed to discover that it was located at 159 Benefit Street, adjacent to the present site of the George Earle Building at whose longtime tenant, Geoff's Superlative Sandwiches, I had just eaten a sandwich yesterday! Thank heavens it was pork-free.

A bit more research revealed that the "159" address was originally assigned to a neighboring lot, site of the original inn known as the "Golden Ball" and later as the Roger Williams Hotel and lastly the "Mansion House," which had hosted many luminaries, George Washington, James Russell Lowell, and Edgar Allan Poe among them. Alas, it was demolished in 1941, not long after these photos were taken for the Historic American Buildings Survey. The storefronts adjacent to Geoff's are currently vacant -- I am tempted to rent one and open a "Learned Pig" emporium of some kind -- but for now, I am content simply to know that, by some strange and random miracle, my footsteps and those of Pinchbeck's Pig of Knowledge trod the same streets.

How to Raise a Learned Pig

2011-12-12T07:01:00.000-08:00

Many have been the studies and histories of sundry learned Pigs, published over the course of 200 years and easily filling several shelves. But only one of this, curiously enough, actually offers instruction on how to raise such a pig one's self. I must emphasize at the outset that I do not myself recommend such a method -- in fact, I object to it in the strongest terms! -- but in the interests of Science, this account, penned by one William Frederick Pinchbeck, contains many points of interest, and gives us something of an idea of how Mr. Bisset, Toby's first trainer, might have approached the matter.

Pinchbeck, who traveled the United States in the early nineteenth century with a learned pig of his own -- counting among his customers Thomas Jefferson, who paid a shilling for the privilege -- included his training instructions in a book, The Expositor, or Many Mysteries Unravelled, in which he "spilled the beans," as it were, on a variety of acts and stage magic routines, the Pig first among them.

Mr Pinchbeck's first step would likely, for most, be the most difficult:

Take a Pig, seven or eight weeks old, let him have free access to the interior part of your house,until he shall become in some measure domesticated.

After this, the procedure becomes more structured:

When familiar, you may enter upon his instruction: Take him to anapartment for the purpose of teaching, sequestered from any interruption, and three times a day instruct him as follows: Put a card into his mouth, and hold it shut, giving him to understand he is not to drop it until you please to take it from him. At first, he will throw it from his mouth every moment, which you must immediately pick up and replace, reprimanding him in a loud tone of voice. In a short time, he will understand when you are displeased, and consequently will hold the same patiently. You must give him a small piece of white bread, or a piece of an apple, &c. whatever he is most fond of. Be very observing not to suffer any person to feed him but yourself.

Then comes the key part of the training:

If you have taught him to hold the card, as described in my last, you may lay it on the floor, with one corner bent upwards; then forcing his head down to the card, put it in his mouth, and hold it up with the card, not suffering him to drop it; and so repeatedly. Do not forget to encourage him for his good performances; and when he will pick the card off the floor without your assistance he is master of the second Lesson. You must now lay down three cards. He will naturally try to take the one the most convenient for him; and your business is to check him, not snuffing your nose; and, taking it from him in an angry tone of voice, replace the same, and force him to take the one next to him, or the third, snuffing your nose. By persevering in this manner a few days, he will soon understand he must not take hold, until you give him the signal, which is breathing from your nose. When you have learnt him this, you may continue increasing the cards;and that animal, who in his rude state appears the most stupid, with the least share of tractability amongst all other quadrupeds, will be found sapient, docile, and gentle.

Thus far this would seem to accord with Toby's account of Mr. Bisset's training, save that he used a shuffling of the foot, rather than the snuffing of the nose, and added other, redundant signs as well. Apparently, however, the act did well enough without them; from "A.B." -- Mr. Pinchbeck's supposed correspondent in these lessons, he soon received this news:

The Pig is completed! I have already exhibited him to anumber of persons, men of ingenuity and talents, in whose judgment I can confide : They are astonished beyond description. None can account for the knowledge he apparently possesses, or discover the secret communication betwixt myself and the Pig. In fact, amongst the learned, I am thought a man of talents, whilst others less informed accuse me of the Black Art, and condemn me as a wizard. Shall I remonstrate with bigots ? Shall I patiently sit down, and earnestly detail to them the cause ? They would not believe me. No: I leave them to the enjoyment of their different reflections, and for my security and reward look to men of knowledge, whose approbation is more congenial to my feelings than the unbounded éclat of a barren multitude.

The mock indignation of the correspondent is delightful, and he seems even to have succeeded faster and better than his teacher! The "learned pig" act, whether based on this method or some other, seems to have continued unabated in popularity, with Mr. Pinchbeck having the credit -- if that is the right word for it -- of introducing it to the newly independent American colonies.

Pigs and Politics

2011-12-07T04:34:00.000-08:00

On my recent appearance on the fabulous Litopia After Dark, I was asked if there were any points of comparison between the pig in my pages and those in Parliament at the moment. I quipped that Toby would take offense at such a comparison, adding that, among their other good qualities, pigs care nothing for austerity. Which is all true enough, but in point of fact, the comparison has been made on numerous occasions, many of them implying either that the Government were pigs, or that their intelligence was no greater than that of a "Learned" one.

In first of the cartoons shown here, we see John Rolle, an MP who had been among the reliably faithful supporters of Pitt the Younger; a man of great size and "few words," he was described by Nathaniel Wraxall as a man whom "nature had denied all pretension to grace or elegance. Neither was his understanding apparently more cultivated than his manners were refined." These qualities, apparently are what earned him a cartoon comparison to a pack of trained animals, among them the "Surprising Monkey," the "Wonderful Hare," and the "Learned Pig." And yet his more loquacious political enemy, Charles James Fox, suffered an even worse comparison when he was lampooned as being the "Learned Pig" himself, who will "show the most surprising feats of Knowledge," among them "explaining many Passages in late Acts of Parliament ... the like never before having been even attempted in these our Realms!!!"

The third of our political cartoons depicts David Lloyd George, here not as a Pig but as the Pig's Proprietor. His recalcitrant subject is the Irish leader Eamon De Valera, who despite what the cartoon suggests is the prime minister's persistent prodding , seems unable to spell "Home Rule" for Ireland, a reference to the debates over the Government of Ireland Act of 1920, otherwise known as the Fourth Home Rule Bill. Other historical events, as it was to turn out, rendered that bill moot, but it's interesting as evidence that the "Learned Pig" act was still familiar to readers of Punch in the 1920's.

Of course these images far from exhaust the subject of pigs and politics, not to mention related expressions such as "pork barrel politics" -- so I'm sure I'll return with more in the near future. But for now, at least, let it be said still that, when compared to most politicians, pigs come out by far the cleaner.

Dickens and the Learned Pig

2011-12-02T09:56:00.000-08:00

With the approaching 200th anniversary of Dickens's birth, everything Dickens is being celebrated, from the trivial to the Gigantic; we are about to be blessed with duelling versions of Great Expectactions, still more Christmas Carols than we are usually inundated with, and even a Scottish Falsetto sock-puppet tribute (I'm not making this up).

But the man who, by many lights, is the greatest novelist Britain ever produced, also possessed a whimsical side. That he was was acquainted with the history of learned pigs is clear from his early reference to the pig, a rival to our "Toby," exhibited by Mr. Fawkes, in an early piece for Bentley's Miscellany:

The earliest account that we have seen of a learned pig is to be found in an old Bartholomew Fair bill, issued by that Emperor of all conjurors, Mr Fawkes, which exhibits the portrait of the swinish pundit holding a paper in his mouth, with the letter Y inscribed upon it. This ‘most amazing pig’ which had a particularly early tail, was the pattern of docility and sagacity: the ‘Pig of Knowledge, Being the only one ever taught in England’. He was to be visited ‘at a Commodious Room, at the George, West-Smithfield, During the time of the Fair’ and the spectators were required to ‘See and Believe!’ Three-pence was the price of admission to behold ‘This astonishing animal’ perform with cards, money and watches, &c. &c. The bill concluded with a poetical apotheosis to the pig, from which we extract one verse:

A learned pig in George’s reign,
To Æsop’s brutes an equal boast;
Then let mankind again combine,
To render friendship still a toast.

And there's more: just recently, I came upon an account in an 1880 issue of The Graphic, which concerned the practice of concealing a door within a library behind panels covered with imitation spines bearing dummy book-titles. Thomas Hood, the author of the "Lament of Toby," was commissioned to prepare such a door for the Duke of Devonshire; among his titular facetiæ were such drolleries as "Lamb on the Death of Wolfe," "On Sore Throat and the Migration of the Swallow," and "Johnson's Contradictionary." Apparently, Dickens himself took up the idea, and had a doorway from his library at Gad's Hill Place so covered, inventing the titles himself. Among them: "The Quarrelly Review," "History of the Middling Ages," "Lady Godiva on the Horse," and -- here's the kicker -- "The Life and Letters of the Learned Pig."

This portmanteau portal is still in place, and can be seen 'round about 3:42 seconds into this video tour of the house, although Toby's letters, alas, are not visible.

Friends of Toby: Anna Seward

2011-11-29T05:32:00.000-08:00

Among Toby's most intimate friends was the writer Anna Seward, known as the "Swan of Lichfield." She attended at least two of Toby's public performances, and served as a member of the "jury" at Toby's contest with a rival pig in London --Toby's invitation to her, and her reply, are given in full in his Memoir -- and so affecting was her letter, that Toby had it stitched within the lining of his waistcoat, so as to keep it always near his Heart.

Yet today, even though many women writers of the 18th century -- one thinks at once of Fanny Burney, Hester Thrale, or Mary Wollstonecraft -- have made their way back into publication and a presence in literary anthologies, Miss Seward has remained on the periphery. This may soon change, as there have, within the past two years, been both an excellent critical biography by Teresa Barnard and a broader historical study, Anna Seward and the End of the Eighteenth Century, by Claudia Kairoff. Time will tell whether this renewed interest in Seward as an historical figure will translate into a revival of interest in her literary output.

As Toby notes, Anna Seward was a child prodigy, said to be able to recite passages from Milton's L'Allegro when she was only three years old. Her father had been Dr Johnson's old schoolmaster (and was ill-remembered by his most famous pupil for his fondness for the lash), and her sister Sarah had been engaged to the learned Doctor's stepson. Alas, she died on the eve of their wedding.

According to Toby, Seward and Johnson had a most lively correspondence; he quotes Johnson referring to her as a "jousting-partner of the Pen," and expresses the wish that their correspondence be published. If indeed such friendly letters were written, they seem not to have survived, and most of the references to Johnson in her published correspondence are sharply critical ones. After his death, she called him a "despot" and spoke of his "strange compound of great talents, weak and absurd prejudices, strong but unfruitful devotion, intolerant fierceness, compassionate munificence, and corroding envy." Boswell, who had solicited her recollections for his Life, understandably felt disinclined to draw from them. Never the less, during his lifetime, they were often in company, and carried on the appearances of a social friendship. Indeed, it is in recalling these meetings that Boswell makes his one mention of Toby, attributing remarks very similar to those Toby records him having made directly to him, but here attributed to a conversation with Miss Seward:

‘Then,’ replied the doctor, his great face a-bloom with ruddy indignation, ‘is the Pig a race unjustly calumniated! Pig has, it seems, not been wanting to man, but man to pig. Why, we hardly allow time for his education, killing him at a year old!’

Seward was the author of a novel, Louisa. as well as a considerable volume of poetry. She was best known for her elegies, including those on David Garrick, Major André, and Captain Cook; so strongly was she associated with them that Sir Walter Scott, who edited her Poetical Works, was said to be unwilling to start his work while she lived, lest he die first and she end up writing his elegy.

A Pig Visits the British Museum, 1784

2011-11-26T05:57:00.000-08:00

As a complement to my learned Colleague, the Georgian Gentleman's account of a visit to the Museum in 1760, I thought I'd post a brief excerpt from Pyg: The Memoirs of a Learned Pig, where a visit in 1784 is described:

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.

In a Pig's Eye

2011-11-25T09:48:00.000-08:00

The old phrase "in a pig's eye" has usually been taken to mean either "from a low point of view" or else that a thing is Impossible. And yet, to those of us who possess pig's eyes as part of our Nature, neither meaning applies: that we are closer to the Ground than some other Animals, cannot be denied, but this Perspective has no correlation to our true Stature. Humans, indeed, though they may call someone "a giant of a man" or "a towering figure," do not confuse the metaphorical with the literal by imagining that the Tall are necessarily of greater importance than the Short -- and indeed, many who have loomed largest in history, such as Napoleon Buonoparte, were shorter than most. And, as for the phrase connoting a thing Impossible, I am sure that is just a confusion with the similar-sounding "when pigs fly" -- and let it be noted, that while such a thing was unheard of in my time, it is common enough nowadays that it ought elicit no Wonder.

For me, the far more pertinent Issue, is how loudly Humans object to reading the views of a Pig regarding their own Species. Were they, by their own kind, peeped out at Infamy, they would complain no less loudly, but somehow, when the Spy is of the Porcine Race, they are far more greatly Embarrassed. Humans have always loved to gawk at those they believe to be their Inferiors, which sight instills Laughter; where as to be stared at by those same creatures, seems to them to add Insult to the Injury, and seems the worst sort of Indignity.

I have, in my Memoirs, reflected at my many disappointments in the Human Race, among whom I came without either the ordinary preparations of childhood, or the usual expectations of future Preferment, that would have been natural to Man. And yet, although I could witness many of their Cruelties at closer quarters than most, and despite the fact that, on at least two Occasions, I came very close to losing my Life to them, I do not blame them for my Troubles. For one, in that my greatest Friend and Benefactor, Mr Samuel Nicholson, was of their kind -- and for two, that at every turn of my short Life, there were others -- Dr Adams, Mr Sheldon, and Dr Cullen -- who took my protection and education in hand, and guided me through the most difficult Obstacles. To them all, I shall always be grateful, and for their sake, although I know its faults in a way few others can, I do not condemn the Human race.

-- TOBY

Friends of Toby: William Blake

2011-11-20T07:13:00.001-08:00

Among the most luminary of Toby's friends, the poet William Blake looms large. By Toby's own account, they met very early on in Blake's career, before he had undertaken his illuminated books, through the offices of a mutual friend, John Flaxman. Flaxman, a young and gifted sculptor, lived at his Aunt's house just a few doors down from the Lyceum in the Strand, where Toby gave his final London performances. According toToby, it was the Aunt who paid for the printing of Blake's first -- and only non-illuminated -- book a verse, Poetical Sketches, in 1793. This book was not sold to to public, but given only as gifts to friends, and apparently Toby was among them.

The young poet doubtless either attended, or had heard of, Toby's performances, although his only written reference to them occurs in his notebooks of 1808-11, where the following quatrain is found:

Give pensions to the Learned Pig
Or the Hare playing on a Tabor
Anglus can never see Perfection
But in the Journeymans Labour.

The mention of the Hare, along with a reference to "virtuous cats" in An Island in the Moon, has been taken by Blake scholars such as Nick Rawlinson as evidence that Blake must have been aware of Bisset's show. He notes that, when Blake lived in Lambeth, he was "just around the corner" from Astley's Ampitheatre, although we now know, thanks to Toby's memoir, that the pig who appeared at Astley's London establishment was his rival. All the same, since by Toby's account Blake personally presented him with a copy of his book, it seems very likely that Blake regarded him as the original Pig of his kind, and had him in mind when he penned his verse. The notebook verses remained unpublished until 1957, which accounts for earlier biographers and critics being unaware of Blake's connection with Toby.

By his own account, Toby continued to take an interest in the works of Blake, whose genius was very imperfectly recognized during his lifetime, and who died in poverty, his last work a small engraved business-card for an old friend, George Cumberland.

N.B. The word "Anglus" has caused some confusion -- it's often misread as "Angels" -- most editors of Blake gloss this word as meaning "bunglers" -- it has no entry in the Oxford English Dictionary, but may possibly be related to the Latin "angulus," meaning bent or crooked. Read this way, Blake's poem might seem to suggest that only dolts and bunglers would be impressed by a learned pig's act, though it could also be read as implying that a literate pig, as a "journeyman's labor," was a sort of rough sketch for that which the master's hand alone could truly shape, i.e., humans.

Friends of Toby: Dr. Johnson

2011-11-17T06:30:00.000-08:00

Some skeptics having cast doubt upon Toby's acquaintance with the literary greats of his era, your editor has thought it prudent to give a brief account of several of them, and put forth the plain evidence of their connexions. I thought it best to, as it were, start with the top, which without question is occupied by that splendid brainbox, Dr. Johnson.

Johnson had that particular alloy of irritability and genius which, though often imitated, remains extraordinarily rare. He began life as a poor man, so poor indeed that during his brief time as a student at Pembroke College, Oxford, he could not afford new shoes to replace the tattered and nearly useless ones he possessed. A kindly fellow, aware of this difficulty, quietly left a new pair by Johnson's door, but he refused to wear them. When his money ran out entirely, he left Pembroke rather than accept the charity of others. The rest of his storied life would scarce fit in these pages, but his success as a periodical writer, and his great work, the Dictionary, are too well-known to require rehearsal.

But what sort of man was Johnson? He was brusque, opinionated, and so rude on occasion that some latter-day diagnosticians believe he suffered from Tourette's Syndrome. He did not so much speak as blurt, and many of his exclamations have joined the list of immortal quotes: "Patriotism is the last refuge of a Scoundrel," "No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money," and "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of Life," to name but a few. By the time he met Toby, he was in the last year of his life, and knew it; his visit to his old College was part of a final tour of familiar locations, which ended a few months later in London with his death.

Dr. Johnson's remarks about Toby are well-known, as they are quoted in Boswell's Life, and Toby's own narrative agrees with them almost verbatim, although they are part of a much more extended conversation. "Pig has not been wanting to Man, but Man to Pig" -- such might serve as an epigram for Toby's entire life story. Johnson's connection with Anna Seward -- a "jousting partner of the pen," is also warmly recalled by Toby, as it was by Boswell, although after Johnson's death many of Miss Seward's recollections were rejected by Boswell as uncharitable.

As the reader may have inferred from my introduction, my own picture of Johnson has been, for better or worse, indelibly stamped by Robbie Coltrane's portrayal of him in the Blackadder episode, "Ink and Incapability." The good Doctor's reaction as Blackadder peppers him with portmanteau words -- "interphastrically," "pericombobulations," and "extramuralisation" -- is priceless. And yet it may surprise many to learn that Johnson's own accent was anything but the posh pretentiousness of Coltrane's memorable performance; he had, in fact, a very thick and distinctive Staffordshire accent; according to Jeffrey Meyers' Samuel Johnson: The Struggle, he said "shuperior" for superior, "woonse" for once, and "poonsh" for "punch." I hadn't realized this myself, until on listening to the audiobook version of PYG, I heard Simon Callow's marvellous personation of Johnson's voice, which perfectly and richly evokes both the accent and the man.

I shall leave the last word on the Learned Doctor to Toby himself, in concluding his description of the Banquet given in Johnson's honor at Pembroke:

I was told later that it was at Dr Johnson’s personal insistence that we were brought, and given seats quite near his, seats that many of the Fellows had coveted, as they jostled against one another to gain Proximity to their learned Guest … For that one day at least, I felt that I had accomplished something so very Notable that it distinguished me for ever among all the Animals who have had the benefit of Lessons: I had been invited to dinner by Dr Johnson.

The Intelligent Pig

2011-11-15T05:42:00.001-08:00

We've long been aware that humans are far from the only intelligent animal. Our close cousins the chimpanzee and gorilla have been much studied, and some have attained the ability to communicate with sign language, even putting together signs to make a sentence. The chimp Washoe, seeing a doll in one of her drinking mugs, famously signed "baby in my cup." Other animals noted for their capacities include dolphins (and cetaceans generally, a group that includes porpoises and whales), although no mutually convenient means of communication has yet been found, and parrots are often noted for their mimicry of human speech, which sometimes seems to evince novel utterances. The dog, of course, has long been a companionate animal, and in one case -- a border collie named Chaser -- has been shown to have a vocabulary of more than 1,000 words, though here we're talking about recognition rather than the ability to produce them.

But the pig has long been known to be highly intelligent, with some owners of domestic pigs claiming that they are far more so than dogs. Recent studies have begun to document this capacity, with one -- led by Donald Broom of Cambridge University -- showing that pigs, once accustomed to them, were capable of using mirrors to find food, although they did not go in for staring at themselves (mirror self-recognition has been documented in chimps, and some hold it a benchmark of sentience). Pigs are capable of learning all kinds of behaviors, and, according to Suzanne Held of the University of Bristol, once they learn a task, they remember it -- in fact it's difficult for them to unlearn it.

Perhaps all this should come as no surprise -- pigs are, science has found, somewhat closer to us genetically than we'd realized; Dr. Lawrence Schook of the University of Illinois, who sequenced a rough draft of the pig genome, was quoted in the New York Times as saying it "compares favorably with the human genome." Large sections of it are, in fact, nearly identical, which correlates with various observed similarities, such as pigs' teeth and hearts. Pigs are not nearly so close to us as chimps (who share 96% of our genome), but they are cousins of the cetaceans, and perhaps this correlates with their similar intelligence.

Further studies may tell us more -- and I can't help but wonder what might happen if, just as was the case with Toby, a pig were given the chance to manipulate letters or other signs, and use these to establish a means of communication.

Pigs in Literature

2011-11-13T11:07:00.000-08:00

Until I started in on the work editing Toby's memoirs, I must confess I had never paid much attention to the field of pigs in literature. If I had been pressed on the subject, I would have probably named Piglet from A.A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh stories, and Wilbur from E.B. White's Charlotte's Web, but that might have been it. And yet now, having helped bring Toby back to the public Eye, it seems only fitting to look about at other literary pigs, and I must confess myself amazed at their number and variety. One of them, at least -- Gub-Gub (shown here), who featured in Hugh Lofting's Dr. Doolittle books -- was also an author, in his case of a cookbook, entitled Gub-Gub's Book: An Encyclopedia of Food. This was described as the first of 20 planned volumes, the rest of which were, alas, never published. Another lesser-known but significant creature is Hen Wen, the oracular white sow in Lloyd Alexander's Chronicles of Prydain. She proves, in fact, to be a pig of extraordinary powers, and her white coloration is that long associated with the Celtic otherworld. Still another storied pig was Walter R. Brooks's Freddy, whose adventures took him as far as the North Pole in a series of 26 books published between 1927 and 1958. Freddy is, I fear, not so widely known as he once was, and Brooks is more commonly remembered for another of his creations, the talking horse "Mr. Ed," who starred in his own television series in the 1960's. Lastly, I would be remiss indeed not to mention the Empress of Blandings, who cavorted through ten volumes issuing from the pen of that singular wit, P.G. Wodehouse, beginning the same year as Freddy (1927) and carrying on through Sunset at Blandings (1977).

Of course, people will always bring up Orwell's Animal Farm, but much as I admire many of his essays and other fictions, the allegory of that volume has always felt a bit heavy-handed to me. And it's impossible to leave out Babe, who debuted in Dick King-Smith's The Sheep-Pig in 1983 and was the basis for the 1995 film Babe and its sequel. The book and the films are endearing enough, but all of them -- as with Orwell's and Blanding's tales -- require that we imagine that pigs could talk. Talking animals are perfectly fine, of course, but it breaks the mold of realism to include them. To my mind, talking pigs belong in the world of mythic and fantastical tales, where they can take their place with magic swords and one-eyed giants; they are right at home there, and can speak all they like. Whereas pigs in this world, it seems to me, must -- if they are to find a way to make their thoughts known -- do so in a manner consistent with their capacities.

Of course, all fictions are, to put it bluntly, made up, whether they march under the banner of "fantasy" or that of "realism." Whereas Toby's singular career, as plainly documented by the most reliable of witnesses, is a matter of fact, albeit his story is told from his personal perspective, and is therefore subject -- as with any human memoir -- to a certain bias, as well as to the vagaries of memory and the capacities of the writer. And yet, perhaps because they are only familiar with sentient animals in fairy tales and fables, many people have written to ask me what the "moral" of Toby's story is! -- but I have no answer for them. Whoever it is that first decided to reduce the pleasure of stories -- whether factual or fictional -- to some idiotic truism or platitude, ought to be sentenced to eternity watching Jay Ward's "Fractured Fairy Tales" or "Aesop & Son," where this device is so aptly skewered. What, after all, is the lesson of a life? That it was lived, and that, via the curious incantatory power of language to conjure up shadows of this experience in our own minds, we may know of creatures and times other than our own, and -- if we have the talent for it -- expand our sympathies.

And so I would say this: Pigs in literature have, whether fictional or not, exhibit a sort of kinship with us. When they talk, we listen. We seem to have travelled the world together, and there is something of us in them, and them in us. This, I think, is the principal reason that pigs feature so often in literature and film -- the Wikipedia lists 37 pigs in fiction, 46 in television, 11 in music, and 23 in video games (not to mention Angry Birds!). There will be, I am certain, more to come.

But have I left out a personal favorite pig? If so, let me know.

Almost like Eating a Friend

2011-11-10T08:21:00.000-08:00

The relationship between pigs and humans has been a long and intimate one; according to one recent study, it can be traced back more than 10,000 years. And yet, unlike the human interactions with dogs and cats, which people have commonly taken into their homes, and welcomed into the family, Pigs have nearly always been left outside, and their connection with Humans has generally been concluded with a meal.

Toby himself comments on this early in his Memoirs, when he speaks of his acquiring his Name:

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 sobriquets 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.

Now it's not unknown for a particularly favored pig to be kept about, most often for breeding purposes, but the idea of having a Pig within one's house, living as a pet, has never been widespread, though many instances of it are known, even to this day. Miniature pigs have recently become popular, and are doubtless better adapted to the home; many who have taken pigs in have remarked that they are far more intelligent than dogs, and very companionable.

All the same, the many millions of pigs who have, throughout history, been raised for food and slaughtered at a year old, vastly outnumbers those who have escaped a visit to the Butcher.

Before I came to my calling as Toby's Editor, I will confess that I quite often enjoyed a rasher of bacon, or reached for a ham sandwich for lunch. Even as I was at work on the book, I was never averse to such a snack, and if enjoying a salad, would sprinkle some little crispy bits upon the lettuce. But once the book was complete, I developed a very strong and sudden distaste for pork in any form, a feeling that I did not at first associate with Toby. But when, at a celebratory dinner on learning of the book's publication, I accidentally bit into a salad with bacon dressing, I found I had to desist, and discreetly send it off within a napkin.

I am not a vegetarian, although as an undergraduate I followed such a diet for a time. I have been known to poke gentle fun at vegans, followers of macrobiotic diets, or those who insist upon buying what one wag has called "happy meat" -- meat from animals that were, at least until the moment of their demise, roaming freely and happily. But now that I have come to know Toby, I find that I really can't eat pork at all -- ever. I do not condemn anyone who would do so -- indeed, in an odd way, I envy them. I will miss the flavor.

So much of the ethical universe seems to depend on sympathy, and so much of sympathy depends on our knowing something of the story of the lives our fellow creatures live. When we can, by such tales, gain a sense of fellow-feeling, imbuing an animal with a sense of Self, we quite naturally draw away from the prospect of eating their relatives. If we can know or name, a living thing, we can more readily imagine it as a companion -- whereas the nameless -- the herd, the crop, the multitude -- can be devoured without so much as a hiccup.

In L. Frank Baum's Land of Oz, there was a character, the fast friend of the Cowardly Lion, who was known as the Hungry Tiger. The Hungry Tiger would really have loved to have devoured a meal of tender little human babies -- but alas, his conscience prevented it. Thus his earned his name, for he was always hungry. Fortunately, the Land of Oz being a fairy kingdom, he could never starve, and had as pleasant a life in every other respect as Dorothy and her other friends. When I get notes from my friends congratulating me on the new edition of Pyg, and suggesting we celebrate with some bacon sarnies, I feel much as that Tiger did.

Why Toby?

2011-11-08T05:15:00.000-08:00

The Editor of these pages, giving a brief respite to their Author -- who, after 227 years, finds he requires more Rest than he did in his former Life -- would like to take up a question often asked: why is it that the original Sapient Pig, along with nearly every other following act of a similar kind, were all named "Toby"? In The Giant, O'Brien, a brilliant novel based on of the career of Charles Byrne, the novelist Hilary Mantel has the Giant, who has been offered a place on a double bill with a sapient pig, ask "What is the name of it?" -- to which the showman's answer is, "Toby. All sapient pigs are called Toby." "It is one of the few facts I had not taken under my cognizance," the Giant replies.

The resulting pairing led the reviewer for the Independent to give her review of Mantel's novel the headline, "Upstaged by Toby, the sapient pig." The exact identity of this particular "Toby" is unknown, and I know of no direct evidence that a pig appeared with the giant, although both were the subject of comic engravings by Rowlandson early in 1785. Toby himself describes in his Memoir the career of one of his earliest Rivals, and how he helped rescue him from his cruel master; this pig, too was "Toby" -- named to take advantage of our Toby's fame. Nicholas Hoare, who was responsible for the facetious autobiography of Toby, apparently exhibited several pigs with that name; according to G.E. Bentley, there was a "Toby" seen by Harrison Weir (b. 1824) at the Camberwell Fair when he was a lad. There appear to have been dozens of such pigs in Britain and America, exhibited right up through the early twentieth century, and in almost every case, they too are named "Toby." The most recent example I know, a "flying pig" named Toby whose act is to dive from a platform into a tub, appears in Kim Deitsch's marvellous graphic novel Shadowland (2006).

But why "Toby" in the first place? It's a familiar form of "Tobias," which itself is the Greek form of the Hebrew name "Toviyah," which means roughly "God is Good." In Nicholas Hoare's specious autobiography, it's punningly derived from the pig's master's quoting from Hamlet the line "To be or not to be." The name occurs in the Bible and in Shakespeare (Sir Toby Belch in Twelfth Night); in the antebellum South it seems to have been associated with servants and slaves -- perhaps, most famously, when in Alex Haley's Roots, his ancestor Kunta Kinte is given the name "Toby" by his new master, a humiliating substitution. In Tolkien's Middle Earth, Toby is said to be derived from "Tobold," and "Old Toby" is a popular type of pipe-weed. Unbeknownst to Tolkien, this was also one of the names of a Shoshone Indian chief who died in 1858.

So how fare "Tobias" and "Toby" today? According to the Baby Center, "Tobias" ranks #477 in popularity today, with "Toby" at 359; the name also appears to be on the rise in Google's nGram corpus of English words.

The Education of a Pig

2011-11-05T19:07:00.000-07:00

Despite the many Testimonials offered for the veracity of my own Account of my Life, there are those who are still possessed by Doubt -- either that, no matter how persistent or energetic the Training, a Pig could come to any real Knowledge of Letters -- or, and this is perhaps worse, that the ability to employ them in answering Questions, is any any way a reflection of Intelligence. To these latter doubters, who -- no matter how plain the Proofs -- will say that a pig is doing nothing more than responding to invisible Cues from its Master, I can make no other or better Reply than my own Narrative, which is now published and speaks, I believe, for itself. To that other class of doubters, however, I do have a Rejoinder, and indeed it has pleased me to Discover that, among the Natural Scientists of the Twentieth and Twenty-first century, there are many whose estimate of the Capacities of a Pig bear out, in every way, my own Life.

Education -- the word comes from the Latin phrase ex ductere, meaning "to lead forth" -- is commonly understood to consist of two Stages: the first being Rote learning, which requires chiefly repetition and Memorization, and the second being Rhetorical learning, which involves the development and utterance of one's own Opinions, and the analysis of those of others. It is fairly easy to grant that a Pig could, as well as any Human child, manage the first of these branches of Education -- and indeed, as my Life testifies, no Violence is required (although some Schoolmasters, such as Dr Johnson's, applied it all the same). It is the second which most Skepticks would point to in doubting that a Pig such as myself could compose his own sentences.

The Difference, I should say, between my experience and that of other pigs whose training never got beyond the first stage, was due entirely to my Benefactor Mr Nicholson, in his shewing me how to read on my own from Books. For, when one reads them, one is inevitably imbued, by slow degrees, with the pattern and variety of Sentences within, and it is from these Patterns that new ones must be constructed. All humans enjoy the conceit that their Utterances are Novel, for so they seem to Them, but the Lumber-yard from which their words are drawn, as well as the many old Saws which are employed to shape it, are indeed the Commonest of things, and any one who speaks the Language knows them. Had I not read such volumes as Johnson's Rasselas or Smollett's Peregrine Pickle, I should hardly have been able to write my own, at least not in a way that would meet my Readers' understanding of what a Narrative should be. Aha! cry the Skepticks -- you are naught but an Imitator! Indeed I am, but so is any one who has ever Written. The seeming novelty of most books derives, not from their utter departure from what has been said before, but by the placing of the elements of earlier tales in new and surprising Arrangements.

And so it was with me. A Writer must be first a Reader, and that there are not, on every shelf, a Plethora of Porcine autobiographies, I can attribute to the simple fact that no Pig besides myself was ever given a book of its own.

The Pig Himself

2011-11-03T06:01:00.000-07:00

Now that at LAST my Memoirs are about to be set before the World in a True and accurate Edition, I wish to announce my return to the scrutiny of Public View. I am more than willing to be interviewed, answer questions as to my Life and Opinions on any Matter, or explain to any Skeptics how it is that I came to understand the Form and use of Letters -- all things, at which, indeed, I could be said to be an "old hand" though never having had one. I hope that my old friends, Dr Samuel Johnson, Mr William Blake, and Mr Robert Burns, will stand surety for the Truth of my account, but I would be very glad to make the acquaintance of any and all latter-day practitioners of the Pen -- and may I add that, having not merely wielded that instrument, but having been Born in a Pen, I am sure they and I will feel right at Home.

To them, and to all others of my readers: please be assured I shall always remain, your most humble friend and Servant,

-- TOBY.

Pigs in Song

2011-11-01T06:55:00.000-07:00

The humble pig, although not always admired by humans for his better qualities -- that is, the qualities he has other than in being eaten! -- has never the less been celebrated in song many times over the ages. One of the better ditties is that prefaced to the comical rendition of "General Guinness" as recorded by the Boys of the Lough:

'Twas the pig fair last September,

A day I well remember,

I was walking up and down in drunken pride.

When my knees began to flutter

I fell down in the gutter

And a pig came up and lay down by my side.

As I lay there in the gutter,

Thinking thoughts I dared not utter,

I thought I heard a passing lady say:

"You can tell a man who boozes,

By the company he chooses,"

And, with that, the pig got up walked away.

The song is known generally as "The Pig and the Inebriate," and there are many variants, including one -- "The Famous Pig Song" -- which goes on in later stanzas to include quite a few other animals.

Many people, of course, are familiar with George Harrison's "Little Piggies," although technically I would consider this a song about people, with an unkind comparison to pigs, rather than a song about pigs. Alas, the idea that pigs enjoy wallowing in filth is a difficult one to eradicate, as my novel's narrator Toby himself notes:

The belief that Pigs, simply because they appreciate the cooling properties of some lovely clean Mud, are therefore inured to any sort of Refuse, or even love to Gambol in Faeces or Garbage, has such wide circulation among Humans that we could scarce dissuade them from it if we Could speak.

At the same time, there are a few songs which make reference to piggish gambols without prejudice, and one of the best of these is part of a song cycle -- punningly referred to as an "Operina" -- by my old music professor, the late great Dennis Murphy, and entitled "A Perfect Day." In Murphy's vision, each of the stages of human life is represented by a different animal, with childhood, of course, given over to the pig:

We all begin our lives as little pigs
Though most of us grow out of it,
We're few of us so fortunate,
As ever to resume that happy state!

Then, to a background of sounds of "Oink oink oink," the chorus intones:

We are in a mood, to wallow in our food!
We are in a mood, to wallow in our food!
We are in a mood, to wallow in our food!

The piggy is a happy beast
He has a fault to say the least
He likes to roll in mud and goo
And yet he's just as nice as you (or even me).

However small, however big
There's nothing cuter than a pig!

I'm sure that Toby would forgive any mild imputations of bad character in so lighthearted a song, especially given its positive conclusion.

But perhaps one of the finest -- and the saddest -- songs about pigs is one which touches very nearly on Toby's story; this is the Tiger Lilies' mournful ditty, "The Learned Pig," with libretto by the brilliant Edward Gorey. This pig, born at "the turn of the last century," is exhibited at a fairground on a bucket and forced to answer "stupid questions in a profound manner." Surely something of Toby's original story is at work here, although alas this pig meets a much harsher, and sudden end, than did Toby.

The Peripatetic Pig

2011-10-27T06:05:00.000-07:00

During the early years of my Career, my Travels carried me throughout the length and breadth of England, Ireland, Wales, and Scotland, journeys which included many Features which are still extant today, as well as some others -- such as my birth-place -- which have gone to ruin, or been obscured by new buildings and works. Man is a very restless Animal, and especially in his Towns and Cities seems to think nothing of pulling down one building and putting up another, such that, in the end, his Settlements appear mere Haphazard collections of structures, with little Rhyme or Reason.

Never the less, there are a number of Sights which I beheld in my day which may still be seen at Present, and I thought it might interest my readers to mention a few of these. One of my very first venues was the fair city of Liverpool, the town hall of which at that time boasted of fine Roman columns but had only a flat Roof; a lovely round Tower has since been placed atop it, and thus it stands to this day. I appeared there at the Ranelagh Gardens, which unfortunately have since gone; the site is now occupied by the Adelphi Hotel. In Dublin's fair city, I performed at Astley's Ampitheatre in Peter street -- this establishment closed a few years later, and the premises were taken by a School for Blind Females, who converted the Ampitheatre into a circular Chapel. Today, I am informed, it is merely a block of flats.

It would seem that all is changed -- but a few of my familiar places are yet remarkably intact. In the town of Chester, where I made my final appearance under the guidance of Mr. Bisset, the Inn where we resided -- the Blue Bell -- still stands, as it has since it was first built in the 1400's, its distinctive shape deriving from the joining together of its two houses. It is no longer an Inn, but houses an Eatery known as the "East Glory Oriental Restaurant." My old chambers at Pembroke College in Oxford are much the same as they were in my time, though several new Buildings have been added. Of my journey North, a few ancient Piles that stood then stand there Still, among them Penrith Castle and Lancaster Castle, whose "Hanging Corner" may yet be seen, though thankfully without its Gallows. Indeed, I am informed that this most horrid of human Institutions has been entirely eliminated in Britain as a means of Punishment, which is gratifying news indeed.

As to Edinburgh, that fair City which at last became my Home, I am pleased to discover that very little has changed, at least in the older parts. The Grassmarket, host to my last and most Successful shows, remains a great Commons of human commerce, and my favoured place of resort there -- the Bee Hive Inn -- still offers Refreshment, although the present building dates to after my Time. And of course, my beloved Alma Mater, the University of Edinburgh, is still a mighty Beacon of Learning, and -- this I can only hope -- retains some portion of the affections for Me that I hold for It.

Why PYG?

2011-10-18T06:41:00.000-07:00

Those who've heard about PYG will often ask about the "Y" in the title -- after all, why would the tale of a pig who spells out his thoughts with letters written on pasteboard cards misspell the name of his own species? There's a reason, though, and some readers have picked up on it: think PYGmalion. The idea that language, or "correct speech," once taught, confers upon its learner an entirely new sense of self, is as central to my novel as it is to Shaw's brilliant play, and its film and musical adaptations (my favorite is the 1938 version with Leslie Howard and Wendy Hiller). After weeks of drill and training, Liza Doolittle is able to pass for a duchess in polite society, and yet having done so, she finds herself an exile from both her original world as a Cockney-speaking flower girl, and her new one as a "proper" lady. Like many who have "passed" over the boundaries of race and class, she is beset by a sort of double consciousness, feeling inauthentic -- though for opposite reasons -- in both worlds.

And so it is with Toby, the porcine protagonist of PYG. He of course cannot "pass" as a human, but having been given the seeming-gift of language, he can't withdraw from society either -- while, on the other side, his greatest dread is to be stripped of his difference and sorted with common pigs. In the human world, he's a "freak," a pig with a waistcoat who spells out his thoughts -- but in the pig world, things would be far worse; as he puts it:

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.

And so Toby remains 'to double business bound' -- and so, the title.

Origins of Toby

2011-10-03T06:12:00.000-07:00

The origins of the "learned pig" are very nearly lost in the proverbial mists of time; the immense popularity of the act led to such a vast number of imitators that it's not easy to be certain which pig came first. Nevertheless, thanks to the researches of G.E. Bentley and the indefatigable Ricky Jay, it's possible to identify the Subject of our Novel, who really was the very first such pig -- from among the plethora of porcine pretenders. This pig was named Toby (a name borrowed by many later pigs), and was trained by a Mr. S. Bisset (exactly what the S. stands for is a bit unclear; some sources give Samuel and some Silas, and one refers to him as John). Bisset, who was said to have been born in Perth, Scotland, took up animal training in the middle way of life; as described by one period source, his newfound passion began when,

"Reading an account of a remarkable horse shewn at the fair of St. Germain's, his curiosity led him to try his skill on a horse and a dog which he bought in London, and he succeeded beyond all expectation. Two monkies were the next pupils he took in hand; one of these he taught to dance, and tumble on the rope, whilst the other held a candle with one paw for his companion, and with the other played a barrel organ. These antic animals he also instructed to play several fanciful tricks, such as drinking to the company, riding and tumbling upon the horse's back, and going through several regular dances with the dog."

From dogs, monkeys, and horses, he moved on to cats -- certainly as "intractable" an animal as one can imagine -- and taught a group of them how to strike their paws upon dulcimers, while yowling along and pretending to read from sheets of music! This "cat orchestra" was his first public success, and to it he added his trained monkeys, horses, and a hare which beat upon a drum with its tail. Having the idea that a pig would be the most difficult animal of all to train, he purchased one and set about putting it through its paces; doubtless he discovered, as have researchers today, that in fact it was one of the most intelligent of animals. Within a year, he took this new act on the road, to universal acclaim.

It was deceptively simple: under Bisset's direction, Toby selected from among a set of pasteboard cards upon which numbers and letters were written; by this means, he asnwered questions from his Master and audience members, told the time from a pocket-watch, picked out married and unmarried people, and even "read the minds of ladies, but only with their permission."

This was in or about the year 1783. In later years, learned pigs -- many of them also "Toby" -- continued to appear throughout the next few decades in both Britain and the United States. Indeed, the act has been revived in the twentieth century, and I would not be surprised to see it practiced again today. But it was Toby who first made his name upon the stage, and whose career inspired PYG.

Welcome to PYG

2011-09-19T06:47:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the blog for my novel, PYG, which is coming out in the UK from Canongate Books on November 3, 2011. Here you'll find a wide range of topics related to Toby, the novel's porcine protagonist, as well as to the theme and setting of the book, and space to answer questions and comments from readers.

Along with that, there will be -- for starters -- posts on pigs in song and story, on the intelligence of pigs (which has recently been studied in new and fascinating ways), and pigs in history (learned and otherwise). I also plan to share some background on the geography of the novel, with notes on many of the cities and towns where the story takes place, and where -- even to this day -- many of the same sights observed by Toby can still be seen. I'll also be keeping readers up to date with the latest events, media, and readings. And, for news and notes on PYG and all manner of porcine particulars, you can follow Toby on Twitter via @tobythepig. So watch this space -- as November draws nearer, there will be new posts more frequently.