It never was the intention of the compiler of this work to give an account of all the curious and remarkable persons that have figured on this mortal stage, but only such as have not been usually incorporated in works of this kind; it has been thought advisable, however, to make the following additions to this department, with which, it is hoped, the reader will be amused and instructed.

An account of that celebrated extraordinary Genius, John Henderson, B. A.—Of this much celebrated young man, whose extraordinary acquirements attracted the notice, and even commanded the respect, of Dr. Johnson, several accounts have been published, and much eulogium has been pronounced. By many he has been supposed to emulate the variety and extent of knowledge possessed by the admirable Crichton; and, like that eccentric character, he has left little for posterity to form a judgment of the truth of those praises which have been bestowed upon him.

He was born at Bellegarance, near Limerick, in the kingdom of Ireland, on the 27th of March, 1757, of very pious and respectable parents. He received his education among the Methodists; and at eight years of age he understood Latin so well, as to be able to teach it at Kingswood school. At twelve, he taught the Greek language, in the school of Trevecka, in Wales, to men, several of whom were double his age. The governor of the college, at that time, was the Rev. Mr. Fletcher, late Vicar of Madeley, a clergyman highly distinguished for the fervour of his piety and the liveliness of his imagination. Some disagreement taking place with this gentleman and those who had the superintendence of the college, he was dismissed, together with young Henderson, who soon after, at the age of twenty-four years, went to Oxford, was entered of Pembroke college, and, in due time, took the degree of Bachelor of Arts. From the time of his entrance into the college, his life passed with little variety, and no adventure. His thirst after knowledge appears to have been unabated and unobtruded; he was admired, and generally respected; and he acquired habits, some of which brought him into the notice of the world, almost as much as his talents. Some of these traits of character having been depicted by one who appears to have known him well, we shall give nearly in the words of their author, who was also of Pembroke college, and thus describes Mr. Henderson’s appearance when he was first introduced to him.

His clothes were made in a fashion peculiar to himself; he wore no stock nor neckcloth; his buckles were so small as not to exceed the dimensions of an ordinary knee-buckle, at a time when very large buckles were in vogue. Though he was then twenty-four years of age, he wore his hair like a schoolboy of six.

Mr. H.’s temper was mild, placable, and humane. He professed that he was ready to serve any individual as far as lay in his power. His benevolence knew no bounds; and his liberality was so diffusive, that it submitted with difficulty to the circumscription of a narrow income. He was fond of society, and well qualified to shine in it. He was frank, open, and communicative, averse to suspicion, and untinctured with pride and moroseness. His mode of life was singular. He generally retired to rest about daybreak, and rose in the afternoon; a practice, however, that was frequently interrupted by the occasional attendance he was obliged to give to the morning service of the college chapel. He spent a great part of the day in smoking; and, except when in company, he usually read while he smoked.

With regard to his moral and religious character, he was a pattern highly worthy of imitation. He shewed a constant regard to the obligations of honour and justice; and commended, both by precept and example, an attention to moral rectitude in all its ramifications. He had the courage to reprove vice and immorality wherever they appeared; and though he was sometimes treated on these occasions with contumely and insult, he bore with a moderation truly christian, so ill a return for his well-meant endeavours. He was perfectly acquainted with the religious dogmas of every different sect, and could readily detect the respective fallacies of each.

His abilities and understanding were eminently conspicuous. His penetration was so great, as to have the appearance of intuition. So retentive was his memory, that he remembered whatever he heard; and this faculty of recollection, combined with a pregnancy of imagination and solidity of judgment, enabled him to acquire an amazing fund of erudition and argument, a fund ready at every call, and adequate to every emergency.His learning was deep and multifarious. He was admirably skilled in logic, ethics, metaphysics, and scholastical theology. He had studied the healing art with particular attention, and added to a sound theoretic knowledge of it, some degree of practice. His skill in this art he rendered subservient to his philanthropy; for he gratuitously attended the valetudinarian poor wherever he resided, and favoured them with medical advice, as well as pecuniary assistance. He had a competent knowledge of geometry, astronomy, and every branch of natural and experimental philosophy. He was well acquainted with the civil and canon laws, and the law of nature and nations. In classical learning and the belles lettres, he was by no means deficient. He was master of the Greek and Latin, as well as of several modern languages.

He spoke of physiognomy as a science with all the confidence of a Lavater. He pretended to a knowledge of the occult sciences of magic and astrology. Whether this was or was not a mere pretence, we leave to the judgment of the enlightened reader. Suffice it to remark, that his library was well stored with the magical and astrological books of the last century.

His talents of conversation were so attractive, so various and multiform, that he was a companion equally acceptable to the philosopher and the man of the world, to the grave and the gay, the learned and the illiterate, the young and the old of both sexes.

Henderson, like many other great characters, had his little peculiarities. The following remarkable custom was frequently observed by him before he retired to repose:—He used to strip himself naked as low as the waist, and taking his station at a pump near his rooms, would completely sluice his head and the upper part of his body; after which he would pump over his shirt so as to make it perfectly wet, and putting it on in that condition, would immediately go to bed. This he jocularly termed “an excellent cold bath.” The latter part of this ceremony, however, he did not practise with such frequency as the former.

There is great reason to think that he materially injured a good natural constitution by the capriciousness of his conduct, and particularly by the bold and strange experiments which he was accustomed to be always making upon himself. He used to swallow large quantities of noxious drugs, and quicksilver; and what seemed very rash, such doses of opium, like the famous Psalmanazar, as were apparently sufficient to send a dozen men to the grave.

His external appearance was as singular as his habits of life. He would never suffer his hair to be strewed with white dust, (to use his own expression,) daubed with pomatum, or distorted by the curling-irons of the friseur. Though under two-and-thirty years of age at his death, he walked, when he appeared in public, with as much apparent caution and solemnity as if he had been enfeebled by the co-operation of age and disease.

His learning was truly astonishing: scarcely a book, however obscure, could be mentioned, but he could give some account of it; nor any subject started, but he could engage in the discussion of it. He had a very deep and extensive knowledge of the learned languages; the Arabic and Persian were familiar to him. He delighted much in parodoxes, and his intimate acquaintance with the schoolmen brought him much into the habit of disputation. At one time he was profoundly plunged in the study of the writings of the illumined Jacob Behmen; and he then, and afterwards, warmly vindicated the system, if system it may be called, of that wonderful man.

Many surprising cures, accomplished by means of his prescriptions, might be produced: one upon a very ingenious and valuable youth in the neighbourhood of Taunton, deserves notice, as the patient had been in an alarming decline for the long space of four years, and seemed just verging to the house appointed for all living. Mr. Henderson attended him with the utmost assiduity and tenderness, and saw, at last, his patient in a state of perfect health. The benevolent man had then a presentiment of his own approaching change, and addressed himself to his young friend to this effect: “My young and beloved friend, your cure, in all human probability, is now certain, and you will live, but I shall die. Remember, to be pious, is to be happy; to be sober, is to live long; and to practise the moral virtues, is to become great.”—Mr. Henderson died a few months after, November 2, 1788. His connections with the Methodists continued till the last. The late venerable and truly great John Wesley had a very great regard for him. The father of Mr. Henderson was for some time one of Mr. Wesley’s itinerant preachers in Ireland, from whence he came over to Bristol, and soon after settled at Hanham, a village about four miles from that city, where he set up a very respectable boarding-school, for the instruction of youth in classical learning. A few years previous to his death, he left off keeping school, and opened his house for the reception of insane persons. The death of his favourite and only child, made a deep and lasting impression on him; and so strongly was he affected by his loss, that he caused the corpse to be taken up again some days after the interment, to be satisfied whether he was really dead. The following is taken from the sermon that was preached by his friend, Mr. Agutter:—“When we consider the strength of his mind, the variety of his knowledge, and the excellencies of his soul, we may justly declare, that he was a truly great character, and an original genius. The partiality of friendship must give place to the sacredness of truth; and I do not mean to describe him as a perfect man: his friends lamented his failings, and he himself sincerely repented of them. The God of heaven does not require more of his fallen creatures; and let us remember not to be extreme to mark all that is done amiss, seeing we have much cause for shame and repentance. He was a meek sufferer through this world of misery; a sincere and contrite penitent for time mispent and talents misapplied; an humble believer in Christ his Saviour. I saw him in his last sufferings; I heard his last words; he languished under extreme weakness; he laboured under most grievous pains. He was wonderfully patient and resigned; for he knew in whom he believed, and his hope was full of immortality. He prayed with uncommon fervour to his good God, even to Jesus Christ, in whom all his hopes were placed; and “without whom,” says he, “heaven would be no heaven to me.” Death was the wished-for messenger, whom he earnestly expected. Three days before that awful event, his pulse ceased to beat, and the sight of his eyes went from him—the last struggle is over; the bitterness of death is past. There was an humble dignity and composure in that hour of trial, worthy the man and Christian. Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end, or more properly, my hereafter, be like his.”

The next character we shall introduce is a contrast to the former; he being famous for comprehension of mind, this for bulk of body.

Daniel Lambert, the Fat Man.—This prodigy of corpulence, or obesity, was born at Leicester, March 13, 1770. He became keeper of the prison in his native town. He first went to London for exhibition, in 1806, and was visited by persons of all ranks, and was considered the then wonder of the world. After this he travelled over England, and astonished every beholder by his immense bulk. He was very polite, shrewd, and well informed. This extraordinary man died at Stamford, on the 21st of June, 1809. He had travelled from Huntingdon to that town; and on the Tuesday before his death, he sent a message to the office of the Stamford newspaper, requesting, that “as the mountain could not wait upon Mahomet, Mahomet would go to the mountain;” or, in other words, that the printer would call upon him, and receive an order for executing some handbills, announcing Mr. Lambert’s arrival, and his desire to see company in that town. The orders he gave upon that occasion were delivered without any presentiment that they were to be his last, and with his usual cheerfulness; he was then in bed, only fatigued from his journey, and anxious to be able to see company early in the morning. However, before nine o’clock, the day following, he was a corpse. His corpulency had been gradually increasing, until nature could no longer support it. He was in his 40th year; and upon being weighed within a few days, by the famous Caledonian balance, in the possession of Mr. King, of Ipswich, was found to be 52 stone, 11 lbs. in weight, (14 lb. to the stone,) which is 10 stone 11 lb. more than the great Mr. Bright, of Essex, weighed,—or, 6 cwt. 2 qrs. 11 lb.

He had apartments at Mr. Berridge’s, the Waggon-and-Horses, in St. Martin’s, on the ground floor, for he had long been incapable of walking up stairs. His coffin, in which there was great difficulty of placing him, was six feet four inches long, four feet four inches wide, and two feet four inches deep. The immense substance of his legs made it necessarily almost a square case. The celebrated Sarcophagus of Alexander, viewed with so much admiration at the British Museum, would not contain this immense sheer hulk. The coffin, which consisted of 112 superficial feet of elm, was built upon two axle-trees and four wheels, and upon them the remains of poor Lambert were rolled into his grave, which was in the new burial ground at the back of St. Martin’s church. A regular descent was made by cutting away the earth slopingly, for some distance. The window and wall of the room in which he lay was taken down, to allow of his exit.

Edward Nokes.—This was an extraordinary character, at Hornchurch, in Essex. He was by trade a tinker, which he followed zealously till about six weeks before his death. His apartments pourtrayed symptoms of the most abject poverty, though at his death he was found to be possessed of between five and six thousand pounds. He had a wife and several children, which he brought up in the most parsimonious manner, often feeding them on grains and offals of meat, which he purchased at reduced prices. He was no less remarkable in his person and dress; for, in order to save the expense of shaving, he would encourage the dirt to gather on his face, to hide in some measure this defect. He never suffered his shirt to be washed in water, but after wearing it till it became intolerably black, he used to wash it in urine, to save the expense of soap. His coat, which time had transformed into a jacket, would have puzzled the wisest philosopher to make out its original colour, so covered was it with shreds and patches of different colours, and those so diversified, as to resemble the trophies of the different nations of Europe, and it seemed to vie with Joseph’s coat of many colours.The interest of his money, together with all he could heap up from his penurious mode of living, he used to deposit in a bag, which bag was covered up in a tin pot, and then conveyed to a brick kitchen, where one of the bricks was taken up, and a hole made just large enough to hold the pot; the brick was then carefully marked, and a tally kept behind the door, of the sum deposited. One day his wife discovered this hoard, and, resolving to profit by the opportunity, took from the pot one, of sixteen guineas that were then placed therein. Her husband soon discovered the trick, for when he came to count his money, on finding it not to agree with the tally behind the door, which his wife did not know of, he taxed her with the theft; and to the day of his death, even on his death-bed, he never spoke to her without adding the epithet ‘thief’ to every expression.

In his younger days, he used, at the death of any of his children, to have a deal box made to put them in; and with out undergoing the solemn requisites of a regular funeral, he would take them upon his shoulder to the place appropriated for their reception; where, once interred, he seemingly coincided with the old adage, “Out of sight, out of mind,” and appeared as unconcerned as if nothing had happened.

A short time before his death, which he evidently hastened by the daily use of nearly a quart of spirits, he gave strict charge that his coffin should not have a nail in it; which was actually the case, the lid being fastened with hinges made of cords; there was no plate on the coffin, but barely the initials “E. N.” cut out of the lid. His shroud was made of a pound of wool; the coffin was covered with a sheet instead of a pall, and was carried by six men, to each of whom he left half-a-crown: and, at his particular desire, not one who followed him to the grave wore mourning; but, on the contrary, each of the mourners seemed to try whose dress should be the most striking, even the undertaker being habited in a blue coat and scarlet waistcoat. He died without a will, and his fortune was equally divided between his wife and family. His death took place in 1802.

A Sketch of the Memoirs of the celebrated Swindler, Charles Price.

Even-handed justice returns the ingredients
Of our poison’d chalice to our own lips.
Shakspeare.

In the following sketch we shall detail a series of singular facts, scarcely ever before equalled in the annals of depravity. By bringing forward such particulars, we may learn the progress of iniquity, teach the rising generation to guard against its first approaches, and warn our readers against those depredations which are daily infesting society. Such examples of wickedness are indeed humiliating to our nature, but they hold forth instructive lessons; in this point of view, they are well deserving of our contemplation.

Charles Price was born about the year 1730, in London: his father lived in Monmouth-street, and carried on the trade of a salesman in old clothes; here he died in the year 1750, of a broken heart, occasioned, it is said, by the bad conduct of his children.

In early life, Charles manifested those traits of duplicity for which he was afterwards so greatly distinguished. One instance shall be mentioned: he ripped off some gold lace from a suit of old clothes in his father’s shop, and putting on his elder brother’s coat, went to sell it to a Jew. The Jew, most unfortunately, came and offered it to the father for sale;—he instantly knew it, and insisted on the Jew declaring whence he received it. The boys passing by, he pointed to the elder one, on account of his coat, as the person of whom he bought it; and he was directly seized, and severely flogged: his protestations of innocence were in vain—the father was inflexible; whilst Charles, with an abominable relish for hypocrisy, secretly rejoiced in the castigation.

His father, tired of the tricks and knaveries of his son Charles, put him an apprentice to a hosier in St. James’s-street. Here he continued but for a short time. He robbed his father of an elegant suit of clothes, in which he dressed himself, went to his master in this disguise, purchased about ten pounds’ worth of silk stockings, left his address, “Benjamin Bolingbroke, Esq. Hanover-square,” and ordered them to be sent to him in an hour’s time, when he would pay the person who brought them. His master did not know him; and, to complete the cheat, our hero, coming back in half an hour in his usual dress, was ordered to take the goods home, which he actually pretended to do; and thus were both master and father robbed. He was, however, afterwards found out, and discarded: henceforward, therefore, we are to regard him in society, where he, for a series of years, practised the most outrageous arts of duplicity.

Soon after this period he set off for Holland, under the assumed name of Johnson. Forging a recommendation to a Dutch merchant, he became his clerk,—debauched his master’s daughter,—was offered her in marriage, robbed his employer, and returned to England. He conducted this business with the most consummate villany.

He now contrived to become clerk in his Majesty’s small-beer brewhouse, near Gosport. At this place he behaved himself with so much propriety, that he was on the point of forming a matrimonial connection with his master’s daughter every thing, however, was soon laid aside by an accidental discovery: the Jew to whom he had formerly sold the gold lace happened to live at Portsmouth, by whom his character was soon disclosed, and spread abroad. Thus were his hopes put to flight, and he was again thrown upon the wide world.

As his wits were never long unemployed for some deceptive ends, he thought of advertising for a partner in the brewery line; and actually issued the following curious advertisement, in the year 1755:—

“Wanted,—A partner of character, probity, and extensive acquaintance, upon a plan permanent and productive,—fifty per cent, without risk, may be obtained. It is not necessary he should have any knowledge of the business, which the advertiser possesses in its fullest extent; but he must possess a capital of between 500 and 1000 pounds, to purchase materials, with which, to the knowledge of the advertiser, a large fortune must be made in a very short time.

“Address to P. C. Cardigan Head, Charing Cross.”

“P. S. None but principals, and those of liberal ideas, will be treated with.”

To this advertisement, the famous comedian, Samuel Foote, Esq. paid attention. Eager to seize what he thought a golden opportunity, he advanced the sum of £500 for a brewery: we need not add, that the sum soon disappeared, and Foote was wrung with the anguish of disappointment. Price, however, had the impudence to apply to him again, wishing him to unite in the baking trade: the comedian archly replied, “As you have brewed, so you may bake; but I’ll be hang’d if ever you bake as you have brewed!”

After this unfortunate business, Mr. Price turned Methodist preacher, and in this character defrauded several persons of large sums of money.

Advertising, in order to get gentlemen wives, he swindled a person of the name of Wigmore, of fifty guineas, for which he was indicted; but having refunded a part, effected his escape. These and other fraudulent practices were long the objects of his ambition, though they are all sure and certain roads to infamy: such was his strange propensity.

With astonishing impudence, he again set up a brewery in Gray’s-inn-lane; and, after various frauds, he became a bankrupt in 1776. Ever fruitful in resources, he set out for Germany; but in Holland he got into prison for being concerned in a smuggling scheme, by which three hundred pounds were obtained. By his artful defence he escaped, and returned to his native country. Here he once more engaged his attention by a sham brewery, at Lambeth, where he was married. Continuing, however, to practise his deceptions, he was obliged to decamp, went actually to Copenhagen, and, after some time, came back to England, where he was doomed to close his days.

His breweries having failed, he now proceeded to study how in other ways he might most effectually ravage society. Under the pretence of charity, he obtained money, for which he was imprisoned; and having been liberated, he succeeded in various impositions as a clergyman. This eventually brought him to the King’s Bench prison, from whose walls he dexterously extricated himself.

A lottery-office-keeper was the next subject of his attention; but decamping with a ticket of very large value, this scheme speedily came to a termination. To recount all his tricks, would form the contents of a well-sized volume. Alas for human depravity!

But we now arrive at that period of our hero’s life, when he commenced his ravages upon the Bank of England, which ended in his destruction. Such a series of iniquitous devices were never before practised on mankind.

In the year 1780, under the assumed name of “Brank,” Mr. Price engaged a servant, a plain, simple, honest fellow, by whom he passed his notes without detection. He advertised for him, and their meeting was truly curious. Having received a reply to the advertisement, one evening, just as it was dark, he, driving to the person’s residence, sent the coachman to inquire for the man who had answered the advertisement, saying, “There was a gentleman over the way, in a coach, who wanted to speak with him.” On this, the young fellow was called, and went to the coach, where he was desired to step in. There he saw an apparently old man, affecting the foreigner, seemingly very gouty, wrapped up with five or six yards of flannel about his legs, a camblet surtout buttoned over his chin, close to his mouth, a large patch over his left eye, and every part of his face so hid, that the young fellow could not see any part of it, except his nose, his right eye, and a small part of that cheek. To carry on the deception still better, Mr. Price thought proper to place the man on his left side, on which the patch was, so that the old gentleman could take an askance look at the young man with his right eye, and by that means discover only a small portion of his own face. He appeared, by this disguise, to be between sixty and seventy years of age; and afterwards, when the man saw him standing, not much under six feet high, owing to boots or shoes with heels very little less than three inches high. Added to this deception, he was so buttoned up and straightened, as to appear perfectly lank.

The writer of his life, to whom we are indebted for these particulars, then subjoins:—“It may not be ill-timed, to those who did not know him, to give the true description of his person. He was about five feet six inches high; a compact neat-made man, square shouldered, inclined to corpulency; his legs were firm and well set; but by nature his features made him look much older than he really was, which, at that time, was nearly fifty; his nose was aquiline, and his eyes small and gray; his mouth stood very much inwards, with very thin lips; his chin pointed and prominent; with a pale complexion: but what contributed as much as any thing to favour his disguise of speech was, his loss of teeth. He walked exceedingly upright, was very active and quick in his walk, and was something above what we describe a man to be, when we call him “a dapper-made man.”

This simple and honest fellow (Samuel) Mr. Price employed to negociate his forged bills, principally in the purchase of lottery tickets, at the same time never fully disclosing to him his name, person, or history. Indeed, the plan was devised and executed with uncommon ability. However, at last Samuel was detected, having passed bills to the amount of fourteen hundred pounds!! but his agent eluded discovery, and retired with his booty into the shades of the deepest obscurity. The poor servant was imprisoned for nearly a twelvemonth, terrified out of his wits, being the innocent instrument of such complicated villany.

Mr. Price, having most probably exhausted his former acquisitions, sallied forth, in the year 1782, after new game, with the most unparalleled audacity. For this purpose, he obtained his second servant, from a register-office, a smart active boy, of the name of Power: his father was a Scotch presbyterian; and, to ingratiate himself with him, Mr. Price made great pretensions to religion, expressing a hope that his son was well acquainted with the Lord’s Prayer, and the Ten Commandments. Our hero began his ravages upon Mr. Spilsbury, of Soho-square, ordering large quantities of his drops. Wilmot was his present assumed name, and he introduced himself to him as possessing all the symptoms of age and infirmity. He was wrapped up in a large camblet great coat; he had a slouched hat on, the brim of which was large, and bent downward on each side of his head; a piece of red flannel covered his chin, and came up on each side of his face almost as high as his cheek-bones; he had a large bush wig on, and legs wrapped over with flannel; he had also a pair of green spectacles on his nose, with a green silk shade hanging down from his hat, but no patch on his eye.

It is remarkable that Mr. Spilsbury knew Mr. Price, but not Mr. Wilmot; nay, so complete was the deception, that as they sat together in a coffee-house, Mr. S. complained to his coffee-house acquaintance, of the notes which Wilmot had imposed upon him, Price crying out now and then, “Lack-a-day! Good God! who could conceive such knavery to exist? What, and did the Bank refuse payment, Sir?” staring through his spectacles with as much seeming surprise as an honest man would have done. “O yes,” (said Mr. S.) with some degree of acrimony, “for it was on the faith of the Bank of England, that I and a great many others have taken them; and they were so inimitably well done, that the nicest judges could not distinguish them.”—“Good God! Lack-a-day! (said Price,) he must have been an ingenious villain! What a complete old scoundrel!”

Upon Mr. Watt a hosier, Mr. Reeves a colourman, and a great many other individuals, he practised frauds equally ingenious and successful, for in one day he negociated sixty ten-pound-notes, and changed fourteen fifty-pound notes for seven one-hundred-pound notes; indeed, so multiplied were his tricks at this period, that the mind sickens at the recital of them.

In his last attempt on the Bank, which ended in his detection, he assumed the name of Palton, pretended he was an Irish linen factor, and employed two young men to circulate his notes, whilst he still, greatly disguised, kept back in obscurity. By means of a pawnbroker, he was found out with great difficulty. On his seizure, he solemnly declared his innocence, and before the magistrate behaved with insolence. This detection took place on the 14th of January, 1786: he was soon sworn to by more persons than one; and seeing no way of escape, he pretended, to his wife in particular, great penitence; but there appeared no ground for its reality. The Bank was fully intent on the prosecution of him, and there was no doubt of his dying by the hands of the executioner. He, however, was found one evening hanging against the post of his door, in his apartments, Tothill-fields bridewell. Thus was the earth freed from as great a monster as ever disgraced society.

It may appear strange to the reader that this depraved impostor could have so long escaped discovery. But it must be added, that besides the multifarious disguises of his person, he had taken care to prevent almost the possibility of detection. To use the words of the writer of his life—“Had Mr. Price permitted a partner in his proceedings, had he employed an engraver, had he procured paper to be made for him with water-marks put into it, he must have been soon discovered; but Price was without a confidant: he engraved his own plates, made his own paper, with the water-marks, and his negociator never knew him, thereby confining a secret to his own breast, which he wisely deemed not safe in the breast of another; even Mrs. Price had not the least knowledge or suspicion of his proceedings. Having practised engraving till he had made himself sufficiently master of it, he then made his own ink, to prove his own works; having purchased implements, and manufactured the water-marks, he next set himself to counterfeit hand-writings, and succeeded so far, as even to puzzle a part of the first body of men in the world. The abilities of the unhappy Ryland were exerted in his profession, and therefore the imposition was to be less wondered at; but here was a novice in the art, capable of equal ingenuity in every department of the dangerous undertaking, from the engraving down to the publication.”

Whoever reads this narrative with attention, must feel rising within his breast a series of useful reflections. That such talents should be appropriated to such a use, must be deeply regretted; but that any individual should, throughout life, thus prey on his fellow-creatures, excites the strongest detestation. Society also may learn lessons of caution and vigilance from the contemplation of the extraordinary character we have delineated. Vice here appears in its most odious features, that of meditated imposition upon the honest and industrious part of the community. Mark, however, its serpentine progress and its wretched termination.

The eccentric Stephenson.—A person of the name of Stephenson, who died at Kilmarnock, in Scotland, in 1817, came originally from Dunlop, and was brought up as a mason, but during many of the latter years of his life he had wandered about as a beggar. His wife and himself had been separated thirty years, upon these strange conditions,—that the first who proposed an agreement should forfeit £100. This singular pair never met again. Stephenson was much afflicted, during the last two years of his life, with the stone. As his disease increased, he was fully aware of his approaching dissolution; and for this event he made the following extraordinary preparation:—He sent for a baker, and ordered twelve dozen of burial cakes, and a great profusion of sugar biscuit, together with a corresponding quantity of wine and spirituous liquors. He next sent for a joiner, and ordered a coffin decently mounted, with instructions that the wood should be quite dry, and the joints firm, and impervious to the water. The grave-digger was next sent for, and asked if he thought he could find a place to put him in after he was dead. The spot fixed upon was in the church-yard of Riccarton, a village about half a mile distant. He enjoined the sexton to be sure and make his grave roomy, and in a dry comfortable corner; and he would be well rewarded for his care and trouble. Having made these arrangements, he ordered the old woman that attended him, to go to a certain nook, and bring out £9, to be appropriated to defray the funeral charges. He told her, at the same time, not to be grieved,—that he had not forgotten her in his will. In a few hours afterwards, in the full exercise of his mental powers, but in the most excruciating agonies, he expired.

A neighbour and a professional man were immediately sent for, to examine and seal up his effects. The first thing they found was a bag, containing large silver pieces, such as crowns, half-crowns, and dollars, to a large amount: in a corner was secreted, amongst a vast quantity of musty rags, a great number of guineas and seven-shilling pieces. In his trunk was a bond for £300, and other bonds and securities to the amount of £900. By his will, £20 were left to his housekeeper, and the rest of his property to be divided among his distant relations. As it required some time to give his relatives intimation of his death, and to make preparations for his funeral, he lay in state four days, during which the place resembled more an Irish wake than a deserted room where the Scots lock up their dead. The invitations to his funeral were most singular. Persons were not asked individually, but whole families; so that, except a few relatives dressed in black, his obsequies were attended by tradesmen in their working clothes, barefooted boys and girls, and an immense crowd of tattered beggars; to the aged among whom he left six-pence, and to the younger three-pence. After the interment, this motley group retired to a large barn, fitted up for the purpose, where a scene of profusion and inebriety was exhibited almost without a parallel.

Whimsical Character.—The Rev. Mr. Hagamore, of Catshoge, Leicestershire, was a very singular character. He died the 1st of January, 1776, possessed of the following effects, viz.—£700 per annum, and £1000 in money, which, as he died intestate, fell to a ticket-porter in London. He kept one servant of each sex, whom he locked up every night. His last employment of an evening was to go round his premises, let loose his dogs, and fire his gun. He lost his life as follows: Going one morning to let out his servants, the dogs fawned upon him suddenly, and threw him into a pond, where he was found dead. His servants heard his call for assistance, but being locked up, they could not lend him any. He had 30 gowns and cassocks, 100 pair of breeches, 100 pair of boots, 400 pair of shoes, 80 wigs, yet always wore his own hair, 58 dogs, 80 waggons and carts, 80 ploughs, and used none, 50 saddles, and furniture for the menage, 30 wheelbarrows, so many walking-sticks, that a toyman in Leicester-fields offered £8 for them, 60 horses and mares, 200 pickaxes, 200 spades and shovels, 74 ladders, and 249 razors.

Extraordinary Character.—In July, 1818, A. M. Cromwell, of Hammersmith, died suddenly in Tottenham-court-road: he was returning from the corn-market, when he was taken ill, and carried, in a dying state, into the house of a corn-chandler, in Tottenham-court-road. The master of the shop, who knew him, was from home, and in the country. The mistress did not know him, and he was therefore treated with no more attention from her than humanity dictated.

He remained in the shop, and a crowd was collected in consequence. His dress not bespeaking him a man of wealth or respectability, he was about to be removed to the parish workhouse. However, some gentlemen passing by chance, recognized him; and, knowing him to be a wealthy man, thought it right to search his person in the presence of several witnesses, when they found bank-notes to the amount of £1500. A surgeon was sent for, who attended, and examined him; and declared, that, in his opinion, he had been dying during the last two hours, in consequence of the breaking of a blood-vessel, supposed to be near his heart. It is said he was worth two millions and a half. He was 75 years old, and had been accumulating property for a great number of years, living at the most trifling expense. He frequently bought his clothes in Monmouth-street, and wore them as long as they would hang together: his breeches were very greasy and ragged; his stockings usually contained many holes; in fact, he could not be distinguished by his dress from his men. In the summer season he was frequently up at three o’clock, attending to and assisting in loading the brick carts, &c. &c. His wealth did not improve or alter his conduct, manners, or mode of living. He provided plenty of food for the house, but it was in a very rough style;—fat pork, fat bacon, &c. and sometimes poultry. His hog-feeders and other men sat at table with him in their working-dress; and, if a friend happened to dine with him, his men were made company for them, and he did not deviate from his daily plan of helping them first.

Indian Jugglers; (see pages 62 and 63.)—The Indian jugglers, who exhibited in London from 1810 to 1815, performed such astonishing feats, that it would appear to require a long life, spent in incessant practice, to acquire facility in any one of them; such proficiency is so common, however, in India, that it probably excites no extraordinary interest there. The following is a description of their performances, which were witnessed by the editor of this work.

The exhibition takes place upon a raised platform, on which, having performed his salaam, or eastern obeisance, the chief performer takes his seat; and behind him sits the second juggler, and an attendant boy, whose occupation is to beat together two metallic plates, somewhat resembling cymbals, which emit an unremitting sound, like the clucking of a hen.

The first tricks are performed with cups and balls. These are similar in their mode to the deceptions of our own conjurers, and only remarkable for the superiority of their evolutions in the hands of this celebrated Asiatic. The cups seem enchanted; the balls fly; they increase in number; they diminish; now one, now two, now none under the cup; and now the serpent, the cobra de capella, usurps the place of a small globule of cork, and winds its snaky folds as if from under the puny vessel. The facility with which this dexterous feat is accomplished, gives life and animation to the sable countenance of the artist, whose arm is bared to the elbow, to shew that the whole is done by sleight of hand. During his performances, the juggler keeps up an unremitting noise, striking his tongue against his teeth, like the clack of machinery, and uttering sounds, as if he were repeating, with inconceivable rapidity, the words “Crickery-tick, crickery-tick, crickery-tick, a-tow, geret-tow, crickery-tick, a-tow, geret-tow, &c.”

The next feat is that of breaking a cotton thread into the consistency of scraped lint, as used by surgeons, and reproducing it continued and entire; after which he lays upon the palm of his hand a small quantity of common sand; this he rubs with the fingers of his other hand, and it changes its hue—the colourless grains become yellow; he rubs them again, they are white; again, and they are black.

A series of evolutions then succeeds, with four hollow brass balls, about the size of oranges. His power over these is almost miraculous. He causes them to describe every possible circle—horizontally, perpendicularly, obliquely, transversely, round his legs, under his arms, about his head, in small and in large circumferences—with wondrous rapidity, and keeping the whole number in motion at the same time. This being the sole fruit of effort, activity, quickness of eye, and rapidity of action, no one who has not witnessed it can form an idea of its excellence. He then exhibits his astonishing power of balancing. He places on his two great toes (over which he seems to have the same command that less favoured whites enjoy over their fingers only) a couple of thin rings, of about four inches in diameter; a pair of similar rings he places on his fore fingers, and then he sets the whole into rotation, and round they all whirl, and continue describing their orbits without cessation, as if set to work by machinery, endowed with the principle of perpetual motion. Throwing himself back, the performer then balances a sword upon his forehead, and with his mouth strings a number of very small beads upon a hog’s bristle, which he holds between his lips. All the wheels are kept in regular movement; the sword is nicely poised; and arts and manufactures, under the emblem of bead-stringing, carried on in peacefulness: during this part of the show, the performer is compelled, from the nature of his employment, to be still and quiet.

Having concluded this, the juggler executes the following exploit.—Upon the tip of his nose he balances a small wooden parasol, from the circumference of which about a dozen of cork tassels are pendent. With his mouth he inserts into each of these tassels a quill of about the length of twelve inches, and the thickness of that of the porcupine. The bases of these he places with his tongue between his upper lip and nose, the rings on his toes all the while performing their circuits. Having succeeded in putting a quill into every tassel, he takes out the centre stick on which the parasol was originally supported from the top of his nose, and it then remains balanced on the quills. Thus far the work is difficult enough; but this is nothing to its conclusion. He undermines his structure by a quill at a time, till only three remain. Of these he takes one away; and the top, which resembles the roof of a pagoda, swings down, and hangs by two, the Indian preserving the astonishing balance even throughout this motion, which might be deemed sufficient to disconcert any human ingenuity: but even here he does not stop; the last prop but one is removed, and on that one the erect balance of the machine rests.

After a variety of other extraordinary performances, the Indian places a stone of fourteen pounds weight, about the size and shape of a Dutch cheese, between his feet. With an apparently slight exertion, he kicks up his heels, and the stone, performing a parabola over his head from behind, alights upon the bend of his arm, where it rests. He then tosses it to the same part of the other arm, where it rests, as if held by the hand, or caught by magic; thence he throws it to various parts of his frame, to his wrist, and the back of his neck. At this latter point it might be supposed it would be stationary, as one feels very little capacity of twisting any weighty body from the neck in a direction different from what it would take on being shaken off. But even here our juggler commands its obedience. He again tosses it to his arm; back again to his neck; and after a few gambols of this sort, he finally, by a masterly jerk, throws the stone of fourteen pounds weight round his head.

The famous feat of swallowing the sword closes this wonderful exhibition; for a description of which, the reader is referred to page 63.

John Metcalf, or Blind Jack of Knaresborough.—This extraordinary character was born in 1717, and died in 1798. When four years old, his parents, who were working people, put him to school, soon after which he was seized with the small-pox, by which he became totally blind, though all possible means were used to preserve his sight. Recovering from the small-pox, he found that he was able to go from his father’s house to the end of the street, and return, without a guide; and, in the space of three years, he could find his way to any part of the town, which gave him much satisfaction. In process of time, he began to associate with the neighbouring boys, of his own age, and went with them to take birds’ nests. For his share of the eggs and young birds, he was to climb the trees, whilst his companions waited at the bottom to receive what he should throw down. After that, he could ramble into the fields alone, frequently to the distance of two or three miles; and, his father keeping horses, he in time became an able horseman, and a gallop was his favourite pace. At the age of thirteen, being taught music, he became very expert, though he had more taste for the cry of the hounds than for any instrument. A Mr. Woodburn, of Knaresborough, master of a pack of hounds, used to take young Metcalf to hunt with him; and he having a couple and a half of good ones of his own, used to go out at a night when the hares were feeding; but one of his young dogs happening to worry a couple of lambs, Metcalf was obliged to discontinue this practice. At about fourteen years of age he learned to swim in the river Nidd; but few of his companions liked to come near him in the water, it being his custom to seize them, send them to the bottom, and swim over them by way of diversion.

Having practised on the violin till he could play country dances, he attended several assemblies, and to his fondness for hunting, added that of cock-fighting; and, if at any time he heard of a better game-cock than his own, he would be sure to get him by some means or other, though at ever so great a distance. In fact, his fame began to spread to such a degree, that when any arch trick was done, inquiry was sure to be made, where Blind Jack was at the time. In 1732, Metcalf succeeded the fiddler at Harrowgate, who died in the 102d year of his age; after this he bought a horse, and often ran him for small plates; and for some time, hunting by day, and fiddling by night, were his principal occupations. Soon after this, as Metcalf had learned to walk and ride very readily through most of the streets in York, he one evening offered himself as a guide to a gentleman who wanted to go to Knaresborough that night, and absolutely performed it, the gentleman not even suspecting that he was blind till they came to their journey’s end. This the gentleman was told at the sign of the Granby, just as he had entered the parlour. Expressing some doubt of this to the landlord’s question, “Do you not know that he is blind?” he exclaimed, “What do you mean by that?”—“I mean sir, that he cannot see.”—“Blind! gracious God!”—“Yes sir, as blind as a stone.” Metcalf was then called in, and the gentleman’s doubts were immediately dissipated.

In 1745, during the rebellion, as Captain Thornton undertook to raise a company at his own expense, and knowing Metcalf’s turn of mind, engaged him as a musician to his corps. As Metcalf was then nearly six feet two inches high, and being, like his companions, dressed in blue and buff, with a large gold-laced hat, the captain was so well pleased with him, that he said he would give one hundred guineas for only one eye to be put into the head of his dark companion. During the rebellion, after seeing much service, and being particularly noticed by the duke of Cumberland, he was discharged, and being at liberty to choose his occupation, he attended Harrowgate as before; but having, in the course of his Scotch expedition, become acquainted with the various articles manufactured in that country, he provided himself with several in the cotton and worsted way, especially Aberdeen stockings, for all which he found a ready sale in the extensive county of York. Among a thousand articles, he never was at a loss to know what each had cost him, from a particular mode of marking. It was also customary with him to buy horses for sale in Scotland, bringing back galloways in return. In this traffic he depended on feeling the animals to direct his choice. In 1754, Metcalf set up a stage waggon between York and Knaresborough, being the first of the kind known on that road. This he constantly conducted himself, going twice a week in summer, and once in the winter; but at length, turning his attention to the making of roads, he disposed of his waggon, &c. His first undertaking of this kind was three miles of the new turnpike road from Harrowgate to Boroughbridge; and for this he was actually appointed foreman to the surveyor.

He often walked from Knaresborough in the morning, with four or five stone of meat on his shoulders, and joined his men by six o’clock. By the means he used, he completed the work much sooner than was expected, to the entire satisfaction of the surveyor and the trustees. During his leisure hours he studied measurement in a way of his own; and, when certain of the girth and length of any piece of timber, he was able to reduce its true contents to feet and inches, and could bring the dimensions of any building into yards or feet. In fact, he contracted for, and constructed several roads, in a manner superior to the method of making them at that time. He built various bridges in difficult situations, in a manner that astonished those that employed him, and afterwards undertook the erection of houses. One of his bridges, it was remarked, had stood thirty years, and the foundation never cost one penny in repairs.

In 1792, having been some time absent, he returned to Yorkshire, and, having no engagement, he bought hay to sell again: he used to measure the stacks with his arms, and knowing the height, could readily tell what number of square yards were contained in hay, from five to one hundred pounds value; with equal facility he could calculate the solid contents of standing wood. Having known the streets of York very accurately in the earlier part of his life, he determined to visit that ancient city, where he had not been for the space of thirty-two years. He found alterations for the better in Spurrier-gate, Blake-street, the Pavement, &c. and so retentive was his memory, that, though so many years had elapsed since he had been that way before, he discovered an alteration in the hanging of two gates by a wall-side near the house of a Mr. Barlow. His wife died in 1778, in her 61st year, leaving him four children, after 39 years of conjugal affection and felicity.

Mrs. Van Butchell.—In 1775, died the wife of an eccentric empiric, Dr. Martin Van Butchell; and the singular mode employed for the preservation of her body merits notice. On her death taking place, he applied to Dr. Hunter, to exert his skill in preventing, if possible, the changes of form usual after the cessation of life. Accordingly, the doctor, assisted by the late Mr. Cruikshank, injected the blood-vessels with a coloured fluid, so that the minute red vessels of the cheeks and lips were filled, and exhibited their native hue; and the body in general, having all the cavities filled with antiseptic substances, remained perfectly free from corruption, or any unpleasant smell, and as if it was merely in a state of sleep. But to resemble the appearance of life, glass eyes were also inserted. The corpse was then deposited in a bed of thin paste of plaster of Paris, in a box of sufficient dimensions, which subsequently crystallized, and produced a pleasing effect. A curtain covered the glass lid of the box, which could be withdrawn at pleasure; and which box being kept in the common parlour, Mr. Van Butchell had the satisfaction of retaining his departed wife for many years, frequently displaying the beautiful corpse to his friends and visitors. A second marriage, some years afterwards, is said to have occasioned some family difference, and it was found expedient to remove the preserved body.

Harrison, a Penurious Character.—This person died in November, 1821, in Bennett-street, Rathbone-place, Oxford-road, London, where he had lodged 20 years. The furniture of his room consisted of one old chair, a table, a trunk or two, an old stump bedstead, and a bed of straw; in one corner was a heap of ashes; and the cupboard, the day after his decease, contained a few potato-peelings and a stale roll. His body presented a picture of the most extreme misery and starvation, though he had no family, and had property in the funds to the amount of £1500. A female friend who lived at Putney, and was in the habit of calling on him when she came to town, deposed, that he would let no person but her enter his room, which he always kept padlocked inside, for fear of being robbed: he lay on his bed in the day-time, and sat up at night without any fire, always burning a lamp. A few evenings before his death, he told the female before-mentioned, that many persons wanted to finger his cash, but they should not. He then desired her to lock him in, and take the key with her, which she did; but, on going again next day, she found him lying on his bed with his clothes on, quite dead. He had made his will several months before, and left her executrix of his property, which was to be divided between herself, his nephew, and niece. He had been married, and had a daughter, who, with his wife, were both dead. He carried large sums of money sewed up in different parts of his clothes, for which reason he never pulled them off. Upwards of £100 was found upon him at the time of his death, on the night previous to which he sent for one oyster, half a pint of beer, and a pennyworth of figs, which he ate. For nearly four years previous to his decease, he appeared almost childish. The jury that sat upon the body, brought in their verdict,—Died by the visitation of God.

The Blind Clergyman.—The following very interesting account was published in the Morning Chronicle of Jan. 21, 1791. It bears all the marks of authenticity.

“In my rambles (says the writer) last summer, on the borders of Wales, I found myself one morning on the banks of the beautiful river Wye, alone, without a servant or guide. I had to ford the river at a place where, according to the instructions given me at the nearest hamlet, if I diverged ever so little from the marks which the ripling of the current made as it passed over a ledge of rock, I should sink twice the depth of myself and horse. While I stood hesitating on the margin, viewing attentively the course of the ford, a person passed me on the canter, and the next instant I saw him plunge into the river. Presuming on his acquaintance with the passage, I immediately and closely followed his steps. As soon as we had gained the opposite bank, I accosted him with thanks for the benefit of his guidance; but what was my astonishment, when, bursting into a hearty laugh, he observed, that “my confidence would have been less, had I known that I had been following a blind guide.” The manner of the man, as well as the fact, attracted my curiosity. To my expressions of surprise at his venturing to cross the river alone, he answered, that he and the horse he rode had done the same every Sunday morning for the last five years; but that in reality, this was not the most perilous part of his hebdomadal peregrination, as I should be convinced, if my way led over the mountain before us. My way was ad libitum, at pleasure; I therefore resolved to attach myself to my extraordinary companion, and soon learned in our chat, as we wound up the steep mountain’s side, that he was a clergyman, and of that class which is the disgrace of our ecclesiastical establishment; I mean the country curates, who exist upon the liberal stipend of thirty, twenty, and sometimes fifteen pounds a year! This gentleman, of the age of sixty, had about thirty years before been engaged in the curacy to which he was now travelling; and though at the distance of eight long Welsh miles from the place of his residence, such was the respect of his Sunday flock towards him, that at the commencement of his calamity, rather than part with him, they sent regularly, every Sunday morning, a deputation to guide their old pastor along a road, which, besides the river we had just passed, led over a craggy mountain, on whose top innumerable and uncertain bogs were constantly forming, and which, nevertheless, by the instinct of his Welsh pony, this blind man has actually crossed alone for the last five years, having so long dismissed the assistance of guides.

“While our talk beguiled our road, we insensibly arrived within sight of his village church. It was seated in a deep and narrow vale. As I looked down upon it, the bright verdure of the meadows, which were here and there chequered with patches of yellow corn, the moving herds of cattle, the rich foliage of the groves of oak, hanging irregularly over its sides, the white houses of the inhabitants, which sprinkled every corner of this peaceful retreat; and above all, the inhabitants themselves, assembled in their best attire round their place of weekly worship; all this gay scene rushing at once on the view, struck my senses and imagination more forcibly than I can express. As we entered the church-yard, the respectful “How do you do?” of the young, the hearty shakes by the hand of the old, and the familiar gambols of the children, shewed how their old pastor reigned in the hearts of all. After some refreshment at the nearest house, we went to church, in which my veteran priest read the prayers, the psalms, and chapters of the day, and then preached a sermon in a manner that would have made no one advert to his defect of sight. At dinner, which it seems four of the most substantial farmers of the vale provided in turn, he related the progress of his memory. For the first year he attempted only the prayers and sermons, the best readers of the parish making it a pride to officiate for him in the psalms and chapters. He next endured the labour of getting these by heart; and at present, by continual repetition, there is not a psalm or chapter of the more than two hundred appointed for the Sunday service, that he is not perfect in. He told me also, that having in his little school two sons of his own, intended for the university, he has, by hearing them continually, committed the greatest part of Homer and Virgil to his memory.”

We shall now introduce to the notice of the reader, a living character,—a child, a little girl,—the most extraordinary that ever appeared in the world.

Miss Clara Fisher.—This little lady, the youngest daughter of Mr. G. F. Fisher, a respectable auctioneer, of London, was born in Covent-garden, on the 14th of July, 1811. At a very early age, she evinced powers of intellect and genius very unusual in infants. A passionate fondness for music was a first characteristic; and while yet in the arms of a nurse, she was excited to pleasurable emotions, when tunes which she liked were played, but shewed the most determined opposition in her power, to the continuance of those to which she had conceived an aversion. This fact is recorded in the writings of Anthony Pasquin, in his Dramatic Censor, as an instance of wonderfully premature infantine endowment.

The fame which Miss O’Neil had acquired soon after her appearance in London, induced Mr. Fisher to take his family to Covent-garden theatre, to witness her performance of Jane Shore; and to the impression made that night on the mind of little Clara, may be ascribed the wonderful turn for theatrical exhibition, which has ever since characterized this juvenile candidate for histrionic fame. On the same evening, after returning from the theatre, Clara retired to a corner of the room, and, as she thought, unseen, went through, in dumb show, a great part of the performances she had witnessed at the theatre. These evident symptoms of dramatic genius in a child, then under four years of age, excited much surprise and pleasure amongst the family circle. A few evenings afterwards, she was persuaded to repeat this primary exhibition before some private friends, and the applause which she elicited seemed to implant in her young mind that ardent love for the stage, which thenceforward has guided all her thoughts and actions.In the autumn of 1817, Dr. D. Corrie, the celebrated musician, and composer of the music of the Travellers, solicited and received permission for little Clara to appear in a private performance with his juvenile pupils in music. A short character was assigned to little Clara to learn; and she performed it with an effect which excited the astonishment and admiration of a select and fashionable company, who had met to witness the efforts of the juvenile performers. From the success of this evening’s amusement, may be dated Miss Clara’s introduction to public notice. On the 10th of December following, she appeared in Drury-lane theatre, in Garrick’s romance of Lilliput; revived and altered, with songs, prologue, epilogue, and a masque, written by Mr. Fisher; and in which was introduced the last act of Shakspeare’s Richard III. in order to bring forward the little Clara in the character of the crookbacked tyrant. Her success in this arduous character was beyond all anticipation: for seventeen nights the house was crowded in every part, and the applause bestowed on the extraordinary infant, then only six years and a half old, was enthusiastic and incessant. The public journals published in London during the run of the piece, bear ample testimony of the high estimation in which the best critics of the day held the talents of the young actress. Immediately after the close of her engagement at Drury-lane, she was applied for by Mr. Harris, of Covent-garden theatre, where she performed with equal success and approbation. On one occasion, his present Majesty, then Prince of Wales, honoured the theatre with his presence, and was pleased cordially to join in the general plaudits of the audience. After the part of Richard III. was concluded, she appeared in her own infantine character, and delivered the following epilogue, written by her father, with a pathos and feeling which powerfully affected the auditors:—

Well, Sirs, what say you to our little play—
Must it expire, or live another day?
Will you permit once more our group to try
To raise your laughter, or to make you cry?
My spangled robes laid by, and waving plume,
In muslin frock my sex I re-assume;
And though in simple dress I’m now array’d,
I hope you’ll not reject a little maid,
Who sues for favour, for herself, and those,
Who, like herself, are now in common clothes.
And I assure you, ladies, from my heart,
I like my robes much better than my part;
The shining spangles are to me so dear,
I’m come to ask—may I again appear?
O! pray indulge me in this one request,
And I will strive to please you,—and be drest!On leaving Covent-garden, she was engaged by Mr. Elliston to perform at the Birmingham theatre, as a star, for some nights; after which she appeared in Bath, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Aberdeen, York, Doncaster, Hull, Brighton, and every theatre of consequence, in the kingdom.

Miss Clara Fisher has at this time, 1822, been on the boards more than four years, and has already performed in about one hundred theatres. She has travelled through various parts of Great Britain, a distance of upwards of ten thousand miles; and she has performed in Shakspeare’s character of Richard III. more than two hundred and fifty times, besides other arduous parts in the various departments of the English drama. Her singing and dancing are equal to her other accomplishments, and yield delight to all who witness them. Bring yet but eleven years of age, she will furnish for the future historian a rare instance of precocity of intellect. She is gracefully formed, but not tall of her age; her face is oval, and full of expression; her eyes blue, large, and animated; her mouth particularly well moulded; and her hand and arm are considered by artists as uncommonly beautiful for her years. The general opinion of critics is, that she resembles in voice, and manner of acting, the late celebrated Mrs. Jordan.

An authentic anecdote is related of our heroine, which places, in a strong point of view, her felicitous conception of character, and her extraordinary collectedness and presence of mind, under circumstances, which, in all probability, would confuse and flutter even a long-experienced actor. Immediately after leaving Drury-lane, she performed for Mr. Elliston, at Birmingham. A new and elegant crown was there made for her, that she might appear to advantage in the character of Richard III. The crown was accidentally made too small, and was with difficulty kept on the head. When Richard (personated by this little lady) descended from the throne, in the presence of his nobles, and was delivering one of his most impassioned speeches, the crown fell off upon the stage. Contrary to the natural expectation of all, little Clara took no notice of the circumstance, but concluded her speech with the same energy and commanding deportment with which it commenced; and then beckoning to Catesby to approach, “Catesby!” said she, pointing to the fallen diadem, and stood erect and motionless, with the haughty dignity of monarchy, until, the brief mandate understood, he lifted it, and solemnly replaced it upon her brows. Thus, when a less-gifted performer would have found it difficult to save the whole scene from derision, did she sternly maintain the regal character she had assumed; and commanded the respect, surprise, and admiration of the audience.

Earth Eaters; from Humboldt’s Personal Narrative.—“The inhabitants of Umana belong to those nations of the savannas, [Indios andantes,] who, more difficult to civilize than the nations of the forest, [Indios del monte,] have a decided aversion to cultivate the land, and live almost exclusively on hunting and fishing. They are men of a very robust constitution; but ugly, savage, vindictive, and passionately fond of fermented liquors. They are omnivorous animals in the highest degree; and therefore the other Indians, who consider them as barbarians, have a common saying, ‘Nothing is so disgusting, that an Otomac will not eat it.’ While the waters of the Oroonoko and its tributary streams are low, the Otomacs subsist on fish and turtles; the former they kill with surprising dexterity, by shooting them with an arrow, when they appear at the surface of the water. When the rivers swell, which in South America, as well as in Egypt and in Nubia, is erroneously attributed to the melting of the snows, and which occurs periodically in every part of the torrid zone, fishing almost entirely ceases. It is then as difficult to procure fish in the rivers, which are become deeper, as when you are sailing on the open sea. It often fails the poor missionaries, on fast-days as well as flesh-days, though all the young Indians are under the obligation of ‘fishing for the convent.’ At the period of these inundations, which last two or three months, the Otomacs swallow a prodigious quantity of earth. We found heaps of balls in their huts, piled up in pyramids, three or four feet high. These balls were five or six inches in diameter. The earth which the Otomacs eat is a very fine and unctuous clay, of a yellowish gray colour; and, being slightly baked in the fire, the hardened crust has a tint inclining to red, owing to the oxide which is mingled with it. We brought away some of this earth, which we took from the winter provision of the Indians; and it is absolutely false that it is steatitic, and contains magnesia. Mr. Vanquelin did not discover any traces of this earth in it; but he found that it contained more silex than alumine, and three or four per cent. of lime.

“The Otomacs do not eat every kind of clay indifferently; they choose the alluvial beds or strata that contain the most unctuous earth, and is the smoothest to the feeling. I inquired of the missionary, whether the moistened clay were made to undergo, as Father Gumilla asserts, the peculiar decomposition which is indicated by a disengagement of carbonic acid and sulphuretted hydrogen, and which is designated in every language by the term putrefaction; but he assured me, that the natives neither cause the clay to rot, nor do they mingle it with flour of maize, oil of turtles’ eggs or fat of the crocodile. We ourselves examined, both at the Oroonoko, and after our return to Paris, the balls of earth which we brought away with us, and found no trace of the mixture of any organic substance, whether oily or farinaceous. The savage regards every thing as nourishing that appeases hunger; when, therefore, you inquire of an Otomac on what he subsists during the two months when the river is the highest, he shews you his balls of clay. This he calls his principal food; for at this period he can seldom procure a lizard, a root of fern, or a dead fish swimming at the surface of the water.

“If the Indian eats earth through want during two months, and from three-quarters to five-quarters of a pound in twenty-four hours, he does not the less regale himself with it during the rest of the year. Every day, in the season of drought, when fishing is most abundant, he scrapes his balls of poya, and mingles a little clay with his other aliment. What is most surprising, is, that the Otomacs do not become lean by swallowing such quantities of earth; they are, on the contrary, extremely robust, and far from having the belly tense and puffed up. The missionary, Fray Ramon Bueno, asserts, that he never remarked any alteration in the health of the natives at the period of the great risings of the Oroonoko.

“The following are the facts, in all their simplicity, which we were able to verify. The Otomacs, during some months, eat daily three-quarters of a pound of clay slightly hardened by fire, without their health being sensibly affected by it. They moisten the earth afresh when they are going to swallow it. It has not been possible to verify hitherto with precision how much nutritious vegetable or animal matter the Indians take in a week at the same time; but it is certain that they attribute the sensation of satiety which they feel to the clay, and not to the wretched aliment which they take with it occasionally.

“I observed every where within the torrid zone, in a great number of individuals, children, women, and sometimes even full-grown men, an inordinate and almost irresistible desire of swallowing earth; not an alkaline or calcareous earth, to neutralize, as it is vulgarly said, acid juices, but a fat clay, unctuous, and exhaling a strong smell. It is often found necessary to tie the children’s hands, or to confine them, to prevent their eating earth, when the rain ceases to fall. At the village of Banco, on the bank of the river Magdalena, I saw the Indian women who make pottery, continually swallowing great pieces of clay.”

The celebrated Dr. Graham.—About the year 1782, there appeared in London one of the most extraordinary empirics of modern times. His name was Graham. He was a graduate of Edinburgh, wrote in a bombastic style, and possessed a great fluency of elocution. He opened in Pall-Mall, a mansion, which he called the “Temple of Health.” The front was ornamented with an enormous gilt sun, a statue of Hygenia, and other attractive emblems; the suit of rooms, in the interior, was superbly furnished; and the walls were decorated with mirrors, so as to confer on the place an effect like that from an enchanted palace. Here he delivered lectures on health, &c. at the extravagant price of two guineas per lecture; and the price, together with the novelty of his subjects, drew considerable audiences of the wealthy and dissipated. He entertained a female, of beautiful figure, whom he called the Goddess of Health, and it was her business to deliver a concluding discourse after the Doctor himself had finished his lecture. As a further means of attraction, he hired two men of extraordinary stature, provided with enormous cocked hats, and with showy and bulky liveries, whose business it was to distribute bills from house to house through the town. Graham became, therefore, an object of universal curiosity. But, as his two-guinea auditors were soon exhausted, he dropped his lectures successively to one guinea, half-a-guinea, five shillings, and (as he said, “for the benefit of all,”) to half-a-crown; and, when he could no longer draw this price, he exhibited the temple itself for one shilling, to daily crowds, for several months.

Among his furniture was a Celestial Bed, as he called it, standing on glass legs, provided with the richest hangings, and possessing properties peculiar to itself. For sleeping in this bed, he demanded one hundred pounds per night; and such is the folly of wealth, that heirless persons, of high rank, were named, who acceded to his terms. He also pretended to have discovered the “Elixir of Life,” by taking which, a person might live as long as he pleased, and he modestly demanded one thousand pounds for a supply of it; and more than one noble person was reported to have paid this enormous price to be cured of folly.

Having worn out his character in these various projects, he then recommended Earth-bathing, and undertook to sanction it by his own practice. During one hour every day, he, therefore, admitted spectators, at first at a guinea, and then descended, as in a former instance, to a shilling, to view him and the goddess of health immersed naked in the ground to their chins; the Doctor having his hair full-dressed and powdered, and the lady’s head being dressed also in the best fashion of the times. When no more money was to be drained from the population of London, the Doctor visited the great provincial towns, and lectured and exhibited in the same manner whenever he could obtain permission of the magistrates. In the end, the goddess of health nearly fell a victim to the practice; and the Doctor retired from public notice, and died in poor circumstances a few years afterwards, in spite of his “Elixir of Life,” at the early age of fifty-two. His brother married the celebrated Mrs. Macauley Graham, and his sister was married to Dr. Arnold, of Leicester, the respectable author of a very able treatise on insanity.

It is generally understood, that the lady who performed the singular part of the goddess of health, was Emma, afterwards wife of Sir W. H. and a personal favourite of a late celebrated naval character.

The Admirable Crichton.—Mr. James Crichton, according to the generality of his biographers, was born in the year 1551; but Lord Buchan fixes the time of his nativity in the month of August, 1560. It is admitted by all, that this celebrated man was a native of Scotland; but although Perth has in general been considered as his birth-place, even this circumstance has been perplexed with conflicting opinions. Of his ancestors, the accounts are equally diversified. Some assert that his father, Robert Crichton, commanded the army of Queen Mary at the battle of Langside: others state, with equal confidence, that he was Lord Advocate of Scotland from 1560 to 1573. His mother’s name was Elizabeth Stewart, the only daughter of Sir James Stewart, of Beath, a descendant of Robert, duke of Albany, the third son of king Robert the Second. Relying on his pedigree, he was accustomed to boast, when he displayed his astonishing acquirements in foreign countries, of his lineal descent from the Scottish kings.

At what time Mr. James Crichton began his studies, we are not informed; neither have we any satisfactory accounts when those diversified powers of his mind, on which all Europe gazed with admiration, first appeared to excite attention. The primary rudiments of his grammatical education were received at Perth; after which he studied philosophy in the University of St. Andrew. In that University, his tutor was the celebrated John Rutherford, a professor, famous for his learning, and distinguished by four books, which he had written on Aristotle’s Logic, and a commentary on his Poetics. But it is not to this professor alone, that the honour of forming this extraordinary character is to be ascribed. Manutius, who calls Crichton first cousin to the king, says, that he was educated with James I. under Buchanan, Hepburn, and Robertson, as well as under Rutherford. We cannot doubt, from the favourable circumstances under which Crichton entered life, that the best masters were assigned him that could be procured in every department of learning.Under their tuition, and through the native vigour of his understanding, he had acquired a knowledge of ten different languages, and had run through the whole circle of the sciences, by the time he had attained the twentieth year of his age. Arduous, however, as these varied pursuits may seem to common minds, they occupied a part only of Crichton’s attention. A portion of his time was devoted to music, in the knowledge of which he made an astonishing proficiency. He learnt to play on various instruments; and improved himself, to the highest degree, in dancing, fencing, singing, and horsemanship.

Having made himself master of these various acquirements, he left his native land, and, proceeding to Paris, introduced himself to the literati of that city in the following manner. On his arrival, he caused six placards to be fixed on the gates of the schools, halls, and colleges, belonging to the University, and on all the pillars and posts of the houses inhabited by men most renowned for literature and science, inviting all who thought themselves well versed in any art, to meet and dispute with him in the college of Navarre, on that day six weeks, by nine in the morning. In this challenge, which was according to the practice of the age, he declared himself ready to answer any question which should be proposed to him, on any art or science, in any of the twelve following languages, viz. Hebrew, Syriac, Arabic, Greek, Latin, Spanish, French, Italian, English, Dutch, Flemish, and Sclavonian; and this either in prose or verse, at the choice of his antagonist.

Bold as this challenge may appear, instead of devoting himself to the minute examination of the various articles contained in its comprehensive embrace, upon the issues of which he had risked his reputation, his time was chiefly spent in hunting, hawking, tilting, vaulting, riding, tossing the pike, handling the musket, and such military feats and athletic exercises; and, when tired with these, the interim was filled up in domestic engagements, such as balls, concerts of music, vocal and instrumental, cards, dice, and tennis, together with such diversions as frequently occupy the mind of youth. A mode of conduct, apparently so inconsistent with the character he had assumed in his placards, the students of the University were at a loss how to interpret. And so provoked were they at the insolence of this daring foreigner, that, beneath the placard which was fixed on the gate at Navarre, they caused the following words to be written:—“If you would meet with this monster of perfection, to make search for him either in the tavern or the brothel is the readiest way to find him.”

But notwithstanding this dissipation, when the appointed day arrived, Crichton appeared in the college of Navarre, and engaged in a disputation, which lasted from nine in the morning until six in the evening. And so well did he acquit himself, that the President, after expatiating on the many rare and excellent endowments which God had bestowed upon him, rose from his chair, and, accompanied by four of the most eminent professors of the University, presented him with a diamond ring, and a purse full of gold, as a testimony of their high approbation. On what subjects these antagonists disputed, we have not been informed; neither is it known with certainty in what languages they addressed each other. We are only told, that the interview ended amidst the reiterated acclamations and huzzas of the spectators; and that this conquest obtained for him the appellation of “The Admirable Crichton.” It has been added, to the preceding account, that so little was he fatigued with the dispute, that he went to the Louvre, on the ensuing day, and engaging in a tilting match, an exercise then much in use, carried off the ring fifteen times successively, and broke as many lances, in the presence of some princes of the French court, and of a great many ladies, whose applauses were deemed a glorious reward, by all the heroes of chivalry.

Of Crichton’s exploits in Paris, the following account has been given by Mackenzie, and translated by Pennant, from the testimony of an author whom they consider as an eye-witness.

“There came to the college of Navarre, a young man of twenty years of age, who was perfectly well seen in all the sciences, as the most learned masters of the University acknowledged. In vocal and instrumental music, none could excel him; in painting and drawing in colours, none could equal him. In military feats he was most expert; and could play with the sword so dexterously with both his hands, that no man could fight him. When he saw his enemy or antagonist, he would throw himself upon him at one jump of twenty or twenty-four feet distance. He was master of arts, and disputed with us in the schools of the college, on medicine, the civil and canon law, and theology. And, although we were above fifty in number, besides about three thousand who were present, so pointedly and learnedly he answered to all the questions which were proposed to him, that none but they who were present can believe it. He spoke Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, and other languages, most politely. He was likewise a most excellent horseman; and, truly, if a man should live a hundred years, without eating, drinking, or sleeping, he could not attain to this man’s knowledge, which struck us with a panic fear, for he knew more than human nature can well bear. He overcame four of the doctors of the church; for in learning none could contest with him; and he was thought to be Antichrist.”

Having thus obtained in Paris the victory for which he contended, Crichton next repaired to Rome, where he affixed a placard upon all the eminent places of the city, in the following terms:—“Nos Jacobus Crictonus Scotus, cuicunque Rei propositÆ ex improviso respondebimus.” In a city which abounded with scholastic learning and wit, this challenge, bearing all the marks of presumption, soon became the subject of a pasquinade. Rome, it has been said, was at this time much infested with mountebanks, jugglers, and other empirics; and those who felt indignant at the placard of Crichton, endeavoured to ridicule him, by classifying him with the quacks. Designating him by the neuter gender, their pasquinade was to the following effect:—“And he that will see it, let him repair to the sign of the Falcon, and it shall be shewn.” Boccalini, who was then at Rome, says, that the appearance of this paper had such an effect upon him, that, with indignant feelings, he almost immediately left the city, where he had been so grossly insulted, in being compared to the impostors who could only amuse the vulgar. Mackenzie, however, asserts, that instead of being discouraged, he appeared at the time and place appointed; and, in the presence of the Pope, many Cardinals, Bishops, and Doctors of Divinity, and Professors of all the Sciences, displayed such wonderful proofs of his universal knowledge, that he excited a degree of astonishment equal to that which had marked his career in Paris.

From Rome, Crichton proceeded to Venice, in which place he appears to have been reduced to much distress; but whether this arose from any mental depression, from bodily indisposition, or from embarrassment of circumstances, is not clearly expressed. The reality of his distress he has stated in a poem, the principal design of which was, to obtain a favourable reception in the city; and more particularly so, with Aldus Manutius, a celebrated critic. On presenting his verses, Manutius was struck with an agreeable surprise, at the comprehensiveness of thought, the display of intellect, and the brilliancy of genius, which they exhibited. And, upon conversing with the author, he was so filled with admiration on finding him intimately acquainted with almost every subject, that he introduced him to the acquaintance of the principal men of learning and note in Venice.

Thus recommended, he contracted an intimate friendship with Manutius, Massa, Speronius, Donatus, and various others, to whom he presented several poems, in commendation of the university and city. Three of these odes are still preserved. After some time he was introduced to the Doge and Senate, in whose presence he delivered a speech, fraught with so much beauty and eloquence, and accompanied with such gracefulness of person and manners, that he received the thanks of that illustrious body; and nothing was talked about for some time, through the city, but this rara avis in terris,—this prodigy in nature. In this city, also, he held various disputations, on theology, philosophy, and mathematics, with the most eminent professors, and before vast concourses of people. The talents which he displayed on these occasions, gave such publicity to his reputation, that multitudes repaired to Venice from distant parts, that they might have an opportunity of seeing and hearing a man, whose abilities were considered as almost super-human.

Adorned with all the laurels of literature which Venice could bestow, Crichton next removed to Padua, the university of which was, at this time, in high repute. On the day after his arrival, there was a general meeting of all the learned men which this place could boast; but on what occasion they were convened, we are not informed. The fame of Crichton, however, gained him an admission into this learned assembly, whom he immediately addressed in an extemporary poem, in praise of the city, of the university, and of the company that had honoured him with their presence. Having finished this introductory address to the admiration of all present, he disputed during six hours with the most celebrated professors, on various subjects of learning. It was during this debate, that he exposed the errors of Aristotle and his commentators, with so much solidity, acuteness, and modesty, that the admirers of this philosopher were astonished at his acquirements, and even filled with profound admiration. Before they separated, he delivered, extempore, an oration in praise of Ignorance, which he conducted with so much ingenuity, managed with such exquisite skill, and expressed with so much elegance, that his hearers were almost overwhelmed with amazement. This display of his learning and talents took place on the 14th of March, 1581, in the house of Jacobus Aloysius Cornelius.

As several persons of considerable rank, who were absent on the above memorable day, expressed their regret on this occasion, Crichton appointed another, to meet any opponents who might be disposed to encounter him; merely to comply with their earnest solicitations, and to afford them gratification. Whether this meeting ever took place, seems rather uncertain. Manutius asserts, that some circumstances occurred which prevented it; but Imperialis observes, from information communicated by his father, who was present on the occasion, that Crichton was formidably opposed by Archangelus Mercenarius, a famous philosopher, but that the young foreigner was finally victorious, and obtained the plaudits of the auditors, and the approbation even of his antagonist.

But this tide of popular applause was not without its corresponding eddy. Mortified at being foiled by this youthful stranger, many, even among the learned, envied both his fame and merit, and did not hesitate to resort to artifices, which, they imagined, would lessen his reputation. Crichton was not ignorant of these contrivances; and, conscious of his own transcendent abilities and attainments, he resolved to give all who were inclined to detract from his merit, a convincing proof of his decided superiority. He therefore caused a paper to be fixed on the gates of St. John’s and St. Paul’s churches, in which he offered to prove, before the University, that both Aristotle and his followers had fallen into almost innumerable errors; and that the latter had failed in explaining the philosophy of their master, and had erred in their application of his principles to theological subjects. He engaged, likewise, to refute the theories of several mathematical professors; offered to dispute with any one on all the sciences; and promised to answer whatever might be proposed to him, or objected against what he should advance. All this he engaged to do, either in the common logical way, or by numbers and mathematical figures; or, in case his antagonists should prefer it, in no less than one hundred sorts of verses.

The men who had been secretly contriving how to undermine his reputation, beheld this challenge with strange emotions. From the presumption which it displayed, they flattered themselves with an easy conquest; but from the talents which Crichton had on all former occasions manifested, and his being constantly victorious, they became intimidated, and hesitated to accept the summons they had provoked. They had, however, proceeded too far to retreat; and therefore nothing remained but for them to collect their forces, and meet him, agreeably to his proposal. Manutius informs us, that the meeting took place at the time appointed; that the disputations continued for three days; and that Crichton, during the whole contest, supported his credit, and maintained his propositions with so much spirit and energy, and apparently with so little fatigue, that he obtained, from an unusual concourse of people, such acclamations and praises as were scarcely ever before received by man.

Nor were the bodily powers, activity, and skill, of this astonishing man less conspicuous, than those energies by which his mind was distinguished. Of these, also, he has given some surprising proofs in his various exploits.

It happened much about this time, that a famous gladiator, who, in his travels, had foiled the most able fencers in Europe, and lately killed three men who had entered the lists against him, took up his residence in Mantua. The duke, under whose promised protection he had taken shelter, on finding that he had afforded an asylum to a troublesome inmate, by whom the inhabitants were much annoyed, did not hesitate to manifest his regret: but having pledged his word, which he could neither recall nor violate, no way remained to release the public from this sanctioned pest, but that of finding some person who would dare to meet him in single combat.

Crichton having been informed of the fact, in connection with its various circumstances, voluntarily offered his services, not only to drive the murderer from Mantua, but to prevent his remaining in any part of Italy. He therefore made a proposal to fight him for fifteen hundred pistoles. The duke, though anxious to be delivered from his troublesome intruder, was unwilling that the valuable life of Crichton should be placed in competition with that of such a barbarous adventurer. But having been informed that he was as capable of appearing in feats of arms, as in scientific disquisitions, he gave his consent, that he should undertake to meet the combatant. Affairs being arranged, and the day appointed, the whole court assembled to witness the issue of this singular conflict. In the commencement of this encounter, Crichton stood wholly on the defensive; while his antagonist assailed him with such eagerness and fury, that in a short time he became exhausted. This Crichton soon perceived; and availing himself of the opportunity, attacked him in return, with so much skill and resolution, that he was unable to withstand the assault. The weapons with which they fought were rapiers, then but newly brought into use; but so far had Crichton made himself master of this instrument of death, that he ran his antagonist through the body three times, and saw him fall dead at his feet. The spectators, on perceiving this victory, uttered thunders of applause, making the earth resound with their united acclamations. And although many present were much skilled in the use of arms, they united in declaring, that they had never seen art grace nature, or nature second the precepts of art, in so lively a manner as the events of this day had exhibited before their eyes. Crichton in the meanwhile, to prove that his generosity was equal to his skill and courage, distributed the fifteen hundred pistoles which he had won by his valour, among the widows of the three men who had lost their lives in fighting with the gladiator whom he had slain.

Pleased with this bloody performance, the duke of Mantua is said immediately to have chosen Crichton as preceptor to his son Vincentio di Gonzaga, who is represented as a youth of a turbulent disposition, and a dissolute life. This appointment was pleasing to the court, and highly flattering to the vanity of the victor; who, to testify his gratitude, and to contribute to their diversion, is said to have framed a comedy, in which he exposed to ridicule, the foibles, weaknesses, and defects of the several employments in which men were engaged. The composition was regarded as one of the most ingenious satires that was ever made upon mankind. In the performance of this comedy, Crichton is represented as sustaining no less than fifteen characters in his own person. Among the rest, he acted the divine, the philosopher, the lawyer, the mathematician, the physician, and the soldier, with such an inimitable grace, that every time he appeared on the theatre, he seemed to be a different person.

But it was not long after he had sustained these various characters, in the comedy which he had composed for public entertainment, before he became the subject of a dreadful tragedy, which furnished a melancholy occasion for lamentation.

It happened one night, during the time of carnival, as he was walking along the streets of Mantua, playing upon his guitar, that he was attacked by six persons in masks. He immediately drew his weapon to defend himself; and soon convinced his assailants, that they had something more than an ordinary person with whom to contend. In this conflict, when they found they were unable to stand their ground, their leader, being disarmed, pulled off his mask, and begged his life, telling him that he was prince Gonzaga his pupil. Crichton, on making this discovery, fell upon his knees, and expressed much concern for his mistake; alleging that what he had done was only in his own defence, and that if Gonzaga had any design upon his life, he was always master of it. Having said this, he took his sword, and holding it by the point, presented the handle to the prince, who instantly received it, and, with a degree of barbarous meanness, that will always be associated with his name, immediately stabbed Crichton to the heart.

On the causes which led to this brutal action, various conjectures have been started. Some have imagined, that it arose from the mortification of being foiled, disarmed, and discovered, and being obliged to beg for his life. Others have supposed, that it was nothing more than the effect of a drunken frolic, in which the passions assumed the dominion over reason. And others have intimated, that it was the effect of jealousy, Gonzaga being suspicious that Crichton was more in favour than himself, with a lady whom he passionately loved. In one point, however, all who have recorded these transactions mutually agree, namely, that Crichton lost his life in this rencontre; but whether the meeting was premeditated on the part of the prince and his associates, or purely as accidental as it was on that of Crichton, we have no means of ascertaining. The time when this disastrous event took place, is said, by the generality of his biographers, to have been early in July 1583; but Lord Buchan thinks it to have happened one year earlier. The difference is still greater with regard to his age, when he was thus assassinated. The common accounts declare, that he was killed in his thirty-second year; but Imperialis asserts, that he was only in his twenty-second; and in this he is confirmed by the testimony of Lord Buchan. His death was universally lamented, the people of Mantua mourned for him three-quarters of a year, and his picture appeared in the chambers and houses of every Italian.

The fame of Crichton, like that of an actor, was chiefly confined to those who had witnessed his achievements. He wrote little, but he performed much. The latter was soon forgotten; or so blended with fiction, that it became doubtful. He blazed like a meteor for a moment; his coruscations dazzled the eyes of the beholder; but when he vanished, the impression which he had made was no where to be found. Yet, we must again repeat, he was certainly one of the most accomplished men, who, in that age, had ever appeared.

To those who feel the aspirings of genius, he furnishes an example of the heights to which it can ascend. And to those who are less gifted by nature, his unsettled life, and his melancholy end, may at least teach acquiescence in the humbler gifts which Providence has assigned them.—See British Nepos, p. 101.

In favour of Crichton’s moral character, we fear that little can be said. His warmest admirers have furnished us with the means of making this reflection. They have occasionally palliated dissipation; but unfortunately, while softening his vices into youthful foibles, they have recorded facts, to which posterity have given names. On the vanity, which in too many instances marked his life, and the unhappy manner in which it was terminated, no comment can be deemed necessary. In his whole history, all those, “who in the confidence of superior capacities or attainments disregard the common maxims of life, shall be reminded, that nothing will supply the want of prudence; and that negligence and irregularity, long continued, will make knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and genius contemptible.”—Johnson’s Life of Savage.

Miss Margaret M‘Avoy.—Some time in the year 1815, an extraordinary phenomenon appeared at Liverpool, in the person of Miss M‘Avoy, a young lady about fifteen years of age, reputed to be totally blind; but whose exquisite nervous sensibility enabled her to distinguish, by the power of touch, a variety of objects, which, to all other persons, were perceptible only through the medium of vision. The circumstances connected with this case, taken in all their bearings, are such, that it may be justly doubted if any thing more extraordinary has ever occurred in the physiological history of our species.

The following interesting narrative is an abridged copy of what appeared in the Liverpool Mercury, at the time when her astonishing powers excited a considerable degree of public attention. The article is signed by Mr. Egerton Smith, the proprietor of the above paper, and his relation is founded on personal observations.

“Some time in September, 1816, I accompanied Dr. Renwick, on a professional visit he paid to Miss M‘Avoy, at her residence in St. Paul’s-square, on the east side. She was then between sixteen and seventeen years of age, of a pleasing and ingenuous countenance, and apparently of an amiable and artless disposition. Her mother informed me, that in the preceding June, her daughter had been attacked with hydrocephalus, or water in the head, together with paralytic affection on one side, and a complication of other disorders, which I forbear to enumerate, because I am wholly ignorant of that part of the subject. According to her own statement, corroborated by that of her mother, the hydrocephalus preceded, and in their opinion produced, the blindness of gutta serena, under which she is supposed to labour, but which has been called in question, I understand, by some of the professional men who have visited her.

“Her mother, however, declared, that the light of the sun produced not the slightest sensible effect upon her eyes; and some of the professional gentlemen who happened to be present at one of my repeated visits, declared, that though some slight contraction of the pupil was perceptible upon the approach of a lighted candle to the eye, it was by no means such as uniformly occurs when the visual organs perform their regular functions.

“At my first interview, I learned from herself, what I had indeed previously been told by others, that she had recently acquired the faculty of distinguishing not only the colours of cloth and stained glass, but that she could actually decipher the forms of words in a printed book; and, indeed, could read, if the phrase may be permitted, with tolerable facility. To put these pretensions to the test, she permitted a shawl to be passed across the eyes in double folds, in such a way that all present were convinced they could not under similar circumstances discern day from night. In this state a book was placed before her, and opened indiscriminately; when, to our extreme surprise, she began to trace the words with her finger, and to repeat them correctly. She appeared to recognize a short monosyllable by the simple contact of one finger; but in ascertaining a long word, she placed the fore-finger of her left hand on the beginning, whilst with that of her right hand she proceeded from the other extremity of the word; and when the two fingers, by having traversed over all the letters, came in contact with each other, she invariably and precisely ascertained the word. By my watch I found that she read about thirty words in half a minute; and it very naturally occurred to us, that if, notwithstanding her supposed blindness, and the double bandage over her eyes, she could still see, she would have read much more rapidly, if her motive had been to excite our astonishment. And here it may not be amiss to state, that there does not appear to be any adequate motive for practising a delusion upon the public. Her situation in life is respectable; and her mother disavows any intention of ever exhibiting her daughter as a means of pecuniary remuneration. Fifteen months have now elapsed since the period at which she laid claim to the extraordinary faculty which has given rise to so much curiosity, astonishment, and perplexity; during which time the reputation of so wonderful a circumstance has subjected her to the fatigue and inconvenience of daily and almost hourly visits.

“According to her own statement, her powers of touch vary very materially with circumstances; when her hands are cold, she declares that the faculty is altogether lost; and that it is exhausted, also, by long and unremitting efforts; that she considers the hours of from ten till twelve, of each alternate day, the most favourable for her performance. Her pulse, during the experiments, has varied from 110 to 130 degrees.

“One circumstance, which has created much doubt and suspicion, must not be concealed; which is, that if any substance, for instance, a book or a shawl, be interposed between her eyes and the object she is investigating, she is much embarrassed, and frequently entirely baffled. She explains this by saying, that it is necessary there should be an uninterrupted communication between her finger and her breath. I leave it to others to draw their own conclusions upon this point; as my object is not to establish any theory, or give currency to any mystery, but to relate the simple facts. I am, therefore, compelled to express my conviction, that she can neither ascertain colours, nor the words of a book, in total darkness; and, as many persons very naturally will ask, why has not such a test been proposed? the reply must be, that as the young lady is not the subject of a public exhibition, and as an introduction to her is merely a matter of favour, it might not be very courteous or delicate, under such circumstances, to make any proposal which seemed to imply a suspicion that she was an impostor.

“There are persons, however, who, giving her implicit credit for the reality of the extraordinary powers to which she lays claim, will contend that it is altogether unfair to propose the test of total darkness. Proceeding upon their belief that she actually ascertains colour, &c. by the finger, or that the visual organ is transferred to the touch, still they say that light is essentially necessary to produce that effect upon the surface of the body felt, which enables her to distinguish one shade from another; they add, that as there is no such thing as colour in total darkness, it is perfectly ridiculous to expect that she should ascertain the various shades without the presence of that light which alone produces those shades. It is, according to their mode of considering the subject, as absurd as to expect an effect without a cause.

“It has already been stated, that, with the double bandage over her eyes, she read several lines of a book indiscriminately opened; as it was possible that the letters of a printed book might leave some slight impression sensible to an exquisite touch, I took from my pocket-book an engraved French assignat, which was hot-pressed, and smooth as glass; she read the smallest lines contained in this with the same facility as the printed book. A letter received by that day’s post was produced, the direction and post-mark of which she immediately and correctly deciphered. She also named the colour of the separate parts of the dresses of the persons in company, as well as various shades of stained glass which were purposely brought.

“What I had seen at my first interview was so extremely astonishing, and so far surpassed any thing I had ever known or read of the powers ascribed to persons deprived of sight, that I could only account for it on the supposition that she was not blind, and that she had some secret mode of discerning an object, notwithstanding the bandage, through which I myself could not distinguish night from day, when it was applied to my own eyes. I therefore made the best apology I could for visiting her house again the same evening, having previously prepared myself with several tests, which I begged permission to submit to her examination, when the candle was withdrawn. Not the slightest objection was offered to my proposal, and the candle was extinguished: her mother stationed herself before the fire, which was extremely low, and afforded so little light that I could not have read one word of moderate-sized print, if it had been brought almost in contact with the bars of the grate. I then took from my pocket a small book, the type of which was very little larger than that of an ordinary newspaper; observing at the time, that I was afraid the print was too minute; to which she replied, that her fingers were in excellent order, and that she had no doubt she could be able to make it out.

“The candle, as was before observed, had been extinguished; and her mother and myself were so stationed, that had there been any light afforded by the fire, we must have completely intercepted it. Miss M‘Avoy sat in the furthest part of the room, with her back towards the grate, in such a situation that I could barely discern even the leaves of the book which lay open before her; the title of which she proceeded to read with complete success, with the exception of one very minute word. I then presented to her a small piece of smooth writing paper, which was ruled with horizontal faint blue lines, with a pen and black ink; there were also perpendicular red lines, between which were scored black lines: all these, with their direction and order, she determined without any apparent difficulty. She also told correctly the colour of a variety of species of cloth, procured immediately before at a draper’s shop. All the experiments hitherto described, as well as those which follow, were performed by Miss M. with the bandage before her eyes; and as the shawl, which was usually applied to this purpose, produced considerable warmth and inconvenience, a pair of what, in the optician’s shops, are called goggles, had been provided, which so completely excluded the light, that no person who tried them could discern the difference between day and night, when they were fitted to the face. As these goggles have been generally used when Miss M. has exhibited her surprising talent, it is necessary that the reader should have a correct idea of them. They are intended to be worn by travellers, to guard the eyes against the wind or the dust, and consist of two glasses, sometimes green, fitted into a bandage of leather, which is passed horizontally across the face, and is tied with ribands round the back of the head. The goggles provided for Miss M. instead of glasses, were fitted up with opake pasteboard, lined with paper, and not an aperture was left through which a single ray of light could penetrate.

“Mr. Nichol, a scientific gentleman, who was delivering a course of philosophical lectures in Liverpool, having heard of this extraordinary property, applied to me to obtain an introduction to Miss M‘Avoy, and I accompanied him to her house, along with Mr. James Smith, printer, of Liverpool. At this interview, the experiments I have already detailed were repeated with complete success, whilst the goggles were applied. One part of the performance was so truly astonishing, that I should almost hesitate to relate it, if those two gentlemen had not been present to vouch for the truth. I had furnished myself with a set of stained landscape glasses, usually termed Claude Lorrain glasses. They were seven in number, contained in a frame. She ascertained the precise shade of each correctly; one glass, however, appeared to embarrass her, and after considerable scrutiny, she said it was not black, nor dark blue, nor dark brown, but she thought it was a very deep crimson. We did not know whether her conjecture was correct or not, as we could not ourselves ascertain the shade. By reflected light it appeared to us to be perfectly black; nor was the flame of the fire, which was stirred for the occasion, visible through it in the faintest degree. We had abandoned all expectation of determining this point, when the sun suddenly emerged from behind the clouds; and by that test, and that alone, were we enabled to discover that she was correct, as we could just discern the solar image of a very deep crimson. It has been said, and with some plausibility, that this must have been a bold guess on her part; if not, it will puzzle our physiologists to explain how a person reputed to be blind, with an opake bandage also over her eyes, could declare the colour of a glass, which persons in full enjoyment of their eyesight, and without any such obstacles, could not discern by any other light than that of the meridian sun! At this meeting, we were informed that Miss M‘Avoy had recently found out that this extraordinary faculty was not confined to her fingers; and that she could also distinguish the colour of an object which was brought into contact with the back of her hands. This was immediately made the subject of experiment by Mr. Nichol, who successively applied several objects which he had with him to that part of the hand; in placing which he used so much precaution, that I could not see them myself, although my eyes were fixed upon his hands. She was completely successful also upon this occasion.”

The paragraph which follows is from the Liverpool Advertiser:—

“As the extraordinary powers attributed to Miss Margaret M‘Avoy, of this town, have lately attracted the attention of the public in an uncommon degree, permit me to send you a fact, which has lately occurred, and which must silence the scepticism of the most incredulous:—Two ladies of this town, whose habits of rigid veracity and cautious inquiry are well known, and whose names are left with the publishers, in order to satisfy any doubts which may arise, went to the house of this phenomenon, impelled by that curiosity which has now become general. Fortunately, Miss M‘Avoy’s marvellous powers, which are known to be sometimes fluctuating and capricious, were that day in the highest perfection, and the following experiment was actually tried:—One of these visitors stood behind the young lady’s chair, and pressed down her eyelids with both hands so closely, that it was a physical impossibility for a single ray of light to enter. I may here remark, that no method of closing the eyes, by any sort of covering that can be devised, is half so effectual as this, for obvious reasons. The other lady then took up a printed book of sermons, which was lying in the apartment, and which appeared to have just come from the bookseller’s, as the leaves were not yet cut open; she opened it in a place where the leaves were united, and placed it before Miss M‘Avoy, (her eyes still closed as above described,) who read several lines in it, without hesitation. The lady then took a written note out of her pocket, which had been received that morning, and Miss M. also read that, without any other difficulty than what arose from the badness of the hand-writing. This experiment, which can be ascertained on oath, seems so decisive as to the power possessed by Miss M. of reading by the touch alone, that I am not aware of any possible way in which it can be controverted.”

At the time when the case of this young lady came before the public, her claims to extraordinary powers were examined with the utmost scrutiny, both by those who admitted, and those who doubted her abilities. In every experiment that was made, the former were confirmed in their opinion; and the latter, while they withheld their assent, were constrained to acknowledge themselves overwhelmed with an accumulation of facts, for which they were unable to account.

An old English ’Squire.—The following character of the Honourable William Hastings, of the Woodlands, in Hampshire, was copied in the year 1737, from a manuscript of Anthony Ashley Cooper, the first earl of Shaftsbury, by W. Cowper, Esq. then clerk of parliament.

In the year 1638, lived Mr. Hastings, by his quality, son, brother, and uncle, to the earls of Huntingdon. He was, peradventure, an original in our age, or rather the copy of our ancient nobility in hunting, not in warlike times.

He was low, very strong, and very active; of a reddish flaxen hair. His clothes always of green cloth, and never all worth, when new, five pounds.

His house was perfectly of the old fashion: in the midst of a large park well stocked with deer, and near the house, rabbits to serve his kitchen; many fishponds; great store of wood and timber; a bowling-green in it, long, but narrow, full of high ridges, it being never levelled since it was ploughed; they used round sand-bowls; and it had a large banqueting-house like a stand, built in a tree.

He kept all manner of sport hounds, that ran buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and hawks, long and short winged He had all sorts of nets for fish. He had a walk in the New Forest and the manor of Christ Church; this last supplied him with red deer, sea and river fish; and indeed all his neighbours’ lands and royalties were free to him, who bestowed all his time on these sports, but what he borrowed to caress his neighbours’ wives and daughters. This made him very popular, always speaking kindly to the husband, brother, or father, who was, besides, always welcome to his house. There he would find beef, pudding, and small beer in great plenty; a house not so neatly kept as to shame him, or his dusty shoes; the great hall strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawks’ perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers; the upper side of the hall hung with the fox-skins of this and the last year’s killing, with here and there a pole-cat intermixed; and gamekeepers’ and hunters’ poles in great abundance.

The parlour was a large long room, curiously furnished:—on a great hearth paved with bricks lay some terriers, and the choicest hounds and spaniels; usually two of the great chairs had litters of young cats in them, which were not to be disturbed, he having always three or four attending him at dinner, and a little round white stick of fourteen inches long lying by his trencher, that he might defend such meat as he had no mind to part with to them. The windows, which were very large, served for places to lay his arrows, cross-bows, stone-bows, and other such like accoutrements: the corners of the room were full of the best-chosen hunting and hawking poles. An oyster table stood at the lower end, of constant use twice a day, all the year round, for he never failed to eat oysters before dinner and supper through all seasons; with these the neighbouring town of Poole supplied him.

The upper part of the room had two small tables and a desk, on the one side of which was a Church Bible, and on the other the Book of Martyrs. On the tables were hawks’ hoops, bells, and such like, two or three old green hats, with their crowns thrust in so as to hold ten or a dozen eggs; which were of a pheasant kind of poultry he took much care of and fed himself. Tables, dice, cards, and boxes, were not wanting. In the holes of the desk were store of tobacco-pipes that had been used.

On one side of this end of the room was a door of the closet, wherein stood the strong beer and the wine, which never came thence but in single glasses, that being the rule of the house exactly observed, for he never exceeded in drink, or permitted others to transgress.

On the other side was a door into an old chapel, not used for devotion; the pulpit, as the safest place, was never wanting of a cold chine of beef, venison pasty, gammon of bacon, or great apple pie, with thick crust extremely baked.His table cost him not much, though it was well provided. His sports supplied all but beef and mutton, except Fridays, when he had the best salt fish, as well as other fish, he could get. This was the day his neighbours of first quality most visited him. He never wanted a London pudding, and always sung it in with “My pert eyes therein a.” He drank a glass or two of wine at meals; very often syrup of gillyflowers in his sack; and had always a tun glass, without feet, standing by him, holding a pint of small beer, which he often stirred with rosemary.

He was good-natured, but soon angry, calling his servants bastards, and cuckoldy knaves; in one of which he often spoke truth to his own knowledge, and sometimes in both, though of the same man. He lived to be an hundred, never lost his eyesight, but always wrote and read without spectacles, and got on horseback without help. Until past fourscore, he rode to the death of a stag as well as any one.

Joan of Arc, commonly called the Maid of Orleans.—This celebrated heroine was the daughter of a peasant of Domremi, near Vaucouleurs, on the borders of Lorrain, and born about the beginning of the fifteenth century. At the age of twenty-seven years, she was servant in a small inn, where she was accustomed to tend horses, and to perform other menial offices which commonly fall to the share of men-servants. About this time, king Charles VII. was reduced to the most distressed condition by the English; but the siege of Orleans, which was bravely defended by the garrison and inhabitants, in some measure retarded their progress. Joan partook of the feelings of sympathy with the besieged, that very generally prevailed, and determined to make some effort for relieving her sovereign in his present distresses. Whilst she was indulging these feelings, her enthusiasm led her to fancy that she saw visions and heard voices exhorting her to re-establish the throne of France, and to expel the foreign invaders. Under the strong impulse of passion and imagined inspiration, she obtained admission to Baudricourt, the governor of Vaucouleurs, who after being informed of her inspiration and intentions, treated her for some time with neglect; but, in consequence of her renewed and importunate solicitations, he gave orders that she should be conducted to the French court, which then resided at Chinon. It is pretended that Joan, immediately on her admission, knew the king, though she had never seen his face before, and though he purposely kept himself in the crowd of courtiers, and laid aside every thing in his apparel that might seem to distinguish him; and that she offered, in the name of the supreme Creator, to raise the siege of Orleans, and to conduct him to Rheims, to be there crowned and anointed. In order to remove his doubts of her mission, it is said, that she disclosed a secret, known only to himself, and which she must have derived from heavenly inspiration. She also demanded, as the instrument of her future victories, a particular sword which was kept in the church of St. Catharine of Fierbois, and which, though she had never seen it, she described by all its marks, and by the place in which it had long lain neglected. Her intrepid and determined mode of address excited attention, and gained confidence; and she was referred to matrons for proofs of her virginity, and to doctors of the church for evidence of her inspiration: their report being favourable, she was sent to the parliament at Poictiers; but they, considering her as insane, demanded from her a miracle. Her reply was, that she would soon exhibit one at Orleans.

Accordingly, she was at length completely armed, mounted on horseback in the presence of the multitude, and sent, amidst the loudest acclamations, to join the army destined to the relief of Orleans. Upon joining the army, consisting of 10,000 men, she ordered all the soldiers to confess themselves before they set out on the enterprise; she banished from the camp all women of bad fame; she displayed in her hands a consecrated banner, representing the Supreme Being as grasping the globe of earth, and surrounded with flower-de-luces; and after thus communicating to the soldiers a great degree of that enthusiasm by which she herself was actuated, she advanced towards Orleans. The English besiegers were overawed by her orders and menaces, dictated in the name of the Almighty Creator; and she entered Orleans arrayed in her military garb, and displaying her consecrated standard, and was received by all the inhabitants as a celestial deliverer. The convoy approached without finding any resistance on the part of the besiegers; the waggons and troops passed without interruption between the redoubts of the English; and a dead silence and astonishment reigned among those troops, formerly so elated with victory, and so fierce for the combat.

Joan, having thus far succeeded, ordered the garrison, at the same time encouraging them with the promise of heavenly assistance, first, to attack the English redoubts, in which measure they were successful; and then to fall upon the main body of the English in their entrenchments. In one of these latter attacks the French were repulsed, but the intrepid maid led them back to the charge, and overpowered the English. In one of these attacks, she was wounded in the neck with an arrow; but retreating behind the assailants, she pulled it out with her own hands, had the wound quickly dressed, and hastened back to head the troops, and to plant her victorious banner on the ramparts of the enemy. In consequence of these successes, attended with a loss to the English of more than 6000 men, their courage and confidence gave way to amazement and despair. The French, in order to magnify the wonder of all these prosperous events, represent the maid as not only active in combat, but as performing the office of general; directing the troops, conducting the military operations, and swaying the deliberations in all the councils of war. But whatever the policy of the French court might suggest for maintaining this opinion among the multitude, it is much more probable, that this inexperienced country girl was prompted in all her measures by the wiser commanders.

Having raised the siege of Orleans, Joan now insisted that she should proceed to the accomplishment of the second part of her promise, which was that of crowning the king at Rheims. The king, accompanied by the victorious maid, marched at the head of 12,000 men towards Rheims, receiving the submission of the towns through which he passed; till at length arriving near Rheims, a deputation met him with the keys of the city, and he was admitted into it with transport. Here the ceremony of his coronation was performed with the holy oil of Clovis; and the maid stood by his side in complete armour, and displayed her sacred banner. When the ceremony was finished, she threw herself at the king’s feet, embraced his knees, and with a flood of tears she congratulated him on this singular and marvellous event. Charles testified his gratitude by ennobling the family of Joan, giving it the name of du Lys, probably in allusion to the lilies of her banner, and assigning to her a suitable estate in land. Having accomplished both the objects which she had proposed, the maid of Orleans expressed her wish to return to her former condition, and to the occupation and course of life which became her sex: but the French general Dunois, urged her continuance with the army, till the English should be completely expelled, and her predictions fully accomplished.

Overpowered by his advice, she threw herself into the town of Compeigne, which was then besieged by the duke of Burgundy and the English; where, on a sally, having twice driven the enemy from their entrenchments, and finding their number increasing, she ordered a retreat; but was deserted by her friends, surrounded by the enemy, and taken prisoner by the Burgundians. Instead of treating Joan as a prisoner of war, with the courtesy and good usage, to which, as such, she was entitled, and which civilized nations practise towards enemies on occasions of this kind, she was purchased from the captors by the regent duke of Bedford, and a criminal prosecution was instituted against her on the charges of sorcery, impiety, idolatry, and magic. The clergy in his interest, and even the university of Paris, concurred in the accusation. An ecclesiastical commission was held at Rouen for her trial, and the maid, clothed in her former military apparel, but loaded with irons, was produced before this tribunal. Her trial lasted four months; and in the course of that time, many captious interrogatories were put to her, which she answered with firmness and dignity.

Upon being asked, whether she would submit to the church the truth of her pretended visions, revelations, and intercourse with departed saints? she replied, that she would submit them to God, the fountain of truth: and when she was charged with being a heretic, and denying the authority of the church, she appealed to the pope; but her appeal was rejected. When she was asked, why she put her trust in her standard, which had been consecrated by magical incantations? she answered, that she put her trust in the Supreme Being alone, whose image was impressed upon it. When it was demanded, why she carried in her hand that standard at the unction and coronation of Charles at Rheims? she replied, that the person who had shared the danger was entitled to share the glory. When she was accused of going to war, she scrupled not to declare, that her sole purpose was to defeat the English, and to expel them the kingdom. In the issue, however, she was condemned for all the crimes of which she had been accused, aggravated by heresy; her revelations were declared to be inventions of the devil to delude the people; and she was sentenced to be delivered over to the secular arm. At length her resolution failed her; and through dread of the punishment to which she was sentenced, she declared that she was willing to recant; and, accordingly, she acknowledged the illusion of those revelations which the church had rejected; and she promised never more to maintain them. Upon this, her sentence was mitigated; and she was condemned to perpetual imprisonment, and to be fed during life on bread and water. But with this vengeance her enemies were not satisfied. In order to justify the severest measures against her, they insidiously placed in her apartment a suit of men’s apparel; upon the sight of this garb, in which she had acquired so much renown, and assumed, as she once believed, by the appointment of heaven, her former ideas and passions revived, and she ventured in her solitude to put on the forbidden dress. In this apparel she was detected; it was regarded as a relapse into heresy; her recantation became void; her partial pardon was revoked; and she was to be burned in the market-place of Rouen. In June, 1431, this barbarous sentence, much more ignominious to those who inflicted it than to her who was the object of it, was executed.

“This admirable heroine, to whom the more generous superstition of the ancients would have erected altars, was, on pretence of heresy and magic, delivered over alive to the flames, and expiated, by that dreadful punishment, the signal services which she had rendered to her prince and to her native country.” She met her fate with resolution, and the English themselves beheld the scene with tears. The king made no effort for avenging her cause; he merely procured a revision of the process, and a restoration of her memory ten years afterwards by the pope, in an act which styled her a “Martyr to her religion, her country, and her king.” Her countrymen, more prompt in the tribute of their respect, propagated many tales relating to her execution; and some of them would not even allow her to be dead, but professed to expect her speedy return to conduct them again to victory.

Of the character and conduct of this singular heroine, the most probable opinion is, that of her being an honest and deluded enthusiast, of whose fancies and passions the principal persons in the interest of Charles availed themselves for deluding and rousing into exertion the passions of the people, at a crisis of peculiar importance; in which the maid of Orleans was instrumental in giving a decisive turn to the contest between the French and English. The exploits of Joan of Arc have been celebrated both in prose and verse. Of the latter, the serious poem of Chapelain has been much less successful than the burlesque and licentious one of Voltaire; but the injury done by it to her memory has been in some degree repaired in England, by Southey’s sublime and spirited poem of “Joan of Arc,” which exhibits her in the brightest colours of virtue and heroism.

Pope Joan.—Among the numerous individuals who have figured on the great theatre of public life, few characters have ever been more distinguished than this celebrated lady, who, by a singular compound of dexterity, secrecy, and address, contrived to reach the pontificate. Many doubts have, indeed, been entertained of the authenticity of the tale; but it is well known, that prior to the Reformation it was sanctioned by universal belief.

It is said, that about the middle of the ninth century, a woman named Joan, born at Mentz, and who had received an excellent education, conceiving a violent passion for a young monk named Fulda, resolved to desert her family and friends, to assume the male habit, and gain admittance into the monastery. The plan succeeded; and having long indulged in their amours undisturbed and unsuspected, they eloped together, and travelled into most of the countries of Europe, availing themselves of every opportunity for increasing their knowledge, by engaging the assistance of the best masters in the different cities through which they passed. On the death of her lover, Joan repaired to Rome, still in the dress of a man; where her address and engaging manners raising her into notice, she commenced the duties of professor, and persons of the highest rank and most considerable talents enlisted in the number of her disciples. At length, on the death of pope Leo X. in 855, she was unanimously elected his successor to the pontifical throne. So prudently did she conduct herself, and with so much ability did she perform the duties of her station, that the people had reason to congratulate themselves on their choice. At length she confided her secret to a domestic whom she took to her bed, the consequence of which was her pregnancy, and she was taken in labour at one of the most solemn processions, delivered of a child in the street, and died on the spot. It is likewise said, that to perpetuate the memory of such an extraordinary adventure, a statue was erected on the place where it happened; that in abhorrence of the crime, the pope and clergy, in their subsequent annual processions from the Vatican to the Lateran, have turned off from that street; and that, to prevent a similar imposition, a custom was introduced of examining each pope previously to his consecration, in order to ascertain his sex. Such are the particulars of a story that seems not to have been called in question till the time of Luther, but which the best informed historians usually abandon as fictitious. “Till the Reformation, (says Gibbon,) the tale was repeated and believed without offence, and Joan’s female statue long occupied her place among the popes in the cathedral of Sienna. She has been annihilated by two learned Protestants, Blondel and Bayle, but their brethren were scandalized by this equitable and generous criticism. Spanheim and L’Enfant attempted to save this poor engine of controversy; and even Mosheim condescends to cherish some doubt and suspicion.”

History of the memorable Sir Richard Whittington, three times Lord Mayor of London; in the years 1397, 1406. 1419.—

The obscurity of the origin of this remarkable character, has given occasion to many fabulous accounts, but our readers may rely upon the following being the result of careful research, from the best authorities. Whittington came to London, from Shropshire, about the year 1368, in the reign of king Edward III. and in his way he chiefly lived upon the charity of well-disposed persons. On his arrival in town, he made an application to the prior of the hospital of St. John’s, Clerkenwell, where he was kindly relieved; and being handy and willing, was soon put into an inferior post in the house. How long he remained here, is, I believe, no where mentioned; but to the piety of this charitable foundation he was certainly indebted for his first support in London. His next reception was in the family of Mr. Fitzwarren, a rich merchant, whose house was in the Minories, near the Tower. Here he undoubtedly acted as under scullion, for his keep only.

In this situation he met with many crosses and difficulties; for the servants made sport of him; and particularly the ill-natured cook, who was of a morose temper, used him very ill, and not unfrequently, with a sturdy arm, laid the ladle across his shoulders: so that, to keep in the family, he had many a sore bout to put up with; but his patience carried it off, and at last he became accustomed to her choleric disposition.

This was not the only misfortune he laboured under; for lying in a place for a long time unfrequented, such abundance of rats and mice had bred there, that they were almost ready at times to dispute the possession of the place with him, and full as troublesome by night as the cook was by day, so that he knew not what to think of his condition, or how to mend it. After many disquieting thoughts, he at last comforted himself with the hopes that the cook might soon marry, or die, or quit her service; and as for the rats and mice, a cat would be an effectual remedy against them.

Soon after, a merchant came to dinner, and it raining exceedingly, he staid all night; whose shoes Whittington having cleaned, and presented at his chamber door, he gave him a penny. This stock he improved, for going along the street of an errand, he saw a woman with a cat under her arm, and desired to know the price of it: the woman praised it for a good mouser, and told him, sixpence; but he declaring that a penny was all his stock, she let him have it.

He took the cat home, and kept her in a box all day, lest the cook should kill her if she came into the kitchen, and at night he set her to work for her living. Puss delivered him from one plague; but the other remained, though not for many years.

It was the custom with the worthy merchant, Mr. Hugh Fitzwarren, that God might give him a greater blessing for his endeavours, to call all his servants together when he sent out a ship, and cause every one to venture something in it, to try their fortunes.

Now all but Whittington appeared, and brought things according to their abilities; but his young mistress being by, and supposing that poverty made him decline coming, she ordered him to be called, on which he made several excuses: however, being constrained to come, he hoped they would not jeer a poor simpleton for being in expectation of turning merchant, since all that he could lay claim to as his own, was but a poor cat, which he had bought for one penny, which he had given to him for cleaning shoes, and had much befriended him in keeping the rats and mice from him. Upon this, the young lady proffered to lay something down for him, but her father told her the custom; it must be his own which must be ventured; and then ordered him to bring his cat, which he did, but with great reluctance, fancying nothing would come of it; and with tears delivered it to the master of the ship, which was called the Unicorn, and had fallen down to Blackwall, in order to proceed on her voyage.

On their arrival in the Mole of Algiers, they heard that the plague was raging in the country, having been but a few years before brought from China, viz. in 1346, at which period it was first noticed to rage in Africa, from whence it soon proceeded to Europe, overspreading the northern countries. This news did not deter the captain from sending to trade on shore, where, at first, they found but little encouragement, the people of the country appearing very shy to every offer. The news of the arrival of a vessel soon reached the notice of the Dey, who immediately ordered the captain and officers to wait upon his highness with presents; for then, as well as now, nothing could be done without first bribing him. After this ceremony was over, trade went on pretty briskly, at the conclusion of which, his Moorish majesty gave a grand entertainment, which, according to custom, was served upon carpets, interwoven with gold, silver, and purple silk. This feast was no sooner served up with the various dishes, but the scent brought together a number of rats and mice, who unmercifully fell on all that came in their way.

These audacious and destructive vermin did not shew any symptoms of fear upon the approach of the company, but, on the contrary, kept to it as if they only were invited. This made the captain and his people very much wonder; who, interrogating the Algerines, were informed, a very great price would be given by his highness, the Dey, for a cure, and a riddance of these vermin, which were grown so numerously offensive, that not only his table, but his private apartments, and bed, were so infested, that he was forced to be constantly watched for fear of being devoured.

This information put the English company immediately in mind of poor Dick Whittington’s cat, which had done them such notable service on the passage; and wishing to serve the youth, they thought this the best time to come forward with the industrious animal. Accordingly, she was brought on shore the next day, when her presence suddenly kept off most of the vermin; a few only of the boldest daring to venture forward, all of whom she dispatched with wonderful celerity. This pleased his Algerine highness so much, that he immediately made very advantageous proposals to the factor of the ship for the possession of this surprising and useful animal. At first our people seemed very reluctant to part with it; but his liberality soon overcame every objection; and her purchase amounted, in various commodities, to several thousands of pounds. During the time the English remained here, her industry in destroying those noxious vermin so completely pleased the Moorish chief, that, at our people’s departure, he again loaded them with rich presents.

The cook, who little thought how advantageous Whittington’s cat would prove, had kept up such a continual alarm of noise and reproach at the poor youth’s unfortunate penury, that he grew weary of enduring it, and not the least expecting what followed, he resolved rather to try his fortune again in the wide world, than lead any longer such a disagreeable life. For this step he might be blamed, as, had he complained to his master, who was a kind gentleman, the difference would have been set to rights, and he, not like a Jonas, cast out. With this resolution, however, he set out early on Allhallows morning, resolving to go into the country, and get into a more agreeable service.

As he went over Finsbury Moor, since called Moor-fields, his mind began to fail; he hesitated, and halted several times: he grew pensive, and his resolution left him. In this solitary manner he wandered on until he reached Holloway, where he sat down upon a large stone, which remains there to be seen to this day. Here he began to ruminate in earnest upon his ill-luck in not pleasing the cook; and in the depth of his meditation, he suddenly heard Bow bells strike out for a peal. This changed his attention; for, as he listened, on a sudden, he fancied they called him back again to his master. The more he hearkened, the more he became confirmed in this notion of his recall, conceiting the bells expressed the following distich:—

“RETURN AGAIN, WHITTINGTON,
THRICE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON.”

This proved a happy thought for him; and it made so great an impression on his fancy, that, finding it early, and thinking he might yet get back before the family were stirring, he instantly turned upon his heel, and reaching home in less time than he went out, he got in unperceived to his usual daily drudgery.

Things were in this situation when the news arrived of the success of the voyage; and that night he was installed with the appellation of Mr. by his master, who informed him, that his ship had just arrived at Blackwall, being the richest vessel of her burden that had ever floated into an English port. His master concluded his discourse with a pious admonition to all his servants, after which they all joined in a thanksgiving to the Almighty for such a prosperous voyage.

The cook was among the first to change her demeanor towards Whittington, calling him Sir, and inviting him to such and such relishes as the kitchen afforded.

When the bill of lading was presented to the merchant, the principal part was found to belong to Mr. Whittington, amongst which was a cabinet of rich jewels, the last present of the Dey. This was the first thing brought to Mr. Fitzwarren’s house, it being deemed too valuable to remain on board.

When the servants’ goods for their ventures were all brought up to be divided, Mr. Whittington’s was too bulky to be unpacked before them; but the pearls and jewels alone were estimated at several thousand pounds.

The humility of Mr. Whittington’s mind arising from a strong sense of his duty to society in general, prevented his temper from exhilarating into arrogance, petulance, or superciliousness: though suddenly grown rich, and become equal to the first merchants in the city, pride had no share in the change of his circumstances. On the contrary, at first, he could hardly be prevailed upon to let the scullery alone; but Mr. Fitzwarren took much pains with him, and introduced him to the first characters in town, not omitting the court, as well as the clergy and military, who at that time were reckoned the most agreeable connections.

King Edward the Third being then at war with the French, and preparing for the siege of Rochelle, solicited all the privileged orders in the kingdom for a subsidy to carry on his expedition. The loyalty of the city of London induced them to offer a large gift in their corporate capacity. In this scheme Mr. Whittington joined, and paid in £10,000, an astonishing sum in those days from an individual; but the military ardour of the country has always been remarkable; hence it is not wonderful that an enterprising and fortunate young man should come forward with so large a sum, when it is considered that history has almost left us in the dark as to the remuneration expected. Be this as it may, history places it in the 46th year of the king’s reign, A. D. 1372.

What contributed much at this time in favour of Whittington, was the absence of the Lombard merchants, who withdrew themselves from London, on account of the oppression of the king, which became excessive towards the latter end of his reign, for continual draughts to support his ambition in France. These, and the Jews abroad, conducted at that time the whole financial commerce of the city of London; but Mr. Whittington, upon their departure, came in for a considerable share of it.

We are now regularly come to the last year of king Edward’s reign, the fifty-second, when the Lords and Commons granted the king a poll-tax, at four-pence a head, for every man and woman passing the age of fourteen years, beggars excepted. The clergy at the same time granted twelve-pence for every person beneficed; and of all other religious persons, four-pence by the poll, the four orders of Friars Mendicants only excepted. Here it is worth observing, that the king demanding of the city of London to advance him £4000, upon this poll, and the Mayor, Adam Staple, proving backward in performing the same, he was by the king turned out of that office, and Sir Richard Whittington put into his place, to finish the year; and this is the first mention of his being knighted, and of his great importance in the city at that time, being only about ten years after his arrival there, in circumstances so widely different.

According to Stow, Sir Richard Whittington was a great dealer in wool, leather, cloth, and pearls, which were universally worn at that time by the ladies. In 1377, the first year of king Richard II. he was called by summons to the parliament that met at London, which commenced at Michaelmas, and lasted till the feast of St. Andrew, when it was dissolved by the mutinous conduct of the Londoners, and adjourned to Northampton the following year, where was passed the noted poll-tax, the collecting of which occasioned and created the rebellion of Wat Tyler and Jack Straw.

In 1395, the eighteenth of this king’s reign, Edmund, duke of York, the king’s uncle, held a parliament at London, the king being absent in Ireland; and relating to the citizens the great streights the king was reduced to in Ireland, they granted him a tenth upon their personal estates; first protesting that they were not in rigour of right obliged to it, but that they did it out of affection. The mission to this parliament, we are particularly informed by Sir Robert Cotton, from Leland’s papers, was managed by the uprightness and good judgment of Sir Richard Whittington.

Thus he grew in riches and fame the most considerable of the citizens, greatly beloved by all, especially the poor, several hundreds of whom he publicly or secretly assisted or supplied.

About this time it was that he married his master’s daughter, Miss Fitzwarren; and at their wedding were present, among other noble characters, the Lord Mayor, Aldermen &c. &c.According to the pretorian banner, once existing in Guildhall, but since destroyed by the fire which consumed the city archives, Whittington served his first mayoralty in 1397. He was now near forty years of age, of a goodly form, and chosen into the office by his fellow citizens, whose approbation of his conduct, after his having once before filled the office, when king Edward put him in, is a sound and substantial proof that he was a good, loyal, and patriotic man.

Sir Richard’s second mayoralty occurred in 1406, in the reign of Henry IV. His third and last service of mayor happened in 1419, in Henry the Fifth’s time, in which situation he behaved with his usual prudence. Though age had now taken off much of his activity, yet he was the most vigilant magistrate of his time. Soon after Henry’s conquest of France, Sir Richard entertained him and his queen at Guildhall, in such grand style, that he was pleased to say, “Never prince had such a subject;” and conferred upon some of the aldermen the honour of knighthood.

At this entertainment, the king particularly praised the fire, which was made of choice wood, mixed with mace, cloves, and all other spices; on which Sir Richard said, he would endeavour to make one still more agreeable to his majesty, and immediately tore, and threw into the fire, the king’s bond for 10,000 marks, due to the company of Mercers; 12,500 to the Chamber of London; 21,000 to the Mercers, Staplers, Goldsmiths, Haberdashers, Vintners, Brewers, and Bakers; 3,000 marks each. “All these, (said Sir Richard,) with divers others sent for the payment of your soldiers in France, I have taken in and discharged, to the amount of £60,000 sterling. Can your majesty desire to see such another sight?” The king and nobles were struck dumb with surprise at his wealth and liberality.

Sir Richard spent the remainder of his days in honourable retirement at home, in his house in Grub-street, beloved by the rich and the poor. By his wife he left two sons, some of whose posterity are still worthy citizens. He built many charitable houses, founded a church in Vintry ward, and dedicated it to St. Michael. Here he built a handsome vault, for the sepulchre of his father and mother-in-law, and the remainder of the Fitzwarren family, and where himself and wife lay afterwards.

This Richard Whittington was (in this church) three times buried; first by his executors, under a fair monument; then in the reign of Edward VI. the parson of that church, thinking some great riches (as he said) to be buried with him, caused his monument to be broken, his body to be spoiled of his leaden sheet, and again the second time to be buried; and in the reign of queen Mary, the parishioners were forced to take him up to wrap him in lead, as afore, to bury him a third time, and to place his monument, or the like, over him again; which remained, and so he rested, till the great fire of London violated his resting-place again.

This church of St. Michael Pater-noster in the Vintry, the Capital House, and site thereof, called Whittington College, alias Whittington, and one garden belonging to the same, of the yearly value of four pounds, six shillings, and eight-pence, was sold to Armagill Waad, clerk of the council, in the second of Edward VI. for ninety-two pounds two shillings.

In 1413, he founded an alms-house and college in the Vintry, which was afterwards suppressed by order of council in king Edward the Sixth’s time: but his alms-houses on College-hill remain; these are under the direction of the Mercer’s company, who allow each pensioner 3s. 10d. per week.

Sir Richard built the gate and prison of Newgate as it formerly stood; gave large sums to Bartholomew’s Hospital; founded a Library in Grey Friars; endowed Christ’s Hospital with a considerable sum; built Guildhall chapel, and the east end of the Hall.

Dame Alice, his wife, died in the 63d year of her age; after which he never re-married, though he outlived her near twenty years. At last he died like the patriarch, full of age and honour, leaving a good name to posterity; and the following epitaph was cut on the upper stone of his vault, and continued perfect till destroyed by the fire of London:—

M. S.
Beneath this stone lies Whittington,
Sir Richard rightly nam’d;
Who three times Lord Mayor serv’d in London,
In which he ne’er was blam’d.
He rose from Indigence to Wealth,
By Industry and that,
For lo! he scorn’d to gain by stealth,
What he got by a Cat.
Let none who reads this verse despair
Of Providence’s ways:
Who trust in him, he’ll make his care,
And prosper all their days.
Then sing a requiem to departed merit,
And rest in peace till death demands his spirit.

The Travelling Faquirs.

The following curious circumstance in natural history is related by a gentleman of veracity, learning, and abilities, who filled a considerable post in the Company’s Service in India.—

The Travelling Faquirs in this country are a kind of superstitious devotees, who pretend to great zeal in religion, but are, in fact, the most vicious and profligate wretches in the world. They wander about the country here, as the gipsies do with you; and having some little smattering of physic, music, or other arts, they introduce themselves by these means wherever they go. One of them called a few days ago at my house, who had a beautiful large snake in a basket, which he made rise up and dance about to the tune of a pipe on which he played.

It happened that my out-house and farm-yard had for some time been infested with snakes, which had killed me several turkeys, geese, ducks, fowls, and even a cow and a bullock. My servants asked this man whether he could pipe these snakes out of their holes, and catch them? He answered them in the affirmative, and they carried him instantly to the place where one of the snakes had been seen. He began piping, and in a short time the snake came dancing to him: the fellow caught him by the nape of the neck, and brought him to me. As I was incredulous, I did not go to see this first operation; but as he took this beast so expeditiously, and I still suspected some trick, I desired him to go and catch another, and went with him myself to observe his motions. He began by abusing the snake, and ordering him to come out of his hole instantly, and not be angry, otherwise he would cut his throat and suck his blood. I cannot swear that the snake heard and understood this elegant invocation. He then began piping with all his might, lest the snake should be deaf; he had not piped above five minutes, when an amazing large cobra capella (the most venomous kind of serpent) popped his head out of a hole in the room. When the man saw his nose, he approached nearer to him, and piped more vehemently, till the snake was more than half out, and ready to make a dart at him; he then piped only with one hand, and advanced the other under the snake as it was raising itself to make the spring. When the snake darted at his body, he made a snatch at his tail, which he caught very dexterously, and held the creature very fast, without the least apprehension of being bit, until my servants dispatched it. I had often heard this story of snakes being charmed out of their holes by music; but never believed it, till I had this ocular demonstration of the fact. In the space of an hour the Faquir caught five very venomous snakes close about my house.[26]

Incubus, or Nightmare.

This strange affection or complaint, which is more generally known by the term Nightmare, than by that of Incubus, has obtained a considerable degree of notice in the world, from the singular manner in which it seizes its victims. The term Incubus is derived from the Latin incubare, signifying to sit or lie upon, which very forcibly expresses the nature of the disease. Hence, many have thought, and they even continue to think, that some incomprehensible creature, being, or agent, actually sits or lies upon them while sleeping, from which they suffer acute torment and oppression, bordering on suffocation. Many also have even affirmed, that while they have been lying perfectly awake, they have perceived this nightly tormentor creeping slowly over their feet, and have watched its advances until it has taken its seat on the breast, and inflicted those severe sufferings which no language can fully describe. But we shall consider the nightmare rather as a disease, than the creature of imagination.

This disorder seizes persons while sleeping, who imagine that they feel an extraordinary compression or weight about the breast and stomach, which they cannot by any effort shake off. In this agony they sigh, groan, and utter indistinct sounds; sometimes they cry out, but more frequently they attempt to speak, or to move in vain. These feelings give rise to various frightful suggestions of the imagination: the patient fancies himself to be struggling with strong men or devils, or to be in a house on fire, or in danger of being drowned in the sea or some river; and in attempting to run away from danger, or climb up a hill, he fancies he falls back as much after every step as he had advanced before. At length the sensations of oppression become intolerable, and the patient awakes; but the terror excited by the frightful ideas attending the nightmare, leaves often a palpitation of the heart, with great anxiety and languor, and sometimes a tingling of the ears, and a tremor over the whole body.

It is altogether unnecessary to attempt an enumeration of the numerous hypothetical explanations which have been attempted to be given of the phenomenon of incubus, and which have been detailed by Awen, Bond, and other writers. The disorder has commonly been supposed to proceed from a stagnation of the blood in the sinuses of the brain, or in the vessels of the lungs, or from too great a quantity of blood being sent to the head. The horizontal posture, in time of sleep, and the pressure of the stomach upon the aorta, in a supine situation, have been thought sufficient to occasion a more than usual distention of the sinuses and other vessels of the brain; and the weight of the heart, pressing on the left auricle and large trunks of the pulmonary veins, may, it is supposed, prevent the easy return of the blood from the lungs, and thus produce an oppression and sense of weight and suffocation in the breast. But without entering into a particular examination of these opinions, which are far from being satisfactory, we may observe, with Dr. Whytt, that, if they were true, some degree of the nightmare ought to happen to every body that lies upon his back, especially after eating a full meal. Further, if a horizontal situation could overcharge the brain with blood, so as to occasion the incubus, how comes it that people, who remain for some time in an inverted posture, do not feel this disease beginning to attack them? And why does a slighter degree of the nightmare sometimes seize people who sleep in an erect situation in a chair? a circumstance which sometimes occurs, not only after eating, but when the stomach is out of order, and troubled with wind. As the weight of the stomach, even when filled with food, can have scarcely any effect upon the motion of the blood in the aorta, so the pressure of the heart is by much too small to be able sensibly to retard the motion of that fluid in the pulmonary veins; otherwise, people exhausted by tedious diseases, who generally lie on their back, would be constantly affected with the incubus.

We know that certain medicines or poisons, worms, and even corrupted bile, or other humours, by disagreeably affecting the nerves of the stomach, produce an oppression about the breast, wild imaginations, frightful dreams, raving, and insensibility; and there is no doubt that low spirits, melancholy, and disturbed sleep, often proceed from a disordered state of the stomach. It seems, therefore, more probable that the seat of nightmare is principally in that organ. It is well ascertained, that some forms of epilepsy, and of hysterical fits, originate from disorder in that viscus; and Galen considered the incubus as a nocturnal or slighter epilepsy. People troubled with nervous and hypochondriac affections, and who have delicate or flatulent stomachs, are more peculiarly subject to this disorder; and it is observed, that a heavy or flatulent supper greatly aggravates the nightmare, in those who are predisposed to it. The sympathy of the stomach with the head, heart, lungs, and diaphragm, is so remarkable, that there can be no difficulty in referring the several symptoms of the incubus to a disagreeable irritation of the nerves of the stomach.

The incubus is most apt to seize persons when lying on their back, because, in this position, on account of the stomach and other abdominal viscera pressing more upon the diaphragm, we cannot inspire with the same ease as when we sit up or lie on one side. Further, in that situation of the body the food seems to lie heavier on the stomach, and wind in it does not separate so readily by the Æsophagus and pylorus, as in an erect posture, when these orifices are higher than the other parts of the stomach. The nightmare only occurs in the time of sleep, because the strange ideas excited in the mind, in consequence of the disordered feelings of the stomach, are not then corrected by the external senses, as they are when we are awake; nor do we, by an increased respiration or other motions of the body, endeavour to shake off any beginning uneasy sensation about the stomach or breast. The incubus generally occurs in the first sleep, and seldom towards morning, because at the earlier period the stomach is more loaded with food, and that in a more crude and indigested state than in the morning. A lesser degree, amounting only to frightful dreams, is almost a constant concomitant of overloaded stomach in some habits.

In fact, if the nightmare were owing to a stagnation of the blood in the lungs from the weight of the heart, or in the sinuses and other vessels of the brain, from the horizontal posture of the body, it would become greater the longer it continued, and would scarcely ever go off spontaneously. But we know that this disease, after affecting people for some time, often gradually ceases, and is succeeded by refreshing sleep: for as soon as the load of meat, or wind, or other cause disagreeably affecting the nerves of the stomach, is removed, the oppression and weight on the breast, wild imaginations, frightful dreams, &c. vanish; as all these proceed originally from the disorder of the stomach. It may be remarked, however, that, as neither flatulency, phlegm, nor crudities in the stomach, ever produce the symptoms of hypochondriasis, unless the nerves of that organ be indisposed; so neither a horizontal posture, sleep, nor heavy suppers, ever produce the nightmare, at least in any considerable degree, unless the person be already predisposed to the complaint, from the particular condition of the nerves of the stomach.

But although the stomach is the part commonly affected primarily in the case of incubus; yet symptoms like those of the nightmare may sometimes arise without any fault of the stomach, when the lungs, or even the brain, are affected. Thus Dr. Whytt observes, that asthmatic patients, whose lungs are much obstructed, are sometimes disturbed, in time of sleep, with distressing dreams, and oppressed with a sense of suffocation. Startings and oppressions about the prÆcordia, with painful dreams, are indeed common occurrences from hydrothorax, chronic coughs, and other pulmonary obstructions; but they are not strictly analogous to the common nightmare. Dr. Lower mentions a patient, who, though he could sleep pretty easily with his head inclined forward; yet, in the opposite situation, he was always soon awaked with horrid dreams and tremors; the cause of which appeared, after his death, to have been a great quantity of water in the ventricles of the brain. At all events, a plethoric state of habit, by rendering the circulation through the lungs less free, may help to produce, or at least increase, the oppression of the breast in the nightmare.

The Cure.—As incubus, then, is only a symptom of disordered or loaded stomach, and arises out of the irritation and morbid feelings which are thus produced during sleep, the relief of the disease, generally speaking, lies within a narrow compass. Temperance in eating and drinking, especially at late hours; taking, in fact, either extremely light suppers or none at all; and when the dinner is so late as to be only a supper with another name, being cautious that that also should be moderate in quantity, and easily digestible and unstimulating in its nature; drinking thin, sub-acid liquors, where these are agreeable to the constitution,—these are the principal remedies required. Brisk active exercise, by which the digestive powers may be aided and the stomach strengthened, is also advisable. It were useful, too, to sleep with high pillows, and to lie on the side as much as possible, in preference to the back. If the functions of the stomach are much disordered with flatulency, heartburn, acidity, or oppression, with pain, or nausea, after taking food, the usual remedies recommended for indigestion must be resorted to. The bowels should be kept open. See Whytt on Nervous Disorders, chap. vi. § 18.

Celebrated Speech on Religion.

The Editor of this work well recollects, many years ago, reading in a newspaper a most interesting speech on religion, delivered by a French priest; it made a great impression on his mind at the time, and he frequently regretted he had not transcribed it. He made all inquiry possible, but could not meet with the interesting article till seventeen years had elapsed, when it was published by a person who had preserved the paper in question. It is now presented to the reader as a curiosity worthy of his notice.—This speech was delivered at the Bar of the French Convention, and is copied from the Cambridge Intelligencer of March 24th, 1798.

A few days after the archbishop of Paris and his vicars had set the example of renouncing their clerical character, a rector from a village on the banks of the Rhone, followed by some of his parishioners, with an offering of gold and silver saints and chalices, rich vestments, &c. presented himself at the bar of the convention. The rector, a thin venerable-looking man, with gray hairs, was ordered to speak.

“I come (said he) from the village of ——, where the only good building standing is a very fine church: my parishioners beg you will take it, to make an hospital for the sick and wounded of both parties, they being both equally our countrymen. The gold and silver, part of which we have brought to you, they entreat you will devote to the service of the state, and that you will cast the bells into cannon, to drive away its foreign invaders. For myself, I came with great pleasure to resign my letters of ordination, of induction, and every deed and title by which I have been constituted a member of your ecclesiastical polity. Here are the papers; you may burn them, if you please, in the same fire with genealogical trees and patents of nobility. I desire, likewise, that you will discontinue my salary; I am still able to support myself by the labour of my hands, and I beg you to believe, that I never felt sincerer joy than I now do in making this renunciation. I have longed to see this day! I see it, and am glad.”

When the old man had thus far spoken, the applauses were immoderate. The rector did not seem greatly elated with these tokens of approbation: he retired back a few steps, and thus resumed his discourse:—

“Before you applaud my sentiments, it is fit you should understand them; perhaps they may not entirely coincide with your own. I rejoice in this day, not because I wish to see religion degraded, but because I wish to see it exalted and purified. By dissolving its alliance with the state, you have given it dignity and independence. You have done it a piece of service; a service which its well-wishers would perhaps never have had courage to render it, but which is the only thing wanted to make it appear in its genuine beauty and lustre. Nobody will now say of me, when I am performing the offices of religion, ‘It is a trade; he is paid for telling the people such and such things; he is hired to keep up a useless piece of mummery.’ They cannot say this, and therefore I feel myself raised in my own esteem, and shall speak to them with a confidence and a frankness, which before this I never durst venture to assume. We resign without reluctance our gold and silver images, and embroidered vestments, because we never have found that looking upon gold and silver made the heart more pure, or the affections more heavenly; we can also spare our churches, for the heart that wishes to lift itself up to God, will never be at a loss for a place to do it in: but we cannot spare religion, because, to tell you the truth, we never had so much occasion for it. I understand that you accuse us priests of having told the people a great many falsehoods. I suspect this may have been the case, but till this day we have never been allowed to inquire whether the things which we taught them were true or not. I cannot but hope, however, that the errors we have fallen into have not been very material, since the village has in general been sober and good; the peasants honest, docile, and laborious; the husbands love their wives, and the wives their husbands; they are fortunately not too rich to be compassionate, and they have constantly relieved the sick and fugitives of all parties, whenever it has lain in their way. I think, therefore, what I have taught them cannot be so much amiss.

“You want to extirpate priests: but will you hinder the ignorant from applying for instruction, the unhappy for comfort and hope, the unlearned from looking up to the learned? If you do not, you will have priests, by whatever name you may order them to be called; but it is certainly not necessary they should wear a particular dress, or be appointed by state letters of ordination. My letters of ordination are my zeal, charity, and my ardent love for the children of the village: if I were more learned, I would add knowledge; but, alas! we all know very little: to a man every error is pardonable, but want of humanity. We have a public walk, with a spreading elm-tree at one end of it, and a circle of green around it, with a convenient bench. Here I shall draw together the children that are playing round me: I shall point to the vines laden with fruit, to the orchard, to the herds of cattle lowing round us, to the distant hills stretching one behind another; and they will ask me, how came all these things? I shall tell them all I know; what I have heard from the wise men who have lived before me; they will be penetrated with love and adoration! They will kneel; I shall kneel with them; they will not be at my feet, but all of us at the feet of that good Being, whom we shall worship together, and thus they will receive within their tender minds a religion.

“The old men will come sometimes, from having deposited under the green sod one of their companions, and place themselves by my side: they will look wistfully at the turf, and anxiously inquire,—Is he gone for ever? Shall we soon be like him? Will no morning break over the tomb? When the wicked cease from troubling, will the good cease from doing good? We will talk of these things: I will comfort them; I will tell them of the goodness of God; I will speak to them of a life to come; I will bid them hope for a state of retribution.

“You have changed our holidays; you have an undoubted right, as our civil governors, so to do: it is very immaterial whether they are kept once in seven days, or once in ten; some, however, you will leave us, and when they occur, I shall tell those who choose to hear me, of the beauty and utility of virtue, and of the dignity of right conduct. There is a book out of which I have sometimes taught my people; it says we are to love those who do us hurt, and to pour oil and wine into the wounds of the stranger. In this book we read of Christ Jesus: some worship him as a God; others, as I am told, say it is wrong to do so; some teach that he existed before the beginning of ages; others, that he was born of Joseph and Mary. I cannot tell whether these controversies will ever be decided: but, in the mean time, I think we cannot do otherwise than well in imitating him—for I learn that he loved the poor, and went about doing good.”

Addenda to Vesuvius.—See page 441.

A grand eruption of Vesuvius took place on Sunday night, Feb. 24, 1822. It continued for several days. The following is an extract from a private letter, dated Naples, March 8, 1822.—

“Towards the evening of Tuesday, February the 26th, as appearances promised a good night’s work, we set off from Naples to view the operations nearer; the road to Resina was covered with people going and returning, as if a fair had been in the vicinity. When we reached the spot where strangers are on common occasions surrounded by guides, and asses, and mules, to conduct them up to the mountain, we found that no animals were to be procured, and it was with difficulty we could get a stupid old man for a cicerone, who rendered us no other service than carrying a torch. The ascent was thronged with people, some pushing on eagerly to the object of their curiosities, and others returning, and discussing what they had seen. Far below San Salvator we saw the stream of fire rolling along a wide hollow, and approaching the path by which we were going up: it was then, however, at a considerable distance, and its course was very slow. On reaching the hermitage, we refreshed ourselves as well as the crowd there assembled would permit; we then continued our journey, and approached the lava, which was chiefly formed by the eruption of January, 1821. We found it about thirty feet wide; it was not liquid lava, but consisted of ashes, ignited stones, and old masses of volcanic ejections, swept away by the present eruption, and heated again. These lumps, rolling over each other, produced a strange clinking noise. Some of them were of a very great size; and the whole stream, though descending a steep cone, moved but slowly.

“Beyond this principal stream, midway up the cone, was an opening, whence very large stones and other burning matters were continually thrust out. This mouth fed a scattered stream, beyond which was another narrow stream, proceeding like the principal one from the crater. They both united with the main body in the deep hollow below, and rolled on towards the road which leads from Resina up to the hermitage. The multitude of the spectators standing by the sides of the burning river being seized with astonishment, we, with a great many of the more adventurous, determined to ascend the cone; we therefore passed a little to the left of the great stream, and began to scramble to the deep loose cinders and ashes which cover this part of the mountain, and render it at all times a most fatiguing climb. A little path or track formerly existed, in which the guides laid masses of lava to facilitate the mounting, but it was just in that line that the present eruption descended, and we were in consequence obliged to go up over the sand and cinders, in which we frequently stuck up to our knees, and, at every three steps, lost one on an average. After a most fatiguing toil of an hour and a half, we found ourselves, with a few others, on the edge of the grand crater: hence the coup d’oeil was terrifically sublime; the flames rushed out of the mouth, and threw themselves in the air in a broad body to the elevation of at least a hundred feet, whilst many of the fiery stones flew up twice that height. Sometimes the flames fell back into the mouth of the crater, and then burst out again, as though impelled by a fresh impulse, like the blast of a bellows. In their descent, some of the stones and lumps of cinder returned into the mouth, but the greater part fell outside of the flames, like the jets of a fountain.

“While we were standing on the exposed side of the crater, very intent in observation, all of a sudden the volcano gave a tremendous roar. It was like the crash of a long line of artillery, and was instantly succeeded by such a discharge of stones as we had never before seen. At the same moment, the wind, which was very high, gave an irregular gust, which directed a great part of the stones towards the place where we were posted. Hence our situation was for a minute or two very perilous; but there was no shelter near, and we stood still, looking at the descending shower which fell around us. We, however, happily sustained no other injury than a short alarm, and having some ashes dashed in our faces by stones which fell near us. Two or three gentlemen who were ascending the cone after us, were not quite so fortunate, for many of the stones falling outside of the ridge, rolled down the side with great velocity, loosening and carrying with them lumps of cold lava, &c. some of which struck those persons on the legs with great violence, and nearly precipitated one of them headlong to the foot of the cone.

“After this, we thought we had seen enough, and turned to go down. The descent is as easy as the ascent is difficult; the cinders and ashes sliding away beneath the feet, nothing further is necessary than to step out, the quicker the better, to keep one’s equilibrium, and to avoid the fixed or large stones and pieces of lava. We were not more than ten minutes in reaching the point whence it had taken us an hour and a half to mount. In coming down, we were struck with the strange appearance of the torches of companies ascending and descending; they formed a pale wavering line from Resina to the hermitage; and thence to the cone, they were scattered about in thick and fantastic groups. On reaching the hermitage, we found it so crowded, that we could not enter. The large flat around was covered like a crowded fair, by people of all nations, and of all ranks, from the beautiful and accomplished countess of Fiquelmont, wife of the Austrian ambassador, to the Austrian sergeant and his wife, who had come to see the blazing mountain. Numbers of people had come from towns and villages below, with bread and wine, and fruit and aqua-vitae, all of which articles seemed in very great demand. The motley scene was illuminated by the bright silvery moon, and the red towering flames at the summit of the volcano. We took some slight refreshments, and repaired homewards in the midst of as merry groups as ever returned from scenes of festivity and joy.

“When we got lower down, we found that the lava had approached very near to the road, and had already seized upon a fine vineyard, which was blazing very brilliantly. After our retreat, we learned that the lava traversed the road. On Wednesday, the 27th, the eruption was in a great measure tranquillized; still, however, crowds of people continued going up the mountain; and an Austrian officer, who had come from Caspua to see it, was unfortunately killed on the ridge of the cone, by a large stone striking him on the head. On Thursday scarcely any thing but smoke issued from the crater, and it has continued from that time in the same peaceful state.”

Anagrams.

In “The Book of Curiosities,” even that mechanical, yet curiously fortuitous species of wit, called the Anagram, must not escape notice. It can scarcely be necessary to premise, that anagram, or metagram, is the dissolution of a word into its letters, as its elements; and then, by a new connection of them, making some perfect sense, applicable to the person or thing named. As there are some modern ones of this sort, exhibiting astonishing coincidences, we shall here subjoin a selection of the best:—

Lo i dress, Soldiers.—’Tis ye govern, Sovereignty.—Spare him not, Misanthrope.—Great Helps, Telegraphs.—No more Stars, Astronomers.—No Charm, Monarch.—March on, Monarch.—Comical Trade, Democratical.—Best in Prayer, Presbyterian.—A just Master, James Stuart.—To love Ruin, Revolution.—Oh poison Pitt, Th’ Opposition.—Honor est a Nilo, Horatio Nelson.—A Bear upon ’t, Buonaparte.

The unhappy Sir Edmundburie Godfry, having dared, as a magistrate, to take some legal depositions against the Papists, was, by three of those fellow-subjects, Green, Berry, and Hill, waylaid, and shockingly murdered, in 1678, upon which was then written,

I find murder’d by rogues
Sir Edmundburie Godfry.

Modern Dictionary.

To illustrate life at the present day, we insert the following whimsical EncyclopÆdia of Manners at the Commencement of the Nineteenth Century!

Age ... An infirmity nobody owns.

At Home ... The domestic amusement of three hundred visitors in a small room, to yawn at each other.

Bore ... Every thing one dislikes; it also means any person who talks of religion.

Buying ... Ordering goods without purpose of paying.

Chariot ... A vehicle for one’s servants, the dickey being the seat for the ladies, and the coach-box for the gentleman.

Charity ... A golden ticket to Catalani, or any other favourite performer.

Coachman ... A gentleman or accomplished nobleman.

Common Sense ... A vulgar quality.

Conscience ... Something to swear by.Day ... Night; or, strictly speaking, from ten in the evening to six in the morning.

Debt ... A necessary evil.

Decency ... Keeping up an appearance.

Dress ... Half naked.

Duty ... Doing as other people do.

Economy ... Obsolete.

Fashion ... The Je ne scai quoi of excellence.

Fortune ... The Summum Bonum.

Friend ... Meaning not known.

Highly-accomplished ... Reading music at sight, painting flowers for the borders of a screen, and a talent for guessing charades.

Home ... Every one’s house but your own.

Honour ... Standing fire well.

Hospitality ... Obsolete.

Husband ... A person to pay your debts.

Love ... The meaning not known, now that the ossification of the heart has become a fashionable disease; but the word is still to be found in novels and romances.

Matrimony ... A bargain.

Modest ... Sheepish.

Morning ... From noon to sunset.

Music ... Execution.

New ... Delightful.

Nonsense ... Polite conversation.

Not at Home ... Sitting in your own drawing-room.

Pay ... Only applied to visits.

Piety ... Hypocrisy.

Prodigality ... Generosity.

Prudence ... Parsimony.

Quiz ... Any inoffensive person, out of your own circle.

Religion ... Occupying a seat in some genteel chapel.

Spirit ... Contempt of decorum and morality.

Style ... Splendid extravagance.

Time ... Only regarded in music.

Truth ... Meaning uncertain.

Vice ... Any fault in horses, dogs, and servants.

Wicked ... Irresistibly agreeable.

World ... The circle of fashionable people when in town.

Recipe for Establishing True Friendship.

In Pliny’s Natural History, we find a curious recipe for making the Roman Friendship, a cordial that was universally esteemed in those days, and very few families of any credit were without it. In the same place (he says) they were indebted to the Greeks for this recipe, who had it in the greatest perfection. The old Roman Friendship was a composition of several ingredients, of which the principal were:

Union of hearts, (a fine flower, that grew in several parts of the empire,) sincerity, frankness, disinterestedness, pity, and tenderness, (of each an equal quantity.) These were all mixed with two rich oils, which they called perpetual kind wishes, and serenity of temper; and the whole was strongly perfumed with the desire of pleasing, which gave it a most grateful smell, and was a sure restorative in all sorts of vapours. This cordial was of so durable a nature, that no length of time could waste it: and what is very remarkable, (says our author,) it increased in weight and value the longer you kept it.—The moderns have most grossly adulterated this fine cordial; some of the ingredients indeed are not to be found, but what they impose upon you as friendship, is as follows:

Outward professions, (a common weed that grows every where,) instead of the flower of union; the desire of being pleased; a large quantity of self-interest, conveniency, and reservedness (many handfuls;) a little pity and tenderness. But some pretend to make it up with these two last, and the common oil of inconstancy (which, like our linseed oil, is cold-drawn every hour) serves to mix them together. Most of these ingredients being of a perishable nature, it will not keep, and it shews itself to be counterfeit, by lessening continually in weight and value.

Footnotes:

[1] This subject will be more fully explained hereafter.

[2] Besides these, amongst the internal parts are enumerated,—the lachrymal gland, which secretes the tears; the lachrymal caruncle, a small fleshy substance at the inner angle of the eye; the puncta lachrymalia, two small openings on the nasal extremity of each eye-lash; the lachrymal duct, formed by the union of the ducts leading from the puncta lachrymalia, and conveying the tears into the nose; the lachrymal sac, a dilatation of the lachrymal canal.

[3] An instrument, called the Pulmometer, has been invented, which enables us to measure the capacity of the lungs, and which may communicate information to the physician, of some importance, in diseases of this organ.

[4] Klopstock’s Death in “L’Allemagne;” vol. i. p. 252.

[5] The places of the insertion of the muscles of the proboscis are visible on the skull; it was probably devoured, as well as the end of the tail.

[6] 9 ft. 6 in. measuring along the curve. The distance from the base of the root of the tusk to the point, is 3 ft. 7 in.

[7] On the arrival of the skin at Petersburg, it was totally devoid of hair.

[8] In speaking of the wild beasts of India, Pliny says, with regard to the animal in question,—

“Asperrimam autem feram monocerotem, reliquo corpore equo similem, capite cervo, pedibus eliphante, cauda apro, mugitu gravi, uno cornu nigro media fronte, cubitorum duum eminente. Hanc feram vivam negant capi.” Plin. Hist. Mund. Lib. 3, cap. 21.

The resemblance is certainly very striking.

[9] It was a female sheep, but by the sailors was constantly called Jack.

[10] Reaumur plausibly supposes, that it has been from observing this bee thus loaded, that the tale mentioned by Aristotle and Pliny, of the hive-bee’s ballasting itself with a bit of stone, previous to flying home in a high wind, has arisen.

[11] M. Huber observes, that fecundated females, after they have lost their wings, make themselves a subterranean cell, some singly, others in common. From which it appears that some colonies have more than one female from their first establishment.

[12] See Fourcroy, Annales du MusÉum, No. 5, p. 338, 342. Some, however, still regard it as a distinct acid.

[13] See Fourcroy, Annales du MusÉum, No. 5. p. 343.

[14] One would think the writer of the account of ants, in Mouffet, had been witness to something similar. “If they see any one idle,” (says he,) “they not only drive him as spurious, without food, from the nest; but likewise, a circle of all ranks being assembled, cut off his head before the gates, that he may be a warning to their children, not to give themselves up for the future to idleness and effeminacy.”—Theatr. Ins. p. 241.

[15] Annal. di Chimica, xiii. 1797, Mag. ii. 80.

[16]

“And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs,
And light them at the fiery glowworm’s eyes.”

[17] Hist. Nat. l. xi. c. 29. A similar law was enacted in Lemnos, by which every one was compelled to bring a certain measure of locusts annually to the magistrates. Plin.

[18] Of the symbolical locusts in the Apocalypse it is said, “And the sound of their wings was as the sound of chariots of many horses running to battle.”—Rev. ix. 9.

[19] Shaw says, that the gryllus cristatus, which is five or six times the size of the common locust, or gryllus migratorius, is publicly sold, both in a fresh and salted state, in the markets of some parts of the Levant. Gen. Zoology, vol. vi. part. ii. p. 138.

[20] See Dr. Plot’s Hist. of Oxf. ch. vi. sect. 45.

[21] The moving columns of sand.

[22] Palmistry is the pretended art of telling the future events of men’s lives by the lines in their hands.

[23] And yet I have seen him, after his return, addressing his wife in the language of a young bridegroom. And I have been assured, by some of his most intimate friends, that he treated her, during the rest of their lives, with the greatest kindness and affection.

[24] A specimen of the papyrus is to be seen at the British Museum; it is the first known in England. It was brought by Mr. Bruce, and given to Sir Joseph Banks, who presented it to the British Museum.

[25] The white pebbles found on the banks of the Mersey, although not a pure quartz, answer the purpose perfectly well. It is singular, that the friction is invariably accompanied by a strong sulphureous smell.

[26] That this method of charming the serpentine race was practised at a very early period of antiquity, appears from the allusion of the holy Psalmist, in the 4th and 5th verses of the 58th Psalm.