I was gold-digging once in San Francisco. There were mountebanks swarming all over the town. One with his toes could perform on the fiddle; Another could dance a Spanish halling[123] on his knees; A third, I was told, kept on making verses While his brain-pan was having a hole bored right through it. To the mountebank-meeting came also the devil;— Thought _he_’d try his luck with the rest of them. His talent was this: in a manner convincing, He was able to grunt like a flesh-and-blood pig. He was not recognised, yet his manners[124] attracted. The house was well filled; expectation ran high. He stepped forth in a cloak with an ample cape to it; _Man muss sich drappiren_, as the Germans say. But under the mantle—what none suspected— He’d managed to smuggle a real live pig. And now he opened the representation; The devil he pinched, and the pig gave voice. The whole thing purported to be a fantasia On the porcine existence, both free and in bonds; And all ended up with a slaughter-house squeal— Whereupon the performer bowed low and retired.— The critics discussed and appraised the affair; The tone of the whole was attacked and defended. Some fancied the vocal expression too thin, While some thought the death-shriek too carefully studied; But all were agreed as to one thing: _qua_ grunt, The performance was grossly exaggerated.— Now _that_, you see, came of the devil’s stupidity In not taking the measure of his public first. [_He bows and goes off. A puzzled silence comes over the crowd._ SCENE FIFTH. _Whitsun Eve.—In the depths of the forest. To the back, in a clearing, is a hut with a pair of reindeer horns over the porch-gable._ _PEER GYNT is creeping among the undergrowth, gathering wild onions._ PEER.