Regency Londoners and Their Odd Obsession with Pig-Faced Ladies

Throughout the 17th and 19th centuries, tales of pig-faced women fascinated and bewildered people across Europe. Though this legend originated roughly simultaneously in Holland, England, and France in the late 1630s, it was in England—and later in Ireland—that the story became most widely believed. Even Charles Dickens noted the enduring nature of the belief, stating in 1861,

“In every age, I suppose, there has been a pig-faced lady.”

Origins and Early Stories

The earliest stories of pig-faced women began to circulate in the late 1630s. One of the most famous legends involved a Dutch woman named Jacamijntjen Jacobs. As the story goes, she insulted a beggar who had come to her door by comparing her children to pigs. In response, the beggar cursed Jacobs’ unborn child, and when her daughter was born, she had the head and face of a pig.

This motif of a beggar’s curse echoed across similar tales, like that of Tannakin Skinker, a wealthy Dutch woman whose mother also rudely denied a beggar, resulting in her daughter developing a pig-like face. Tannakin’s story was widely retold in 17th-century ballads and even a chapbook, which suggested that her piggish appearance could only be broken by marriage. Ultimately, the curse was lifted when a suitor granted her the freedom to choose whether to be beautiful to him alone or to everyone else, echoing the “loathly lady” motif from medieval tales.

Such stories gained traction in societies that placed significant emphasis on physical beauty, particularly in women. Notably, the tales exclusively featured women, perhaps reflecting societal fears about female appearance and its connection to morality and social standing.

The Pig-Faced Lady of 1815 London

By the early 19th century, the pig-faced woman had become an urban legend in London, magnified by a rapidly growing news industry. The tale captured the city’s imagination, blending elements of monstrous folklore with contemporary anxieties surrounding physical difference and class.

In the summer of 1815, as Londoners celebrated the recent British victory over Napoleon, the city was buzzing with excitement. Crowds packed Piccadilly Street, and traffic slowed to a crawl. Memoirist Rees Howell Gronow recounted that one carriage, in particular, drew the crowd’s attention. Some onlookers swore they saw an animal’s snout protruding from beneath a trendy bonnet inside the carriage. Whispers spread through the throng: the infamous pig-faced lady was among them. The growing crowd pressed in, shouting for the carriage to stop, but the driver, faced with the frenzy, hurried away.

The mere suggestion of the pig-faced lady’s presence was enough to ignite real-world panic, proving how quickly wild rumors could spiral into chaos. The sensation had been building for months, driven by newspapers that transformed the urban legend into something resembling a celebrity.

In early 1815, The Times reported on a strange job posting: a woman expressed interest in caring for a lady “heavily afflicted in the face,” seeking a substantial salary in return. The newspaper ridiculed the idea, publishing a scathing article on February 16 that mocked readers’ gullibility: “Our rural friends hardly know what idiots London contains.” Yet, the paper also couldn’t resist detailing the mysterious figure, whom many believed to be living in the wealthy neighborhoods of Manchester or Grosvenor Square.

Matters escalated just days later when a marriage proposal appeared in the Morning Chronicle, placed by a man who wished to “explain his Mind to the Friends of a Person who has a Misfortune in her Face.” This intrigue, mixed with growing skepticism, stirred debates about the pig-faced woman’s existence. For many, the story was an obvious fabrication—yet its allure persisted.

Media Sensation and Popular Fascination

The pig-faced woman became a subject of illustrated broadsides, a new form of media that thrived on sensationalism. One printed by publisher John Fairburn included an account from a supposed former maid who claimed to have worked for the lady. Despite the good pay, the maid could not stomach her mistress’s appearance, and she soon left her employment. Another broadside by George Smeeton displayed a caricature of the woman dining from a silver trough, while yet another showed her dancing with the 8th Lord Kirkcudbright, a frequent target of satirists.

Even more fantastical tales arose, including one in which the pig-faced lady bit a rude gentleman and chased him away with grunts, succumbing to her animalistic instincts in a moment of fury. These stories blurred the line between human and beast, highlighting societal fears about class, physical difference, and femininity.

As historian Michael Egan of McMaster University notes, “Monsters are one of the great universals in human history. Every society has them. They create them.” The pig-faced lady legend tapped into these fears, representing a fusion of the monstrous and the elite. While she did not evoke the same terror as ghosts or werewolves, the pig-faced woman symbolized a disturbing proximity to barnyard animals and the more animalistic side of human nature. This was further complicated by her upper-class status, adding a layer of discomfort to the narrative.

A Reflection of Social Fears

The story of the pig-faced lady also played into long-standing fears about “monstrous births,” which were often interpreted as signs of divine displeasure or the result of a pregnant woman’s illness or emotional turmoil. In one edition of The Examiner in February 1815, a writer recounted a tale in which a high-ranking woman was frightened by a dog while pregnant, resulting in her giving birth to a child with a deformity. Such stories positioned the pig-faced lady as a cautionary tale, a warning about the dangers of improper behavior or moral failings during pregnancy.

Moreover, the tale highlighted the precarious position of women in Regency society. Appearance was closely tied to a woman’s value, morality, and social standing, and the pig-faced lady represented the ultimate fear of being judged solely on one’s physical differences. Art historian Candace Livingston of Anderson University observes, “Even in the 19th century, they would’ve assumed that there was a reason that this person was born that way, that it was sort of a cautionary tale.”

The Legend Fades

By the summer of 1815, the fever surrounding the pig-faced lady had begun to fade. Nevertheless, the story lingered in public consciousness. In 1861, an anonymous man wrote to Notes and Queries asking for information about the pig-faced lady, claiming to know reliable witnesses who had seen her. Later that year, Charles Dickens wrote of the legend in All the Year Round, remarking that “In every age, I suppose, there has been a pig-faced lady.”

While the pig-faced woman of 1815 London eventually vanished from the streets, her legacy endured in the form of grotesque sideshows. At fairs, attendees would gather to see what they believed to be the pig-faced lady, only to realize that the “woman” was, in fact, a shaved bear dressed in a gown and tied to a chair. This horrific display persisted until such shows were outlawed in 1911 under the Protection of Animals Act.

Though the legend of the pig-faced woman may seem outlandish today, it captured the imaginations of people in a way that reveals much about the fears and anxieties of the past. The tale reflected concerns about class, physical appearance, and how society treated those who were visibly different. Even as the 19th century progressed and Enlightenment thought brought scientific explanations for physical anomalies, the pig-faced woman remained a powerful symbol of the intersection between myth, fear, and social tension.

“We’re always going to be interested in people who have different bodies,” says Livingston. “Hopefully, as a society, we are handling those bodily differences better, more respectfully, and with a genuine desire to get to know people as humans, not just as some sideshow.”

Though the pig-faced woman has faded into folklore, she remains a fascinating figure—both as a curiosity of the past and a reminder of the ways in which society grapples with difference.

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