THE ADVENTURES OF THE PUBLIC RECORDS.

“Burn all the records of the realm! My mouth shall be the parliament.” Thus spoke Jack Cade; and it would appear from the manner in which the public records are at the present time “bestowed,” that those who have had the stowing of them, cordially echo the sentiment. The historical, legal, and territorial archives of this country—believed to be, when properly arranged and systematised, the most complete and valuable in existence—are spread and distributed over six depositories. Some little description of three of these only, will show the jeopardy in which such records of the Wisdom of our ancestors, as we yet possess, are placed, and the adventures which have befallen many of them.

Many of the most valuable documents of the past—including the Chancery Records from the reign of John to Edward I.—are kept in the Tower of London. Some in the White and some in the Wakefield Tower, close to which is an hydraulic steam-engine in daily operation. The basement of the former contains tons of gunpowder, the explosion of which would destroy all Tower Hill, and change even the course of the Thames; while the fate of paper and parchment thrown up by such a volcano, it is not even possible to imagine. The White Tower is also replenished with highly inflammable ordnance stores, tarpaulins carefully pitched, soldiers’ kits, and all kinds of wood-work, among which common labourers not imbued with extra-carefulness are constantly moving about. That no risk may be wanting, an eye-witness relates that he has seen boiling pitch actually in flames, quite close to this repository. When the fire of the Tower did take place, its flames leaped and darted their dangerous tongues within forty feet of it. So alarmed were the authorities on that occasion, that this tower underwent a constant nocturnal shower-bath during the time the small Armoury was burning. But when the danger was over, though fireproof barrack-houses were built for the soldiers, the records were still left to be lodged over the gunpowder.

Among the treasures in these ill-kept “keeps,” are the logs and other Admiralty documents, state papers, and royal letters, many of which have never been consulted; because the manner in which they are stowed away rendered consultation impossible. They are, no doubt, silently waiting to clear up many of the disputed points, and to set right many of the false impressions and unmitigated untruths of history. Inquisitions—the antiquity of which may be guessed when we state that those up to the 14th of Richard II. have only yet been arranged in books—are also massed together ready for explosion or ignition. These are amongst the most curious of our ancient documents, being the notes of the oldest of our legal rituals—the “Crowner’s quest.” The Chancery proceedings and privy seals piled in the White Tower, are endless.

In the Rolls’ House, in Chancery Lane—which, with its chapel, was annexed by Edward III., in 1377, to the office of Custos Rotulorum, or Keeper of the Rolls—are located the Records of the Court of Chancery from that year to the present time. That every public document, wherever situated, may be rendered in as great jeopardy as possible, a temporary shed, like a navvy’s hut, has been recently knocked up for the Treasury papers in the Rolls’ Garden; other of the Records are quietly accommodated in the pews and behind the communion-table in the Rolls’ Chapel—a 397building which is heated by hot-air flues, in a manner similar to that which originated the burning of the Houses of Parliament.

Perhaps, however, our most valuable muniments repose in the Chapter-House of Westminster Abbey, a building still surrounded by the same facilities for fire as those which the late Charles Buller detailed to the House of Commons fourteen years ago. “Ever since 1732,” he said, “it had been reported to the House of Commons that there was a brewhouse and a washhouse at the back of the Chapter-House, where the Records were kept, and by which the Chapter-House was endangered by fire. In 1800, this brewhouse and this washhouse were again reported as dangerous. In 1819, this brewhouse and washhouse again attracted the serious notice of the Commissioners. In 1831, it was thought expedient to send a deputation to the Dean and Chapter of Westminster, and to request His Majesty’s Surveyor General to report upon the perils of this brewhouse and washhouse, and endeavour to get the Dean and Chapter to pull them down. But the Dean and Chapter asserted the vested rights of the Church, and no redress was obtained against the brewhouse and washhouse. In 1833, another expedition, headed by the Right Honourable Sir R. Inglis, was made to the Chapter-House; but the right honourable baronet, desiring not to come into collision with the Church, omitted all mention of the brewhouse and washhouse. And thus the attention of the Commissioners had been constantly directed to this eternal brewhouse and this eternal washhouse, without any avail. There they still remain, as a monument of the inefficiency of the Commissioners, and of the great power and pertinacity of the Church of this country.” The newspaper reports of this speech end with “Loud laughter from all parts of the House.”

In the Chapter-House of Westminster Abbey, the Conqueror’s Domesday Book, an unequalled collection of treaties and state documents from the twelfth to the seventeenth centuries; others bearing upon the important events during the York and Lancastrian wars, and excambial returns belonging to the English Crown, of the most minute and precise character, are still at the mercy of the brewhouse and washhouse. There is a little adventure connected with the proceedings of the Courts of Star Chamber which we must here introduce:—Their registries and records were kept in an apartment of the Royal Palace of Westminster from the time of the dissolution of the Courts. They were shifted from room to room at the mercy of the Officers of the Palace. Committees of the House of Commons from time to time examined them, and reported equally as to their value, and the dirt, confusion, and neglect in which they were set apart for the public use. But it was not till the fire in the Cottonian Library, in 1731, frightened the custodian, that an order from the Privy Council was obtained for the removal of these documents to the Chapter-House. This house also possesses a unique collection of the disused dies for coining; and when the Nepaulese Minister and his suite visited the Office, they were particularly attracted by these primitive dies, which were at once recognised as being now used in the north-west of India. There are the washhouse and the brewhouse still.

But the most monstrous instance furnished to us of the disregard and contempt in which our civil, political, legal, or ecclesiastical authorities hold the very pedigrees of their professional avocations, is to be found in the ludicrously huge and unsuitable storehouse called Carlton Ride—a low, brick-slated roof, workhouse-looking building, at the east end of Carlton Terrace. Mr. Braidwood, the superintendent of the London Fire-Brigade, has pithily said, that “The Public Records in the Tower of London and Carlton Ride are exposed to risks of fire to which no merchant of ordinary prudence would subject his books of accounts.” The protective staff of this establishment, besides the clerks and workmen during the day, consists of two soldiers, two policemen, and two firemen, four thousand gallons of water—a sort of open air bath at the top of the building—three rows of buckets, ready-charged fire-mains, two tell-tale clocks, five dark lanthorns, and a cat.

Carlton Ride was, originally, the Riding-House of the Prince of Wales’s residence, Carlton House. Under it are arched storehouses for carriages and horse furniture; and these were used for the carriages and horses of the late good Queen Dowager. When a question was raised as to the capability of the structure to support the thousands of tons of records which were to be treasured therein, the district Clerk of the Works satisfied all enquiries by noticing the fact, that the strength of the building had been tested to the utmost during the Spa Fields riots, when it was occupied by the horses and ammunition-waggons of the Royal Artillery, packed together as close as they could stand.

To adapt the interior of this place for the public archives, the first process of building, and that only, was resorted to;—scaffolding was put up, so that, on entering this receptacle of the national records of Great Britain, the visitor finds himself in one of a series of gloomy, dimly-lighted, mouldy-smelling alleys, or stacks, of wooden scaffolding, the sides of which are faced with records, reaching to some thirty feet high. At first sight it reminds him of an immense mediæval timber-yard, in which no business has been done since the time of the Tudors. Here two-thirds of our country’s public and private history are huddled together; not with the systematic red tapery of a public office, but,—to 398use an expressive vulgarism—“anyhow.” Whichever way the eye turns, it meets reams of portfolios, piles of boxes, stacks of wills—rolls of every imaginable shape, like those of a baker—square, round, flat, oblong, short, and squat; some plaited like twopenny twists, others upright as rolls of tobacco; a few in thick convolutions, jammed together as if they were double Gloucester cheeses; there are heaps laid lengthwise, like mouldering coffins; some stacked up on end, like bundles of firewood, and others laid down, like the bottles in a wine-bin. The hay-loft which extends over the riding-school is similarly occupied, and all the racks, presses, shelves, boxes, beams, and scaffolding, being of wood, Mr. Braidwood has good right for estimating that a fire would burn it up “like matches” in less than twenty minutes. That, however, there should be no accidental deficiency of combustibles, the riding-school was partitioned into two divisions, one side for the records of the Courts of Common Pleas and Exchequer, and the other for the domestic furniture, china, paintings, weapons of warfare of all kinds, books, prints, &c., belonging to Carlton House. It is evident that in the estimation of the powers that were, the records were classed with the other lumber. But this store of second-hand furniture could not take fire of itself; and that no chance might be lost, the functionary in charge of it, finding his half of the “ride” a dreary, comfortless, and cold place, even for a lumber store, warmed it by means of a large stove with a chimney-flue which perforated one side of the building. On several occasions he was observed during the winter months—particularly after meal-time—to be somnolently reposing by the stove, while the flue was judiciously emulating his example, by acquiring all the heat possible from the fire—and, indeed, once or twice its face was illumined by a red glow of satisfaction rather alarming to those in charge of the records, who witnessed it. Some five or six years ago, by the instigation of Lord Lincoln, who was then Chief Commissioner of Woods and Forests, Prince Albert paid a visit to Carlton Ride, and after examining the furniture, &c., directed that it should be all removed, and that the remainder of the building should be given up for the records; consequently, a variety of important parchments were removed into it—chiefly ecclesiastical records, touching the property belonging to the religious houses dissolved in King Henry VIII.’s time, together with a most valuable and minute series of documents, relating to the receipt and expenditure of the royal revenue, from Henry II. down to Charles II. To these were added various Exchequer and Common Pleas records.

The water as well as the fire test of destruction has been also applied to our national muniments. The Common Pleas records previous to the coronation of George IV. were deposited in a long room, called “Queen Elizabeth’s Kitchen,” lying under the Old Court of Exchequer on the west side of Westminster Hall. This room was frequently flooded during the prevailing high tides of spring or autumn. Rats and vermin abounded, and neither candle nor soap could be kept in the rooms, although mere public documents were deemed quite safe there. The consequence was, that before these could be removed, the authorities had to engage in a little sporting. The rats had to be hunted out by means of dogs. We believe this was about the time that the celebrated dog “Billy” was in the height of fame; and we are not quite sure that his services were not secured for this great Exchequer Hunt. After several fine “bursts” the rats allowed the documents to be removed, and turned into a temporary wooden building, which was so intensely cold during winter time, that those wishing to make searches prepared themselves with clothing as if they were going on an Arctic expedition. Here mice abounded in spite of the temperature; and the candles, which the darkness of this den rendered necessary, were gradually consumed by them. But this light sort of food wanted a more consolidating diet, and they found a relishing piece de resistance in the prayer-book of the Court, a great portion of which they nibbled away. Ten years afterwards the records were packed off to the King’s Mews, Charing Cross, into stables and harness lofts; and on the demolition of this building in 1835, Carlton Ride was selected as their resting-place. The records of the Queen’s Remembrancer of the Exchequer (an officer who was presumed to preserve “memoranda or remembrances” of the condition of the royal exchequer) kept company with the Common Pleas muniments in their trials and journeyings.

At present, we repeat, the whole of the records of the three Courts, Queen’s Bench, Exchequer, and Common Pleas, are located under the same roof at Carlton Ride. Such of the records as are in this building are reasonably accessible to the public. Many of them are of intense interest. Fees only nominal in amount are imposed, to restrain inquisitive, troublesome, or merely idle inquirers; a restriction highly necessary against pedigree-hunters and lady-searchers. One poor deluded female, who fancied herself Duchess of Cornwall, and claimed the hereditary fee-simple of the counties of Devon and Cornwall, caused the employment of more clerks and messengers to procure the documents for her extravagant humours than any legion of lawyers’ clerks hot with the business of term time. She begged, she implored, she raved, she commanded, she threatened, she cried aloud for “all the fines,” for “all the recoveries,” for “all the indentures of lease and release” touching the landed property of these two counties.

Pedigree-hunters abound. One of these 399requested to be allowed to remain among these founts of antiquity day and night. In his unwearied and invincible zeal he brought his meals with him, and declared that rest was out of the question until he was satisfied which of his ancestors were “Roberts,” and which “Johns,” from the time of the Seventh Henry. A hair-brained quack doctor has seriously asserted his claim to a large quantity of these public documents.

On the other hand, persons really interested in these records take no heed of them. Messrs. Brown, Smith, and Tomkins buy and sell manors and advowsons, Waltons and Stokes, and Combes cum Tythings, without knowing or caring that there are records of the actual transfers of the same properties between the holders of them since the days of King John! There is no sympathy for these things, even with those who might fairly be presumed to have a direct interest in the preservation of them, or with the public at large. Out of many examples of this sort, we need only cite one from the “Westminster Review:”—The Duke of Bedford inherits the Abbey of Woburn, and its monastic rights, privileges, and hereditaments; and there are public records, detailing with the utmost minuteness the value of this and all the church property which “Old Harry” seized, and all the stages of its seizure; the preliminary surveys to learn its value; perhaps the very surrender of the monks of Woburn; the annual value and detail of the possessions of the monastery whilst the Crown held it; the very particulars of the grant on which the letters patent to Lord John Russell were founded; the inrolment of the letters patent themselves. But neither his Grace of Bedford, the duke and lay impropriator, nor his brother, the Prime Minister and the historian, have seemed to regard these important documents as worthy of safe keeping.

On public grounds, nothing was for a long time done, although, as Bishop Nicholson said in 1714, “Our stores of Public Records are justly reckoned to excel in age, beauty, correctness, and authority, whatever the choicest archives abroad can boast of the like sort.”

We are happy to perceive by the “Eleventh Report of the Deputy Keeper of the Public Records” that the work of arranging, repairing, cleaning, cataloguing, and rendering accessible these documents, proceeds diligently. But we are more happy to discover that the disastrous adventures of our Public Records are nearly at an end. The Deputy Keeper acknowledges “with extreme satisfaction the receipt of communications made to Lord Langdale from the Lords Commissioners of Your Majesty’s Treasury, intimating that their Lordships propose to commence the building of the Repository so emphatically urged by his Lordship the Master of the Rolls, and so long desired; the site thereof to be the Rolls Estate, and the Building to be comprehended within the boundaries of such Estate, the said site being in all respects the best and most convenient which the metropolis affords.”