The Book of Curiosities

by John Platts

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.