The Words of a Pig

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 back only 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 Pig's Library

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 instantly 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.

Almost like Eating a Friend

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 named, taken into their homes, and welcomed into the family, Pigs have nearly always been left outside, and their relationship with Humans has generally been concluded with a meal.

Toby himself comments on this early in his Memoirs, when he speaks of 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. 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 some years. I have been known to poke gentle fun at friends who are vegans, followers of macrobiotic diets, or those who insist upon buying what one wag has dubbed "happy meat" -- meat from animals that were, at least until the moment of their demise, roaming freely and contentedly. 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 BLT's, I feel much as that Tiger did.

The Pig Arrives

In 1798, a "Learned Pig" first arrived in America under the proprietorship of a certain Mr. William Frededrick Pinchbeck. Much as had his British forebears, Pinchbeck's pig read and spelled words, told the time of day by consulting a watch, and answered questions freely from the audience on arithmetic and any other matters. And now, a mere two hundred and fourteen years later, he has now arrived again, under the proprietorship of Penguin Books, as the U.S. and Canadian publisher of PYG: The Memoirs of Toby, the Learned Pig. As the Editor of this volume, I very much look forward to acquainting readers with the history of this remarkable Animal, wish to reassure them that, in every way, Toby's story is firmly grounded in fact.  That there was such a pig, and that he first appeared in 1781 under the management of one Mr. Silas Bisset, making quite a splash upon the stage in Liverpool, Dublin, Chester, and eventually London, is amply documented in handbills, newspapers and other accounts of the day.  And yet, until now, the public have had only secondhand reports by which to judge the wit of this Sapient creature. Now, for the first time in more than two centuries, readers can once more enjoy Toby's story as told by the Pig himself, describing his human handlers, Friends, and Enemies, sparing no Person with his frankness. The life and opinions of Toby are, of course, suffused with the flavor of the period, and include his encounters with Dr. Johnson (who invited him to dinner), William Blake (who gave him a copy of his first book of poems), and Robert Burns, who stoutly refused the invitation of a Countess unless she should invite Toby as well.  This new edition is also accompanied by an Appendix, which gives all manner of helpful glosses, as well as brief sketches of the people mentioned therein, and translations of the Latin words and phrases employed by Toby (who studied both at Oxford and at the University of Edinburgh).  It is my hope that it will be as warmly received as were Mr. Pinchbeck and his learned Companion, who toured the eastern seaboard for many years, finding warm welcomes in cities from Boston to Washington.  Here on this blog, I will appraise those interested in Toby's continuing progress, as well as adding further notes on the remarkable details of his Career.

PYG Audiobook read by Simon Callow

From an author's point of view, there's no prospect as potentially gratifying -- or terrifying -- as the first listen to the audiobook of one's novel.  One will either cringe as one's words are put through deadening paces, or thrill to hear them declaimed in dulcet tones, with just the right tweak of emphasis on each  phrase. Happily, in my own case, it's been the latter -- in fact, I simply can't imagine a better rendition of Pyg than that given it by Simon Callow. Indeed, there are numerous moments of verbal delight to be had in his rendition which I could hardly have anticipated myself.

Part of this, of course, is because Callow gives the book the British accents in which it's always been meant to be read, accents I could never have managed myself.  As an actor with an enormous range of voices and characters, he brings both just the right regional accent, and just the stamp of personality, that each personage demands: Sam gets a touch of a Manchester accent; Dr. Johnson's imperious tones and slippery Staffordshire s's ring out perfectly, and one can almost hear the kindness and empathy in William Cullen's subtle Scots brogue. Toby himself, of course, can't be said to have had an "accent," since he spelled out his words with letters, and had not the gift of articulate speech bestowed on such fanciful latter-day porkers as Babe -- and yet, in Callow's measured and reflective embodiment, one can hear Toby's essential character as clear as a bell.  I was quite amazed, when I first received the CD's, to see that Callow had even read out the scholarly appendix to the book, and delighted to discover on listening that he'd deliberately adopted a somewhat stuffy, know-it-all tone, such that even the least footnote was imbued with personality.

For American and Canadian readers who may not immediately recognize Simon Callow's voice, I always say "Don't you remember Four Weddings and a Funeral?  His was the funeral!"  But this of course gives only the slightest slice of Callow's career -- a man who has, variously, done one-man shows as Shakespeare and Dickens, a professor possessed by the spirit of Aleister Crowley, and the Reverend Mr Beebe in the classic Room with a View.  For my part, a favorite recent role was the turn he did as "Vernon Oxe,"the maddeningly self-important manager of a perhaps-to-be-revived British rock band in the "Counter Culture Blues" episode of Inspector Lewis.  Mr Oxe's preferred method of malefaction was known as a "macerator," a device of which I had not previously heard -- it's something like a kitchen dispose-all, but much much larger.  Fans of Orson Welles will also know Callow for his scholarly books on the great director, and in this guise he often pops up in unexpected places, like the special features disc of the Criterion Collection edition of Mr. Arkadin.  Wherever he appears, he is always 'in good voice' -- and it's a voice that I feel tremendously honored gave Toby his own.

US readers can obtain the audiobook at audible.com or iTunes, and those in the UK can find it at audible.co.uk.

Photo credit: Wikipedia

Origins of the Learned Pig

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.

How to Raise a Learned Pig

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 these, 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.

Pig's Latin

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 against 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

"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."