Part 124
He conceives that he is the most beautiful person in the world, and hence besides calling himself “the Ærial,” the “New Discovery,” and “the Great Unknown,” he adds “the Paragon of Perfection,” “the Phœnix,” “the God of Beauty,” and “the Grand Arcana of Nature.” Some one intimated that arcan_um_ would be correct; he said, he did not choose to _hum_, and he was “not to be _hummed_.” It was hinted that he might assume the name of Apollo; he turned from the speaker with contempt--“Apollo is nothing compared with me; there is no figure to compete with me in any respect, except the Achilles in the park, which may be somewhat like me in the under part of the foot upon the ground, but upon that it is impossible to determine with accuracy, unless the figure flew from the pedestal.”
He relates, that he visited Dr. Thornton, who lectures at the Marlborough rooms, in Great Marlborough-street, on “craniology, botany, chemistry, astronomy, vision, hearing, the circulation of the blood, digestion, and the beneficial effects produced by the different gases in the cure of diseases.” He inquired of this gentleman whether he thought “an exhibition of something never before seen under the sun, and which, when seen, people would fall down and worship, would be likely to _take_?” The doctor inquired what the “something” was; the Ærial answered by inquiring which of all the exhibitions was likely to be the most successful; the doctor answered, “the panorama of London in the Regent’s-park when it opens.” “But what do you think an infinitely more attractive exhibition will produce.” “It is impossible to say--perhaps 20,000_l._ a year; but what is yours?”--“You shall see--but not now--to-morrow.” On the morrow the Ærial came with a small bundle; and having obtained permission to retire therewith, alone to a room, promised to return in a few minutes, and cheer the sight of the doctor and his family with a more astonishing production of nature than the doctor or all mankind born before him had seen, or after ages could see. During his absence, the doctor’s household were on tiptoe expectation till the long-looked-at door opened, when the Ærial entered in a close-fitting dress, and walking to the middle of the room, threw out his chest and left arm, and projecting his right arm behind, cried, “Behold!”
Determined on an immediate public exhibition, the Ærial conceived the idea of a new joint stock company, “capital one million;” for which “good and valuable consideration,” he proposed to put himself at the disposition of the company “so soon as the subscription was filled up.” To certain observations of the chancellor against the “new companies,” the Ærial attributed a general indifference to personal overtures that he made to several individuals, with a view to arrangements for bringing him “into the market.” He resolved to speculate on his own account; the first thing to be obtained was a “grand room;” but the proprietor of the “Egyptian-hall” was deaf to the voice of the charmer, and every room in London was denied to him, except on degrading conditions which people “without souls” are accustomed to require on such applications. Could he have obtained _one_ friend to have gone shares with him, the _summum bonum_ might have been obtained. If only _one_ monied man would have advanced with capital, the Ærial would have advanced in person. It was to have been an exhibition by candlelight, for candlelight he said was indispensable to produce “extreme height,” and render him in common eyes “a giant.” This effect of exhibition by candlelight would be, he said, a “new discovery;” and therefore he added to himself the title of the “New Discovery.” He is five feet one inch and a quarter high. Some one unthinkingly conversing in his presence, stated him to be five feet one inch and a _half_; the Ærial corrected the inaccuracy with severity. “A _quarter_, sir,” he said; “five feet one and a _quarter_, sir; mine is the _perfect_ height; a _quarter_ of an inch more would be higher, a _quarter_ of an inch less would be lower than the standard of perfection!”
Acquiring experience from disappointment, and deeming that the wonder of his person might be as insupportable as “excess of light,” the Ærial purposed to let himself in upon the public by degrees. At his chambers in Thavies-inn, he procured the attendance of a person to mould that limb, which Mr. Haydon, from inability to duly appreciate the rest of his body, had denominated “a beautiful leg.” The operation was so tedious, that the mould was not completed till eleven o’clock in the evening. It was then carried away for the purpose of being cast, but the Ærial suspected “all was not right,” and “convinced,” he says, “that the artist was sitting up to surreptitiously take a thousand casts from it, in the course of the night, and sell them all over the country,” he jumped into a hackney, between one and two in the morning, and caused the coachman to drive him “as fast as the horses could go,” to the artist’s house. The coachman, then he, the door-knocker seized, and there both kept “lowd rub a dub tabering, with frapping rip rap.” The drowsy servant roused from slumber, “creeping like snail, unwillingly” opened the street door; the Ærial called out “where’s my leg! I’m come for my leg!” and, seizing “the candle,” rushed to the workroom, which to his astonishment was in darkness till illumined by his presence, and the light he bore in his hand. On seeing the mould of his leg in the basket just as it had been brought, he seized and bore it off to his own home, and after this achievement slept in peace. In the morning he carried it himself to another place, and having had a cast taken from it in his own presence, conveyed both away, and meditated how “all might see, and having seen, admire.” Finally, he deposited the cast with Mr. Cottrell, at his “last and boot-tree manufactory,” No. 125, (near Leather-lane,) Holborn, upon a promise that it should be exhibited in the shop window without note or comment: “it will speak for itself,” he said. He frequently made kind inquiries as to this portional representation of himself, till he was informed, that “two hundred pounds had been bid for it:” this was not enough. On a subsequent interview, he was acquainted that “another person said he was willing to give three hundred for it.” This undervaluation was decisive. “Such people” he said, “shall not have a part of my person: give me my leg; plenty now will desire an entire cast of me: I will submit to it for the sake of the world for a thousand pounds; no less: here is my address, let any one who desires it come to me.” He once more resumed the actual possession of the cast, but no one came, and he pondered in vain to account for the motives of “the world.” At length, by accident, he let the cast fall and broke it; this he entirely destroyed. He next sought how to dispose of the mould without disgrace to it, or to himself. Sudden and quick in purpose, he resolved to bury it in the ocean. The mail carried him to Dover, and from on board a steam-vessel, when midway between England and France, he let it down to the bed of the sea, as to the bed of honour, and “left it alone in its glory.”
After this funeral excursion, which had extended to Calais, he was, on Monday, the 29th of August, at the public office, Marlborough-street. The newspapers state the circumstance to this effect:--“A young man, smart and flippant withal, was introduced to Mr. Conant, the presiding magistrate. Whether the individual thought with Burke, that ‘mystery was an attribute of the sublime,’ we know not--but this we know, he at first attempted to hide his merits under the humble appellative of Joseph Thompson; but subsequently owned a lawful right to the name of Joseph Leeming;--whether to an immoderate love of the grape, or malt, was to be attributed the inclination of Joseph Leeming matters not, a serious charge of drunkenness, and its almost certain offspring, a riotous comportment in his majesty’s highway, was made against him. When it was demanded what part of the metropolis was dignified by the sojourn of Joseph, he replied, No. 20, Newman-street, where he had tarried about a week. Indeed, Joseph, by his own avowal, is of the swallow nature--one of those roving sons of fortune who fillip the world aside, and cock their hat at fate. With this disposition he seldom remains more than a week anywhere,--perhaps he thinks with Virgil, that ‘in no fixed place the happy souls reside,’ and therefore puts his happiness in quick migration. He had come direct from Calais. ‘And pray, sir,’ said the magistrate, ‘what was your business at Calais?’--‘My _business_?’ retorted Joseph Leeming, ‘_business_, indeed!’--‘Well, sir,’ replied the magistrate, making due acknowledgment for having imagined that Joseph Leeming could have any business, ‘what was your _pleasure_?’ but our hero was not to be catechised in this manner, yet feeling that his dependence on his powers were gradually relaxing, he sent for an artist to astonish the world by a publication of that fame which the modesty of Joseph Leeming kept concealed. The messenger said the artist was not at home, but he learned from a man at the house, that Joseph Leeming was, what no one could have discovered, namely, a conjuror; and then came the grand discovery which we have now to relate. England is now the museum of the world; she has balloons, fighting-dogs, fighting-men, giantesses, and griping churchmen. Mr. Leeming, with a laudable spirit to improve the number of these curiosities, and to distend the jaws of public wonderment somewhat wider, had hit upon a plan by which he might fly through the air and wage an equal battle with rooks and magpies. He had purposed, by the aid of a pair of patent wings, (to be had only of the inventor,) to fly from one of the Dover cliffs down into the town of Calais, or, upon extraordinary occasions, to light upon Paris gates, thereby saving a world of trouble resulting from passports and gendarmerie. However, nothing is more uncertain than the resolve of genius, Mr. Leeming had lately examined the cliffs of Dover, and whether, as he surveyed the shores of France from chalky England, he thought a trip to the ‘land of the Gaul’ was too venturous for a goose we know not; but the feat was relinquished, and the good people of Dover and Calais were denied the pleasure of beholding an ærial race between Mr. Leeming and a sea-gull for the point of destination. After this introduction of Mr. Leeming, in his national greatness, to Mr. Conant, his worship recurred to the original subject, and asked Mr. Leeming if he had his ‘wings’ about him. Mr. Leeming said it was a question he should not answer. ‘Because if you have,’ said Mr. Conant, ‘you may fly out of the office as soon as you please, after you have paid five shillings for being drunk.’ Mr. Leeming paid the five shillings; and so much had the adventure awakened curiosity to the suggested voyage, that the spectators could not divest themselves of the hope of seeing Mr. Leeming fly from the step of the office-door to a neighbouring chimney-pot; in this, however, they were deceived, as he preferred walking out.”
Whether Mr. Leeming proposed “to fly” from Dover cliffs or not is of little consequence, but a person at Dover who meditated and perhaps achieved the experiment, deemed it inexpedient to be considered the Ærial of Marlborough-street, and by public announcement, disclaimed the identity. His appearance at that police office was after his return from Calais. He was on his way home to Newman-street, in “tipsy dance,” when in the imperative mood, he inquired his way of a watchman, who, preferring the _suaviter in modo_, lodged him in the house appointed for the reception of many who indulge too freely in “life in London.” The constable inquired “who are you?” “If you cannot perceive I am a great man with a mere look,” said the Ærial, “I shall not tell you: I will have you all punished.” The result as we have seen, was the proceedings before Mr. Conant.
For the visit to Vauxhall mentioned in _The Times_, he made due preparation. His dress was a close jacket of blue and silver; theatrical “trunks,” or short breeches, reaching to within two or three inches above the knee; white silk stockings of twenty shillings the pair; blue kid shoes; a double frill or ruff, edged with lace round the neck; and wristbands trimmed with lace. His entrance into the gardens without a hat, surprised and astonished the waiters, who ran across to each other inquiring “who is he?” They imagined him a distinguished foreigner, but as he walked the gardens unrecognised their curiosity ceased. During the performances he was little noticed, for being uncovered, the company presumed he was some performer awaiting his turn to exhibit; but when the amusements had ceased, one or two visiters begged to know whom they had the honour of addressing. He answered, “you’ll find out by and bye.” Inquiries becoming troublesome, and a crowd of gazers pressing on, he suddenly broke through, and sustained the character of Ærial, by a “light fantastic toe” sort of flight, from one part of the ground to another, till having arrived at the saloon and rotunda escape was impossible. From a private pocket he handed the printed card copied in _The Times_ paragraph, with another inscribed, “THE NEW DISCOVERY _challenges the whole World, and artists individually, to find a man, or even design, that can in any way, in form or shape, be compared to him_.” The distribution of three or four hundred of these challenges were, in general, satisfactory answers; and when he intimated an inclination to walk, a passage was made, through which he passed with the most dignified deportment he could assume, while the company followed huzzaing. A gentleman required a ring for him; it was instantly complied with, and the Ærial put himself into various positions, with the intent of displaying his transcendant form in the attitudes of ancient statues; that which seemed to give the most lively satisfaction to himself and his increasing audience was the gladiator, wherein he is represented by the engraving to this article. He maintained it with painful perseverance and patient endurance, while the perspiration poured down his face, and the spectators shrieked with laughter and amazement. This achievement was the height of his ambition; at its conclusion he withdrew to a couch, whereon he duly reclined in a studied attitude, to the admiration of thousands, who, tempted by the “Wonderful Discovery,” flocked in from the supper rooms to gaze. Loud cries and shouts of “encore,” roused him from temporary repose; but it was not to indulge the anxious desire, for he walked apparently undisturbed by the distinction he had obtained, and entering a box called for “wine, mighty wine.” Draughts of this were succeeded by potations of rack-punch, while loud calls upon him were unanswered; allegations derogatory to his dignity were noticed by looks of indignation and contempt; “he spoke not, he moved not,” till increased throng and uproar raised his indignation, when a person withdrew him from the gardens, put on his cloak, and the Ærial retired delighted with his reception.
Perusing the papers on the morrow, and not finding accounts respecting his Vauxhall adventure, he found an advertisement of a song dedicated to the duke of York, printed in blue and white. “They are my colours,” said the Ærial, “they are the colours of an ærial,--the duke is an ærial.” Elated by this conception, he bought another new pair of silk stockings, and accomplished another visit to Vauxhall the same evening, where being immediately recognised by some who had seen him the evening before, he was soon surrounded. On this occasion he adventured a challenge, with an offer of 500_l._ to any one who would match himself against him for beauty. Being pushed and pursued he sprung on the supper-table of a company, to the loss or great damage of his second pair of silks, and went home on foot by daylight, amidst the grins of unappreciating people passing to their labour.
On the night of the juvenile fete, as the duke of Cambridge was to be present with his son, the Ærial once more visited Vauxhall. Unhappily, the duke and the young prince were the attracting objects.
Deserted in his utmost need, By those his former fancies fed,
the Ærial retired to a box, and, through the medium of the waiters, consoled himself from their beaufets so effectually, that before supper time he was better qualified to represent an attendant in a bacchanal procession, than the celestial character he assumed. Imagining that certain smiles indicated a deadly jealousy of his superhuman structure, and dreading assassination from the hands of the envious, he manifested his feelings in an undaunted manner, and was overpowered in a scuffle. Being unable to walk from excess of devotion to the rosy deity, he was deposited in one of the cloak rooms, and left to repose: on awaking and sallying forth into the gardens he was astonished to find the place deserted; and, for lamp-light, the glare of the sun. His cloak and purse were not to be found; remonstrance and entreaty were alike vain; he was assured he should have both when they were recoverable, but not then, and he found it convenient to accept the best substitute the place afforded. To be content, where discontent avails not, is a philosophical rudiment, and therefore he philosophically submitted to be assisted by the waiters into a moth-eaten, mouldy, ragged watchman’s scarlet frieze cloak, with “R. G. V. H.,” denoting “Royal Gardens, Vauxhall,” worked in large worsted letters on the back; and in this attire he wandered, “not unseen,” to his dormitory at a few miles distance. The particular compliments he received by the way are not relatable. After a few hours’ rest, he made personal application at Vauxhall for his cloak and purse, and both were returned to him, accompanied by an assurance from them that he must not appear there again. Undaunted by so unexpected a return for the patronage he had vouchsafed towards the gardens, and conceiving that the proprietors ought not to sustain the injury his absence would inflict on them, he laid out another pound in a fourth pair of hose, and again, “in silk attire,” covered by a cloak, presented himself at the door, but he had scarcely advanced from paying his entrance-money when constables hurried him out, and he was not allowed to re-enter. This was the last appearance of the Ærial at Vauxhall.
Conceiving that the managers of the theatres would gladly avail themselves of his attractive powers, he habited himself as before described, and announced himself at their doors as “The Ærial;” but they were “not at home,” nor were they “at home” to his subsequent calls. Such gross inattention to their interests was inconceivable; for it seems he coveted no other remuneration than “to walk across the stage and back again, and receive the plaudits of the audience.” He affirms that he appeared on the boards of the Manchester theatre, and that the people hooted because he would not deign to remain long enough for the gratification of their extreme curiosity. Though convinced that no one ever appeared to such advantage as he does, in the dress wherein he has already appeared in public, yet he walks _en deshabille_ on ordinary occasions, lest he should suffer violence from the fathers, brothers, and lovers of the British ladies, who, according to his own affirmation, are ready to throw themselves at his feet upon the least encouragement. He says he is determined to ally himself to her alone, if she can be found, who knows herself to be a Venus as he knows himself to be an Adonis. He is of opinion that he is “winning each heart and delighting each eye;” and he calls himself “the immortal Mr. L----.” It was suggested to him as possible, that as no income resulted from his outgoings, his property might be expended. His answer was to this effect:--“When I am at the last extremity I can marry any lady I please with thirty thousand pounds.” If he should find himself mistaken in his conceptions before matters have proceeded so far, those to whom his flights have rendered him a public character will soon forget his extraordinary assumptions, and he will find a common station more conducive to his personal quiet. He is unknown to the writer of this article, who, nevertheless, is so well informed respecting him as to be persuaded that when Mr. L.’s feverish excitement is over, his talents merely require diligent cultivation in a different direction to ensure this. A man is in less danger who thinks too meanly, than he who thinks too highly of himself. It is easier to be comfortable in a lower sphere, than to reach an elevated one and live happy in it.
* * * * *
_Letter from the Ærial._
When this sheet was going to press a letter was received; which, being properly authenticated, is here subjoined, with the words in italics as marked in the original.
_To the Editor of the Every-Day Book._
Sir,
_November_ 16, 1825.
I conceive that nothing but my “death,” or at least “the beautiful leg,” will atone to the world for my _little_ indiscretions. If you expect me to appeal to the public, I answer, that I have been without father and mother eleven years nearly, though now only twenty-five years old, and measuring five feet two inches and a half, and in the hands of guardians, though not wanting money, _four of whom_ it took to put me in the watchhouse, and I answer that I would rather be hanged if “the most liberal nation of the earth” wishes it.
You have observed that the company _shrieked_ with laughter and amazement. Now I say _I_ was the only _one_ who _shrieked_ with laughter, as I should at another hoax on the public. You might have spared me the trouble of answering you, if you had not introduced a most immutable picture of my conduct. You have represented me as the individual courting excessive censure or praise; but I must here be puppy enough to talk of general opinion, and say, that notwithstanding the pretended _christian burial_ of me by the newspapers, it still appears by each and every of them that in the end the magistrate had no just cause to hate me. Besides acquiring experience from disappointment, and Mr. Chantry who sent for _me_, I had a _dream_ which clearly _convinced_ me I should not part with the cast.
I have no occasion to mention the author of the following quotation:--
“Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, the dog will have his day.”
I am, Sir,
Your most obedient servant,
JOSEPH LEEMING.
_No. 61, Berwick Street, Soho._
Having inserted this letter here the matter ends, for nothing remains to be said.
It being within the purpose of the _Every-Day Book_ to observe on the phenomena of the times, Mr. Leeming, as “the Ærial,” was included, but not until he had been previously in print from the character he assumed. His present letter speaks for itself. He admits “_little_” indiscretions: among these “_little_” ones a _large_ one was, what he terms, his “_hoax_” on the public; but his visits to the artists are of another character. There exists no feeling towards him, on the part of the editor of this work, but a kind one; and he advises him, for his own sake, to “_study_ to be _quiet_.”
* * * * *
Happy the man whose wish and care, A few paternal acres bound; Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcern’dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day.