1851

LONDON: GEORGE NEWBOLD, 303 & 304, STRAND, W.C.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS, DESIGNED AND ETCHED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

India Proof impressions of the above Ten Plates may be had, all printed on paper of uniform size (23½ by 17½ inches), quite perfect, and free from folds, price 15s. per set.

CHAPTER I.

THE GREAT EXHIBITION was about to attract sight-seers of all the world—the sight-seers, who make up nine-tenths of the human family. The African had mounted his ostrich. The Crisp of the Desert had announced an excursion caravan from Zoolu to Fez. The Yakutskian Shillibeer had already started the first reindeer omnibus to Novogorod. Penny cargoes were steaming down Old Nile, in Egyptian “Daylights;” and “Moonlights,” while floating from the Punjaub, and congregating down the Indus, Scindian “Bridesmaids” and “Bachelors” came racing up the Red Sea, with Burmese “Watermen, Nos. 9 and 12,” calling at the piers of Muscat and Aden, to pick up passengers for the Isthmus—at two-pence a-head.

The Esquimaux had just purchased his new “registered paletot” of seal-skin from the great “sweater” of the Arctic Regions. The Hottentot Venus had already added to the graceful ebullitions of nature, the charms of a Parisian crinoline. The Yemassee was busy blueing his cheeks with the rouge of the backwoods. The Truefit of New Zealand had dressed the full buzz wig, and cut and curled the horn of the chief of the Papuas. The Botocudo had ordered a new pair of wooden ear-rings. The Maripoosan had japanned his teeth with the best Brunswick Black Odonto. The Cingalese was hard at work with a Kalydor of Cocoa-Nut-Oil, polishing himself up like a boot; and the King of Dahomey—an ebony Adam—in nankeen gaiters and epaulets, was wending his way towards London to tender his congratulations to the Prince Consort.

Nor was the commotion confined alone to the extremes of the world—the metropolis of Great Britain was also in a prodigious excitement. Alexis Soyer was preparing to open a restaurant of all nations, where the universe might dine, from sixpence to a hundred guineas, off cartes ranging from pickled whelks to nightingale’s tongues—from the rats à la Tartare of the Chinese, to the “turkey and truffles” of the Parisian gourmand—from the “long sixes, au naturel,” of the Russian, to the “stewed Missionary of the Marquesas,” or the “cold roast Bishop” of New Zealand. Here, too, was to be a Park with Swiss cottages, wherein the sober Turk might quaff his Dublin stout; and Chinese Pagodas, from whose golden galleries the poor German student, dreaming of the undiscoverable noumena of Kant, might smoke his penny Pickwick, sip his Arabian chicory, and in a fit of absence, think of his father-land and pocket the sugar.

St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey (“in consequence of the increased demand”) were about to double their prices of admission, when M. Jullien, “ever ready to deserve the patronage of a discerning public,” made the two great English cathedrals so tempting an offer that they “did not think themselves justified in refusing it.” And there, on alternate nights, were shortly to be exhibited, to admiring millions, the crystal curtain, the stained glass windows illuminated with gas, and the statues lighted up with rose-coloured lamps; the “Black Band of his Majesty of Tsjaddi, with a hundred additional bones;” the monster Jew’s harp; the Euhurdy-gurdychon; the Musicians of Tongoose; the Singers of the Maldives; the Glee Minstrels of Paraguay; the Troubadours of far Vancouver; the Snow Ball Family from the Gold Coast; the Canary of the Samoiedes; the Theban Brothers; and, “expressly engaged for the occasion,” the celebrated Band of Robbers from the Desert.

Barnum, too, had “thrown up” Jenny Lind, and entered into an agreement with the Poor Law Commissioners to pay the Poor Rates of all England during one year for the sole possession of Somerset House, as a “Grand Hotel for all Nations,” under the highly explanatory title of the “Xenodokeion Pancosmopolitanicon;” where each guest was to be provided with a bed, boudoir, and banquet, together with one hour’s use per diem of a valet, and a private chaplain (according to the religious opinions of the individual); the privilege of free admission to all the theatres and green-rooms; the right of entrée to the Privy Council and the Palace; a knife and fork, and spittoon at pleasure, at the tables of the nobility; a seat with nightcap and pillow in the House of Commons, and a cigar on the Bench with the Judges; the free use of the columns of “The Times” newspaper, and the right of abusing therein their friends and hosts of the day before; the privilege of paying visits in the Lord Mayor’s state-carriage (with the freedom of the City of London), and of using the

Goldsmiths’ state barge for aquatic excursions; and finally, the full right of presentation at the Drawing-room to her most gracious Majesty, and of investiture with the Order of the Garter at discretion, as well as the prerogative of sitting down, once a week, in rotation, at the dinner table of His Excellency General Tom-Thumb. These advantages Mr. Barnum, to use his own language, had “determined upon offering to a generous and enlightened American public at one shilling per head per day—numbers alone enabling him to complete his engagements.”

While these gigantic preparations for the gratification of foreign visitors were being made, the whole of the British Provinces likewise were preparing extensively to enjoy themselves. Every city was arranging some “monster train” to shoot the whole of its inhabitants, at a halfpenny per ton, into the lodging-houses of London. All the houses of York were on tiptoe, in the hope of shaking hands in Hyde Park with all the houses of Lancaster. Beds, Bucks, Notts, Wilts, Hants, Hunts, and Herts were respectively cramming their carpet-bags in anticipation of “a week in London.” Not a village, a hamlet, a borough, a township, or a wick, but had each its shilling club, for providing their inhabitants with a three days’ journey to London, a mattrass under the dry arches of the Adelphi, and tickets for soup ad libitum. John o’Groats was anxiously looking forward to the time when he was to clutch the Land’s End to his bosom,—the Isle of Man was panting to take the Isle of Dogs by the hand, and welcome Thanet, Sheppy, and Skye to the gaieties of a London life,—the

North Foreland was preparing for a friendly stroll up Regent-street with Holy-Head on his arm—and the man at Eddystone Lighthouse could see the distant glimmer of a hope of shortly setting eyes upon the long-looked-for Buoy at the Nore.

Bradshaw’s Railway Guide had swelled into an encyclopædia, and Masters and Bachelors of Arts “who had taken distinguished degrees,” were daily advertising, to perfect persons in the understanding of the Time Tables, in six easy lessons, for one guinea. Omnibus conductors were undergoing a Polyglott course on the Hamiltonian system, to enable them to abuse all foreigners in their native tongues; the “Atlases” were being made extra strong, so that they might be able to bear the whole world on top of them; and the proprietors of the Camberwell and Camden Town ’Busses were eagerly watching for the time when English, French, Prussians, and Belgians should join their Wellingtons and Bluchers on the heights of “Waterloo!”

Such was the state of the world, the continent, the provinces, and the metropolis. Nor was the pulse that beat so throbbingly at Bermondsey, Bow, Bayswater, Brixton, Brompton, Brentford, and Blackheath, without a response on the banks of Crummock Water and the tranquil meadows of Buttermere.

He who has passed all his life amid the chaffering of Cheapside, or the ceaseless toil of Bethnal Green, or the luxurious ease of Belgravia,—who has seen no mountain higher than Saffron Hill,—has stood beside no waters purer than the Thames—whose eye has rested upon no spot more green than the enclosure of Leicester Square,—who knows no people more primitive than the quaker corn-factors of Mark Lane, and nothing more truthful than the “impartial inquiries” of the Morning Chronicle, or more kind-hearted than the writings of the Economist,—who has drunk of no philosophy deeper than that of the Penny Cyclopædia,—who has felt no quietude other than that of the City on a Sunday,—sighed for no home but that which he can reach for “threepence all the way,” and wished for no last resting-place but a dry vault and a stucco cenotaph in the theatrical Golgothas of Kensal and of Highgate;—such a man can form no image of the peace, the simplicity, the truth, and the beauty which aggregate into the perpetual Sabbath that hallows the seclusion about and around

the Lake of Buttermere.

Here the knock of the dun never startles the hermit or the student—for (thrice blessed spot!) there are no knockers. Here are no bills, to make one dread the coming of the spring, or the summer, or the Christmas, or whatever other “festive” season they may fall due upon, for (oh earthly paradise!) there are no tradesmen, and—better still—no discounters, and—greater boon than all—no! not one attorney within nine statute miles of mountain, fell, and morass, to ruffle the serenity of the village inn. Here that sure-revolving tax-gatherer—as inevitable and cruel as the Fate in a Grecian tragedy—never comes, with long book and short inkhorn, to convince us it is Lady-day—nor “Paving,” nor “Lighting,” nor “Water,” “Sewers,” nor “Poors,” nor “Parochials,” nor “Church,” nor “County,” nor “Queen’s,” nor any other accursed accompaniment of our boasted civilization. Here are no dinner-parties for the publication of plate; no soirées for the exhibition of great acquaintances; no conversaziones for the display of

your wisdom, with the full right of boring your friends with your pet theories; nor polkas, nor schottisches, nor Cellarii, for inflaming young heirs into matrimony. Here there are no newspapers at breakfast to stir up your early bile with a grievance, or to render the merchant’s morning meal indigestible with the list of bankrupts, or startle the fundholder with a sense that all security for property is at an end. Here there are no easy-chair philosophers,—not particularly illustrious themselves for a delight in hard labour,—to teach us to “sweep all who will not work into the dust-bin.” Here, too, there are no Harmonic Coalholes, or Cyder Cellars, nor Choreographic Casinos, or Cremornes, or other such night colleges for youth, where ethics are taught from professional chairs occupied by “rapid” publicans, or by superannuated melodists, with songs as old as themselves, and as dirty as their linen.

No! According to a statistical investigation recently instituted, to the great alarm of the inhabitants, there were, at the beginning of the ever-to-be-remembered year 1851, in the little village situate between the Lakes of Crummock and Buttermere, fifteen inhabited houses, one uninhabited, and one church about the size of a cottage; and within three miles of these, in any direction, there was no other habitation whatsoever. This little cluster of houses constituted the village called Buttermere, and consisted of four farm-houses, seven cottages, two Squires’ residences, and two inns.

The census of the nine families who resided in the fifteen houses of Buttermere—for many of these same families were the sons and nephews of the elders—was both curious and interesting. There were the Flemings, the Nelsons, the Cowmans, the Clarks, the Riggs, the Lancasters, the Branthwaites, the Lightfoots—and The Jopson, the warm-hearted Bachelor Squire of the place. The remaining Squire—also, be it said, a Bachelor—had left, when but a stripling, the cool shades of the peaceful vales for the wars of India. His name was but as a shadow on the memory of the inhabitants; once he had returned with—so the story ran—“an Arabian Horse;” but “his wanderings not being over,” as his old housekeeper worded it, with a grave shake of her deep-frilled cap, he had gone back “t’ hot country with Sir Henry Hardinge to fight t’ Sikhs,” promising to return again and end his days beside his native Lake of Buttermere.

Of the families above cited, two were related by marriage. The Clarks had wedded with the Riggs, and the Cowmans with the Lightfoots, so that, in reality, the nine were but seven; and, strange to say, only one of these—the Clarks—-were native to the place. It was curious to trace the causes that had brought the other settlers to so sequestered a spot. The greatest distance, however, that any of the immigrants had come from was thirty miles, and some had travelled but three; and yet, after five-and-twenty years’ residence, were spoken of by the aboriginal natives as “foreigners.”

Only one family—Buttermere born—had been known to emigrate, and they had been led off, like the farmers who had immigrated, by the lure of more fertile or more profitable tenancies. Three, however, had become extinct; but two in name only, having been absorbed by marriage of their heiresses, while the other one—the most celebrated of all—was utterly lost, except in tradition, to the place. This was the family of Mary Robinson, the innkeeper’s daughter, and the renowned Beauty of Buttermere, known as the lovely, simple-hearted peasant girl, trapped by the dashing forger into marriage, widowed by the hangman, amidst a nation’s tears, and yet—must we write it—not dying broken-hearted,—but—alas, for the romance and constancy of the sex!—remarried ere long to a comfortable farmer, and ending her days the stout well-to-do mother of seven bouncing boys and girls.

Mr. Thornton, the eminent populationist, has convinced every thinking mind, that, in order that the increase of the people may be duly regulated, every husband and wife throughout the country should have only one child and a quarter. In Buttermere, alas! (we almost weep as we announce the much-to-be-regretted fact) there are seventeen parents and twenty-nine children, which is at the frightful rate of one child and three-quarters and a fraction, to each husband and wife!

Within the last ten years, too, Buttermere has seen, unappalled, three marriages and nine births. The marriages were all with maids of the inn, where the memory of Mary Robinson still sheds a traditionary grace over each new chambermaid, and village swains, bewitched by the association, come annually to provide themselves with “Beauties.”

The deaths of Buttermere tell each their peculiar story. Of the seven who have passed away since the year 1840, one was an old man who had seen the snow for eighty winters lie upon Red Pike; another was little Mary Clarke, who for eight years only had frolicked in the sunshine of the happy valley. Two were brothers, working at the slate-quarries high up on Honister Craig: one had fallen from a ladder down the precipice side—the other, a tall and stalwart man, had, in the presence of his two boys, been carried up bodily into the air by a whirlwind, and dashed to death on the craigs below. Of the rest, one died of typhus fever, and another, stricken by the same disease, was brought, at his special request, from a distance of twenty-one miles, to end his days in his mountain home. The last, a young girl of twenty, perished by her own hand—the romance of village life! Mary Lightfoot, wooed by her young master, the farmer’s son, of Gatesgarth, sat till morning awaiting his return from Keswick, whither he had gone to court another. Through the long, lone night, the

misgivings of her heart had grown by daylight into certainty. The false youth came back with other kisses on his lip, and angry words for her. Life lost its charms for Mary, and she could see no peace but in the grave.[1]

1. The custom of night courtship is peculiar to the county of Cumberland and some of the districts of South Wales. The following note, explanatory of the circumstance, is taken from the last edition of “The Cumberland Ballads of Robert Anderson,” a work to be found, well thumbed, in the pocket of every Cumbrian peasant-girl and mountain shepherd:—“A Cumbrian peasant pays his addresses to his sweetheart during the silence and solemnity of midnight. Anticipating her kindness, he will travel ten or twelve miles, over hills, bogs, moors, and morasses, undiscouraged by the length of the road, the darkness of the night, or the intemperance of the weather; on reaching her habitation, he gives a gentle tap at the window of her chamber, at which signal she immediately rises, dresses herself, and proceeds with all possible silence to the door, which she gently opens, lest a creaking hinge, or a barking dog should awaken the family. On his entrance into the kitchen, the luxuries of a Cumbrian cottage—cream and sugared curds—are placed before him; next the courtship

commences, previously to which, the fire is darkened and extinguished, lest its light should guide to the window some idle or licentious eye; in this dark and uncomfortable situation (at least uncomfortable to all but lovers), they remain till the advance of day, depositing in each other’s bosoms the secrets of love, and making vows of unalterable affection.”

Nor are the other social facts of Buttermere less interesting.

According to a return obtained by two gentlemen, who represented themselves as members of the London Statistical Society, and who, after a week’s enthusiasm and hearty feeding at the Fish Inn, suddenly disappeared, leaving behind them the Occupation Abstract of the inhabitants and a geological hammer,—according to these gentlemen, we repeat, the seventy-two Buttermerians may be distributed as follows: two innkeepers, four farmers (including one statesman and one sinecure constable), nine labourers (one of them a miner, one a quarrier, and one the parish-clerk), twelve farm-servants, seventeen sons, nine daughters, fourteen wives, three widows, one ’squire, and one pauper of eighty-six years of age.

“But,” says the Pudding-lane reader, “if this be the entire community, how do the people live? where are the shops? where that glorious interchange of commodities, without which society cannot exist! Where do they get their bread—their meat—their tea—their sugar—their clothing—their shoes? If ill, what becomes of them? Their children, where are they taught? Their money, where is it deposited? Their letters?—for surely they cannot be cut off from all civilization by the utter absence of post-office and postman! Are they beyond the realms of justice, that no attorney is numbered amongst their population? They have a constable—where, then, the magistrate? They have a parish-clerk—then where the clergyman?”