Part 3

Five years passed on in this way, and at last little Mary was born. She was a delicate fairy thing, with that look, even from the first, in her blue eyes, which is seldom seen, except where the shadow of the grave darkens the cradle. She was fond of her father, and of Richard, and of myself, and would laugh and crow when she saw us, but _the love in the core of her heart_ was for her mother. No matter how tired, or sleepy, or cross the baby might be, one word from _her_ would set the bright eyes dancing, and the little rosy mouth smiling, and the tiny limbs quivering, as if walking or running couldn’t content her, but she must fly to her mother’s arms. And how that mother doted on the very ground she trod! I often thought that the Queen in her state carriage, with her son, God bless him! alongside of her, dressed out in gold and jewels, was not one bit happier than my mother, when she sat under the shade of the mountain ash near the door, in the hush of the summer’s evening, singing and _cronauning_ her only one to sleep in her arms. In the month of October, 1845, Mary was four years old. That was the bitter time, when first the food of the earth was turned to poison; when the gardens that used to be so bright and sweet, covered with the purple and white potato blossoms, became in one night black and offensive, as if fire had come down from heaven to burn them up. ’Twas a heart-breaking thing to see the labouring men, the crathurs! that had only the one half-acre to feed their little families, going out, after work, in the evenings to dig their suppers from under the black stalks. Spadeful after spadeful would be turned up, and a long piece of a ridge dug through, before they’d get a small kish full of such withered _crohauneens_,[3] as other years would be hardly counted fit for the pigs.

Footnote 3:

Small potatoes.

It was some time before the distress reached us, for there was a trifle of money in the savings’ bank, that held us in meal, while the neighbours were next door to starvation. As long as my father and mother had it, they shared it freely with them that were worse off than themselves; but at last the little penny of money was all spent, the price of flour was raised; and, to make matters worse, the farmer that my father worked for, at a poor eight-pence a day, was forced to send him and three more of his labourers away, as he couldn’t afford to pay them even _that_ any longer. Oh! ’twas a sorrowful night when my father brought home the news. I remember, as well as if I saw it yesterday, the desolate look in his face when he sat down by the ashes of the turf fire that had just baked a yellow meal cake for his supper. My mother was at the opposite side, giving little Mary a drink of sour milk out of her little wooden piggin, and the child didn’t like it, being delicate and always used to sweet milk, so she said:

“Mammy, won’t you give me some of the nice milk instead of that?”

“I haven’t it _asthore_, nor can’t get it,” said her mother, “so don’t ye fret.”

Not a word more out of the little one’s mouth, only she turned her little cheek in towards her mother, and stayed quite quiet, as if she was hearkening to what was going on.

“Judy,” said my father, “God is good, and sure ’tis only in Him we must put our trust; for in the wide world I can see nothing but starvation before us.”

“God _is_ good, Tim,” replied my mother; “He won’t forsake us.”

Just then Richard came in with a more joyful face than I had seen on him for many a day.

“Good news!” says he, “good news, father! there’s work for us both on the Droumcarra road. The government works are to begin there to-morrow; you’ll get eight-pence a day, and I’ll get six-pence.”

If you saw our delight when we heard this, you’d think ’twas the free present of a thousand pounds that came to us, falling through the roof, instead of an offer of small wages for hard work.

To be sure the potatoes were gone, and the yellow meal was dear and dry and chippy—it hadn’t the _nature_ about it that a hot potato has for a poor man; but still ’twas a great thing to have the prospect of getting enough of even that same, and not to be obliged to follow the rest of the country into the poorhouse, which was crowded to that degree that the crathurs there—God help them!—hadn’t room even to die quietly in their beds, but were crowded together on the floor like so many dogs in a kennel. The next morning my father and Richard were off before daybreak, for they had a long way to walk to Droumcarra, and they should be there in time to begin work. They took an Indian meal cake with them to eat for their dinner, and poor dry food it was, with only a draught of cold water to wash it down. Still my father, who was knowledgeable about such things, always said it was mighty wholesome when it was well cooked; but some of the poor people took a great objection against it on account of the yellow colour, which they thought came from having sulphur mixed with it—and they said, Indeed it was putting a great affront on the decent Irish to mix up their food as if ’twas for mangy dogs. Glad enough, poor creatures, they were to get it afterwards, when sea-weed and nettles, and the very grass by the roadside, was all that many of them had to put into their mouths.

When my father and brother came home in the evening, faint and tired from the two long walks and the day’s work, my mother would always try to have something for them to eat with their porridge—a bit of butter, or a bowl of thick milk, or maybe a few eggs. She always gave me plenty as far as it would go; but ’twas little she took herself. She would often go entirely without a meal, and then she’d slip down to the huckster’s, and buy a little white bun for Mary; and I’m sure it used to do her more good to see the child eat it, than if she got a meat-dinner for herself. No matter how hungry the poor little thing might be, she’d always break off a bit to put into her mother’s mouth, and she would not be satisfied until she saw her swallow it; then the child would take a drink of cold water out of her little tin porringer, as contented as if it was new milk.

As the winter advanced, the weather became wet and bitterly cold, and the poor men working on the roads began to suffer dreadfully from being all day in wet clothes, and, what was worse, not having any change to put on when they went home at night without a dry thread about them. Fever soon got amongst them, and my father took it. My mother brought the doctor to see him, and by selling all our decent clothes, she got for him whatever was wanting, but all to no use: ’twas the will of the Lord to take him to himself, and he died after a few days’ illness.

It would be hard to tell the sorrow that his widow and orphans felt, when they saw the fresh sods planted on his grave. It was not grief altogether like the grand stately grief of the quality, although maybe the same sharp knife is sticking into the same sore bosom _inside_ in both; but the _outside_ differs in rich and poor. I saw the mistress a week after Miss Ellen died. She was in her drawing-room with the blinds pulled down, sitting in a low chair, with her elbow on the small work-table, and her cheek resting on her hand—not a speck of anything white about her but the cambric handkerchief, and the face that was paler than the marble chimney-piece.

When she saw me, (for the butler, being busy, sent me in with the luncheon-tray,) she covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and began to cry, but quietly, as if she did not want it to be noticed. As I was going out, I just heard her say to Miss Alice in a choking voice:—

“Keep Sally here always; our poor darling was fond of her.” And as I closed the door, I heard her give one deep sob. The next time I saw her, she was quite composed: only for the white cheek and the black dress, you would not know that the burning feel of a child’s last kiss had ever touched her lips.

My father’s wife mourned for him after another fashion. _She_ could not sit quiet, she must work hard to keep the life in them to whom he gave it; and it was only in the evenings when she sat down before the fire with Mary in her arms, that she used to sob and rock herself to and fro, and sing a low wailing keen for the father of the little one, whose innocent tears were always ready to fall when she saw her mother cry. About this time my mother got an offer from some of the hucksters in the neighbourhood, who knew her honesty, to go three times a week to the next market-town, ten miles off, with their little money, and bring them back supplies of bread, groceries, soap, and candles. This she used to do, walking the twenty miles—ten of them with a heavy load on her back—for the sake of earning enough to keep us alive. ’Twas very seldom that Richard could get a stroke of work to do: the boy wasn’t strong in himself, for he had the sickness too; though he recovered from it, and always did his best to earn an honest penny wherever he could. I often wanted my mother to let me go in her stead and bring back the load; but she never would hear of it, and kept me at home to mind the house and little Mary. My poor pet lamb! ’twas little minding she wanted. She would go after breakfast and sit at the door, and stop there all day, watching for her mother, and never heeding the neighbours’ children that used to come wanting her to play. Through the live-long hours she would never stir, but just keep her eyes fixed on the lonesome _boreen_;[4] and when the shadow of the mountain ash grew long, and she caught a glimpse of her mother ever so far off, coming towards home, the joy that would flush on the small patient face, was brighter than the sunbeam on the river. And faint and weary as the poor woman used to be, before ever she sat down, she’d have Mary nestling in her bosom. No matter how little she might have eaten herself that day, she would always bring home a little white bun for Mary; and the child, that had tasted nothing since morning, would eat it so happily, and then fall quietly asleep in her mother’s arms.

Footnote 4:

By-road

At the end of some months I got the sickness myself, but not so heavily as Richard did before. Any way, he and my mother tended me well through it. They sold almost every little stick of furniture that was left, to buy me drink and medicine. By degrees I recovered, and the first evening I was able to sit up, I noticed a strange wild brightness in my mother’s eyes, and a hot flush on her thin cheeks—she had taken the fever.

Before she lay down on the wisp of straw that served her for a bed, she brought little Mary over to me: “Take her, Sally,” she said—and between every word she gave the child a kiss—“Take her; she’s safer with you than she’d be with me, for you’re over the sickness, and ’tisn’t long any way I’ll be with you, my jewel,” she said, as she gave the little creature one long close hug, and put her into my arms.

’Twould take long to tell all about her sickness—how Richard and I, as good right we had, tended her night and day; and how, when every farthing and farthing’s worth we had in the world was gone, the mistress herself came down from the big house, the very day after the family returned home from France, and brought wine, food, medicine, linen, and everything we could want.

Shortly after the kind lady was gone, my mother took the change for death; her senses came back, she grew quite strong-like, and sat up straight in the bed.

“Bring me the child, Sally _aleagh_,” she said. And when I carried little Mary over to her, she looked into the tiny face, as if she was reading it like a book.

“You won’t be long away from me, my own one,” she said, while her tears fell down upon the child like summer-rain.

“Mother,” said I, as well as I could speak for crying, “sure you _know_ I’ll do my best to tend her.”

“I know you will, _acushla_; you were always a true and dutiful daughter to me and to him that’s gone; but, Sally, there’s _that_ in my weeney one that won’t let her thrive without the mother’s hand over her, and the mother’s heart for her’s to lean against. And now—.” It was all she could say: she just clasped the little child to her bosom, fell back on my arm, and in a few moments all was over. At first, Richard and I could not believe that she was dead; and it was very long before the orphan would loose her hold of the stiffening fingers; but when the neighbours came in to prepare for the wake, we contrived to flatter her away.

Days passed on; the child was very quiet; she used to go as usual to sit at the door, and watch hour after hour along the road that her mother always took coming home from market, waiting for her that could never come again. When the sun was near setting, her gaze used to be more fixed and eager; but when the darkness came on, her blue eyes used to droop like the flowers that shut up their leaves, and she would come in quietly without saying a word, and allow me to undress her and put her to bed.

It troubled us and the young ladies greatly that she would not eat. It was almost impossible to get her to taste a morsel; indeed the only thing she would let inside her lips was a bit of a little white bun, like those her poor mother used to bring her. There was nothing left untried to please her. I carried her up to the big house, thinking the change might do her good, and the ladies petted her, and talked to her, and gave her heaps of toys and cakes, and pretty frocks and coats; but she hardly noticed them, and was restless and uneasy until she got back to her own low sunny door-step.

Every day she grew paler and thinner, and her bright eyes had a sad fond look in them, so like her mother’s. One evening she sat at the door later than usual.

“Come in, _alannah_,” I said to her. “Won’t you come in for your own Sally?”

She never stirred. I went over to her; she was quite still, with her little hands crossed on her lap, and her head drooping on her chest. I touched her—she was cold. I gave a loud scream, and Richard came running—he stopped and looked, and then burst out crying like an infant. Our little sister was dead!

Well, my Mary, the sorrow was bitter, but it was short. You’re gone home to Him that comforts as a mother comforteth. _Agra machree_, your eyes are as blue, and your hair as golden, and your voice as sweet, as they were when you watched by the cabin-door; but your cheeks are not pale, _acushla_, nor your little hands thin, and the shade of sorrow has passed away from your forehead like a rain-cloud from the summer sky. She that loved you so on earth, has clasped you for ever to her bosom in heaven; and God himself has wiped away all tears from your eyes, and placed you both and our own dear father far beyond the touch of sorrow or the fear of death.

A GREAT MAN DEPARTED.

There was a festive hall with mirth resounding; Beauty and wit, and friendliness surrounding; With minstrelsy above, and dancing feet rebounding.

And at the height came news, that held suspended The sparkling glass!—till slow the hand descended— And cheeks grew pale and straight—and all the mirth was ended.

Beneath a sunny sky, ’twas heard with wonder, A flash had cleft a lofty tree asunder, Without a previous cloud—and with no rolling thunder.

Strong was the stem—its boughs above all ’thralling— And in its roots and sap no cankers galling— Prosperity was perfect, while Death’s hand was falling.

Man’s body is less safe than any tree; We build our ship in strong security— A Finger, from the dark, points to the trembling sea.

Man, like his knowledge, and his soul’s endeavour, Is framed for no fixed altitude—but ever Moves onward: the first pause, returns all to the Giver.

Riches and health, fine taste, all means of pleasure; Success in highest efforts—fame’s best treasure— All these were thine,—o’ertopped—and over-weighed the measure.

But in recording thus life’s night-shade warning, We hold the memory of thy kind heart’s morning:— Man’s intellect is not man’s sole nor best adorning.

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 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.