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 A curtain covered the glass lid of the box, which could be withdrawn at pleasure; and which box being kept in the common parlour, Mr.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:—