to London to exhibit himself—no longer
unwilling to have his bulk and weight talked about.
In 1806, the following advertisement appeared:
"Mr. Daniel Lambert, of Leicester, the heaviest
man that ever lived. At the age of thirty-six
years he weighs upwards of fifty stone (fourteen
pounds to the stone), or eighty-seven stones
four pounds London weight (i.e. butchers'
weight of eight pounds to the stone), which is
ninety-one pounds more than the great Mr.
Bright weighed. Mr. Lambert will see
company at his house, Number Fifty-three
Piccadilly, next Albany, nearly opposite St. James's
Church, from eleven to five o'clock. Tickets of
Admission, One Shilling each." He was one of
the lions of London for a time. His exhibition-
room (what a famous place Piccadilly has
been for giants, dwarfs, lean people, and fat
people!) was visited by the high-born as well
as by the vulgar; and he appears to have been
respected as well as looked at, for he was a kind
and sensible man. He was always shocked at
the idea of any personal indignity or insult being
cast upon him on the ground of his bulk, by
coarse-minded persons; and this known susceptibility
was generally respected. Mr. Lambert was
healthy in spite of his obesity. Some years earlier,
when he was thrice the weight of an ordinary
man, he could carry a weight of five hundred
pounds. During the last fifteen years of his life, he
drank nothing but water, and was usually cheerful
and good humoured. His bulk increased year
by year, until, shortly before his death, in 1809,
he attained the unprecedented weight of seven
hundred and thirty-nine pounds (nearly fifty-
three stones). His coffin was seventy-six inches
long by fifty-two wide, and contained a
hundred and twelve square feet of elm. The coffin
was regularly built upon axles and wheels;
and not only the window, but also the side
of a room, had to be taken down, to afford
a passage for the bulky mass. The wheeled
coffin was drawn to St. Martin's churchyard,
where a gradual descent was made to the grave
by excavating the ground. We remember seeing,
a few years ago, at a bootmaker's in the City,
a pair of shoes, the counterpart of some which
had been made for the weighty Daniel by a
former owner of the shop; they were, as Thomas
Hood said of a stage-coachman's great-coat,
     Too broad to be conceived by any narrow mind.

REMINISCENCES OF BROGG.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.

AND it's C. J. Brogg, mind—not H. K.—who
himself made some figure in the world, but was,
in my opinion, a very superficial character—a
sort of marten or swallow skimming over the
surface of the field of knowledge, not going over
it inch by inch as I have seen a wise old blackbird
do at four o'clock A.M., securing all the
early worms, and digesting them, too, and profiting
by them. This last was more like the conduct
of C. J., who went deep down into everything
which he had to do with.

I have often wondered, and so no doubt have
others, that no memoir or biography has yet
appeared of C. J. He had no objection to it
himself; on the contrary, I remember his saying
to me on one occasion, "If, my dear Bradshaw"
—such was our intimacy, that he was in the habit
of addressing me in this familiar manner, or even
sometimes as "my dear William"—"if," said
my distinguished friend, "any incidents in my
career should seem to you worthy of record; if
any words which I have let drop, or may
hereafter let drop, should seem to you or others likely
to be useful to society, I have no objection to
their obtaining publicity, far from it. I would
be the last person to wish that a feeling of false
modesty on my part should interfere with my
posthumous usefulness." Those were his very
words; and what words. I cannot let them pass
without calling attention to that phrase
"posthumous usefulness." How much is expressed in
those two words. I remember that my friend
himself seemed pleased with them, repeating
them afterwards softly to himself, "posthumous
usefulness—posthumous usefulness—yes, let us
be posthumously useful, at all events, and come
of it what may."

And posthumously useful thou shalt be, my
friend, if it lies in my power to make thee so.

I never knew any man act and speak so exactly
as a man should act and speak for biographical
purposes as my friend C. J. Brogg. What he
had to say he always said in words so choicely
placed, that to have omitted or altered one of
them would have been to ruin the sentence. And
he never did alter or omit a word, as I can testify
with certainty, having frequently heard him make
the same remark, or utter the same opinion, in
diiferent societies, and always in the same words.
"Although the unities," he would say, speaking of
Shakespeare, "are frequently disregarded, and the
dramatic proprieties outraged from time to time,
we are yet so dazzled by the brilliancy of our
great bard that we forget to censure even where
censure is due, and both the critical faculty and
the judgment slink away abashed before the
sunlight of Shakespeare's genius." How often have
I heard these words uttered when Shakespeare
was under discussion, yet never without being
impressed by them. The first time I heard them
I thought I should have fainted. I got more
used to them afterwards.

How very quick he was, too, sometimes,
especially I have remarked when in his own house,
and when his brother was present. And here I
must again remark that it is not H. K. of whom
I speak. H. K. was only half-brother to the
subject of this biography, and always seemed to
me to bear him a certain grudge, arising most
likely from jealousy. His real brother, James, was
wholly devoted to C. J., and really seemed to live
only to please his illustrious relation. I
remember on one occasion, when James was giving
an account of an illness from which he had
recently recovered, and ended by quoting the
prescription by means of which he had been