Pyg (22 page)

We approached by way of Queensferry Road, which twisted and turned in slow ascent, and then became Lothian Road. From there, we diverged on to Castle Terrace, which went round the southern edge
of Castle Rock itself, then passed by the King’s Stables (so called) into the crowded thoroughfares of the
Grassmarket
. This district had many of the qualities of a typical
market-square, save that it was extended in length as far as Twenty lesser such markets. Both sides of this vast swathe were crowded with shops, public houses, and sundry places of business, while
in the middle area, a continuously shifting strip of tents and booths wound its way, looking for all the world like some Arabian bazaar, overflowing with goods and attractions of every describable
sort. In the midst of all this clamour, fast by an ancient Well, stood yet another of those dark reminders of Human ways, a Gallows—I was relieved to learn that the last person to suffer upon
it, one James
Andrews
, had been laid to rest, and the structure was shortly to be Removed for ever. I later discovered, to my great disappointment, that this was only on account of a
New
gallows having been erected within the city
Gaol
—evidence, to my mind, that there was at least some sense of
Shame
about the practice, though only enough to drive it
indoors and away from Public view.

Much more to my liking were the tales told of the many showfolk who had there accomplished feats of great Fame, as in 1733 when a pair of Italians, father and son, strung a single rope from the
battlements of the Castle to the south side of the
Market
, down which they slid, willy-nilly, first the father and then the son, the latter managing to blow continuously upon a Trumpet as he
made his descent. Three days later, they staged another performance, with this addition: that after his descent, the father walked back up the rope all the way to the Castle walls, firing a pistol,
beating a drum and loudly proclaiming that, while up there, he could defy the whole Court of Session!

Yet despite the lively history of the place, and our forthcoming Engagement to put on afternoon performances, we did not pause at any of the venerable Inns in those parts, having been advised by
Dr Cullen that these were mostly very low houses, such that even those who stabled their horses there took rooms elsewhere if they could afford to. We proceeded instead to George-street, where that
good man had arranged for us to stay in private lodgings not far from his own residence, and convenient to the hall of the College of Physicians. On our arrival, we were escorted to our rooms,
which we found had been specially fitted with both a feather bed and one of Straw, with all the accoutrements of the latter laid out for my Convenience—among them a low table and basin, a
brush and towel, and even a Mirror placed so that I might easily examine myself within it. Indeed, this was the first time since our early days at Mr Bisset’s singular residence that I had
ever had the sensation of being truly at Home, in a place where both my stature and capabilities were perfectly accommodated.

That very evening, Dr Cullen came to meet us, and made us feel twice welcome with his easy demeanour and natural manners. Given the length of our journey, he was most anxious that we felt no
obligation to make any appearances, or greet any new or strange
Faces
, before we were able to take our Rest. During the course of his visit, our dinner was brought to us by a young
serving-boy of the name of
Jamie
—who has since become a fast friend—while we discussed our future plans and possibilities. My engagement in the Grassmarket, which commenced three
days hence, was to be strictly limited to a fortnight, and was advertised as ‘the very Final Appearance of that Famous Pig, T
OBY
, whose remarkable skill with
Language
exceeds that of any of his Rivals, and has been the subject of Universal acclamation in Dublin, London, Glasgow and numerous other places throughout the British Isles’. Once I
had taken my last Bow, however, my plans were far less certain: I had considered retiring to a place in the Country, a tour of Europe (purely as a Spectator, not a Performer), or perhaps
undertaking a voyage to
America.

Dr Cullen nodded attentively as I spelt out my Options, and commended me on my abiding interest in the world about me—but then he paused, looking upon me with a strange, yet benevolent
gaze.

‘Toby, you are a most remarkable fellow; would that I had among my students any with half your intelligence and native curiosity! I have heard that you had completed scarcely a Year of
your studies, and that your removal to London, and the subsequent death of Dr Adams, prevented you from resuming them. You must know that I have most carefully considered what I am about to say,
and would not make the offer were it not both in my power and Approved by all the requisite authorities. So I say to you, would you like to be a student here at the University? Ours may not be so
ancient as the halls of
Oxford
, but we have built here as strong a fortress of Learning as any they have there. Our lectures, our Libraries and our tutors would be at your disposal, and you
would be Registered as my pupil, with all the privileges and responsibilities of any other student here. What say you? Will you not consider it?’

I hesitated only a moment—and that because I was utterly overcome by the generosity of his offer—before I at once spelt out my acceptance of this singular Honour. I could think of no
way to thank him; I was sure I had not been of any special service—nor did I know of any other Friends who might have advocated on my behalf.

‘But what about the matter of Fees?’ I asked, with some trepidation.

‘You have more friends than you may realise; I myself raised a subscription among them, and from my colleagues here in Edinburgh, and from these funds all such sums will be paid, as well
as an allowance for room, board and any books or other supplies you may require.’

To this astonishing news I could make no reply—I simply bowed low.

17

B
ut before my studies could commence, I had one last performance to give, and I was determined that it should be my best. Sam and I had engaged a
local carpenter to erect for us a spacious, purpose-built Booth, quite nearly the size of a small house, at the best pitch on the Grassmarket, just adjacent to the West Port, past which nearly
everyone and everything passed on its way to or from market. Incorporated into this was a large banner, boldly painted on a length of tautly stretched linen, which depicted scenes from my entire
Life and Career, under the following heads,
viz.
, ‘Toby is born at S
ALFORD
’; ‘Toby at Astley’s Amphitheatre, D
UBLIN
’; ‘Toby a pupil at O
XFORD
’; ‘Triumph in L
ONDON
’; and finally ‘Elected Pig-laureate at
G
LASGOW
’. We engaged two subsidiary showmen as ‘barkers’ to drum up business at either end of the market, and a small fleet of boys to serve as animated
Sandwiches
, parading through town between two slabs of wood upon which were plastered the Bills for our show. Notices in all the papers completed the plan of our Campaign; never, to my
knowledge, has any such show been more widely
Advertis
’
d
in advance of its Opening.

Given the means employed, we expected a goodly crowd, and we were not disappointed; indeed, the numbers so greatly exceeded our expectations that we were obliged to add a third, and later a
fourth
, Show every day. Eager crowds of local citizenry queued long before our first appearance each day at Noon, and well after our final show each evening, the disappointed mingled with
the men who were busy removing the market-stalls and unsold produce. The notices in the local papers were exceedingly kind, and each night in our lodgings we were presented with further letters and
notes addressed to me, offering warm tributes to my work, and enquiring about tickets for the next Performance. By the third day, our morning stroll to the Grassmarket became a sort of Procession,
with the local crossing-sweepers and errand-boys proclaiming our progress and heralding our Entry, as though we were
Royalty
, while behind us trailed a string of carts, costermongers and
carriages nearly as extensive as the Lord Mayor’s Parade in
London
.

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.

This feeling was renewed, some time later, when I heard from Dr Cullen that Mr Burns, invited to a fashionable
soirée
by a Countess, where he feared he would be greeted not as a
true Friend but rather a mere Curiosity, had replied thusly: ‘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 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.

As for myself, the remainder of my performances in the Grassmarket were as great a success as the first, and I was then, and have for ever since been, grateful to the people of
Edinburgh
for the accolades and attendance with which I was showered for the duration of my Show. On the final evening, it was attended by the Lord Provost, Sir James Stirling, accompanied by a great many
councillors of that fair City; there was also a delegation from the University, which included Dr Cullen, along with his estimable colleague Dr Monro, and the poet and playwright John
Home
,
who paid me the singular compliment of reading an
Encomium
he had composed for the occasion, which concluded,

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

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