“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 building 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
use 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 requested 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.”