The Sister of Henry Joy McCracken
MARY ANNE MCCRACKEN (1770-1866)[84]
“I have been coming all the night long
Like a little lamb in the midst of a great flock of sheep
And how should I find my little brother but he dead before me.”
—The Keen for Fair-Haired Donough.
“I THINK of all human loves that of a Sister is the most abiding and unselfish. In a mother’s love there is a kind of identification with her child, his triumphs, his defeats, which by the reflection on herself takes away the absolute disinterestedness. Conjugal love is more intense, but for that reason more intermittent. But there’s not a trace of self in that earnest wistful gaze which a beloved sister casts after the poor young fellow who has just gone out from the sanctity of home-life into the world’s arena; nor a thought of self in the way the silent heart broods over shattered hopes, and takes back to its sanctuary the broken relics of the idol, once worshipped, now, alas! only to be protected from the gaze of a scornful world.”[85]
Alas! Alas! That it should have been of two French women Canon Sheehan was thinking, and not of our own Mary Anne McCracken, when he paid tribute, thus nobly, to a sister’s love as “of all human loves, the most abiding and unselfish.” It might have been her story, and not that of some alien Laura Balzac or Madame Perrier, that was told in those moving words. It is her image, at all events, that comes before our eyes when Canon Sheehan pictures “the earnest wistful gaze” with which a loving sister follows the brother of her heart, as he passes from the holy shelter of the home to the “world’s arena.” How often did that gaze follow young Henry Joy McCracken as he rode forth from the door of the old house in Rosemary Street on his perilous journeys with Charles Teeling among “the Defenders”! What sister ever loved a brother like this heroic country-woman of ours? When the Cause was lost at Antrim and the broken remnants of the Spartan band were making a last stand on “the hallowed hills,” it was she who braved all dangers to steal forth to him and bring him succour of comfort and hope. It was she who walked with him to the scaffold; who received his poor mangled form into her arms; whose woman’s resourceful bravery held, as it were, the gates of death apart, while the surgeons tried to snatch back his soul from beyond them. It was she who accompanied his body to the grave, and heard the first shovelful of earth fall on his coffin—before she turned back to take up new duties and new sacrifices. Then in the dark days when men veritably “feared to speak of ’Ninety-Eight, and blushed at the name,” it was she who treasured the memory of the dead, and held fast to the hopes and ideals for which they had laid down their lives. And at last when, in the fullness of time, one came who made it his life-work to tell their story truly to the world, she was there with her rich store of memories to help in that great work. Again and again Dr. Madden quotes Mary Anne McCracken as his authority for some of the facts he states, or incidents he relates, and his tribute to her personality is that of one who was brought into most intimate relations with her. “The name of Mary McCracken,” he writes, “has become associated in the north with that of her beloved brother. The recollection of every act of his seems to have been stored up in her mind, as if she felt the charge of his reputation had been committed to her especial care.... In that attachment there are traits to be noticed indicative not only of singleness of heart, and benevolence of disposition; but of a noble spirit of heroism, strikingly displayed in the performance of perilous duties, of services rendered at the hazard of life, at great pecuniary sacrifices, not only to that dear brother, but at a later period to his faithful friend, the unfortunate Thomas Russell. Perhaps to those who move in the busy haunts of life, and become familiarised with the circumscribed views and actions of worldly-minded people, the rare occurrence of qualities of another kind, which seem to realise the day-dreams of one’s early years, an excellence of disposition devoid of all selfishness, devoted to all goodness, capable of all sacrifices, and constant in all trials—that shakes not in adversity, and becomes insensible to fear where the safety of friends and kindred is in question, in one who seems to be utterly unconscious of her own nobleness of mind, may appear worthy of admiration.”
The little maid, whose long life of ninety-six years was to witness such strange happenings, was born in High Street, Belfast, on July the 8th, 1770. Her father, John McCracken, was captain and part owner of a vessel trading between Belfast and the West Indies. He was of Scottish descent, his family having settled in Ireland when the Covenanters were fleeing from Claverhouse. They settled at Hill Hall near Lisburn, and here John McCracken was born. At an early age he formed a strong attachment to a charming young girl of Huguenot descent called Anne Joy, only daughter of Francis Joy, a conveyancer, and notary public, who, a pioneer in many things, is perhaps best remembered as the founder of the Belfast Newsletter in 1737. Captain McCracken is described by Madden as “a man of polished manners, whose sincerity of disposition and integrity of principles caused him to be generally respected and esteemed.” It was noted of him by his daughter, as a proof of his integrity, that in the days when smuggling was regarded as a very venial offence, Captain McCracken would not smuggle nor allow his sailors to do so, “as he considered a custom-house oath as binding on conscience as any other.” A still more striking instance of his integrity and his children’s reliance on it, was furnished on the occasion of Harry’s trial when he was offered his son’s life on condition that he induced the latter to disclose the name of the leader, whose place the prisoner had taken in the Rising. He told the tempter, Pollock, that “he would rather his son died than that he should do a dishonourable action.”
That steadfast character of John McCracken’s, which he transmitted to his children, was, it may be, a heritage from his mother—a stern old Covenanting lady, very strict in her religious beliefs, and most uncompromising in her principles. Her grandchildren, who had a keen sense of humour, used to relate with much zest, the damper put on their youthful enjoyment of Christmas by seeing their venerable grandmother seated ostentatiously at her spinning-wheel, her whole being one vehement protest against the Christmas observances and festivities. They were all in considerable awe of her, and when she uttered maledictions they felt certain they would come to pass. On one occasion, in 1763, Captain McCracken, having occasion to spend some time in Liverpool, to superintend the construction of a new vessel, brought his young wife with him, leaving their two children, Francis and Margaret, in the care of Grandmother McCracken. The venerable lady, who did not approve of “gadding about,” fervently prayed that her flighty daughter-in-law “might get a scare before coming back.” “And in truth I did, my dears,” the latter would say, as she told the story to her children afterwards, “my husband not wishing me to return on the new and untried vessel, sent me home before him. The ship was wrecked on the South Rock near Ballywalter, and we were only saved by getting into the boat; and I had to wade a long distance in shallow water, with a weight of two hundred guineas in my pocket.”
If the grandmother was stern and forbidding, and inspired more fear than love in the children of the household, their sweet mother was quite the reverse. She was “remarkable for a uniform cheerfulness of temper, and benevolence of mind that endeared her to young people as well as to the aged.” With this sweetness of disposition she passed on to her children as a further portion of their heritage from the Joys, an alert and enterprising habit of mind, keen to see, and seize new opportunities; and that steadfastness of the Joys, which, for all its Gallic urbanity, was at least the equal of the McCracken’s. Anne Joy’s father, in addition to his pioneer work in the newspaper world, was also a pioneer in the linen manufacture. In 1749 he established at Randalstown “a complete new mill for dressing flax ... which will dress 14℔. of flax in an hour, fit for the heckle.” He was keenly interested in politics, and, when an old man, confined to his couch by a disease in his leg, had himself conveyed to Antrim, on the occasion of an election, to vote for Rowley and O’Neill, the popular candidates. His son, Robert, meeting him there, said: “What brought you here, Sir?” “The good of my country,” was the reply. The side for which he voted was triumphant, but the day that the members were chaired he died.
His two sons, Robert and Henry, were remarkable men. It was they, who, with Captain John McCracken and Thomas MacCabe (“the Irish Slave”) introduced the cotton industry into Belfast—and with it laid the foundations of the present prosperity of that city. Young Henry Joy McCracken, who had an extraordinary gift for mechanics and was as clever with his hands as any prestidigitator, was sent to England and Scotland to ferret out the carefully guarded mechanical secrets of the British cotton manufacturers—and accomplished his mission in a manner which will furnish an exciting chapter in Irish industrial history—when it comes to be written. Belfast of to-day has little thought to spare for the “United Men”—but it should not forget what it owes to Henry Joy McCracken—to him who died for the cause which so many in Belfast to-day are sworn to destroy: “a brotherhood of affection, an identity of interests, a communion of rights, and a union of power among Irishmen of all religious persuasions.”
To Henry and Robert Joy, Belfast owed likewise the “Old Poorhouse,” the first shelter devised for Belfast’s poor. The little Joys and McCrackens were early interested in the poor old men and women, and especially in the children; and, as they grew up, they were active workers in their behalf—getting up dances, and concerts and collections for the institution. It was partly in the design of procuring funds for the Poor House (as well as to give employment to the linen weavers during periods of depression in their own trade) that the Joys first turned their attention to the cotton trade. The managers of the Poor House rejected the offer made by Robert Joy to instal the new machinery (which Harry McCracken’s cleverness had made it possible to erect in Ireland), and to carry on the manufacture of cotton as a regular part of their routine, and a means of making the institution self-supporting. They allowed, however, the children to go to work in the mill which the firm of Joy, MacCabe and McCracken presently established.
Come of such strains as has been indicated, both on the paternal and maternal side, is it any wonder that the children of John and Anne McCracken should have been endowed with uncommon gifts both of body and mind and soul? They were a numerous tribe—but, as was so usual with these large eighteenth-century families, only a certain proportion of them survived the ordeals of childhood. Of these, four were boys: Francis, William, Henry Joy, and John; and two were girls: Margaret and Mary Anne. The latter was the youngest but one, of the family, and was ten years the junior of her sister.
Mary Anne was considered delicate in her youth, and it was feared she was in consumption. On this account she was kept on a low diet—an astonishing treatment, to our modern notions. But the treatment seems to have been successful; for in her hale and hearty old age she could remark in her humorous way: “I have been a long time consuming away.” She was an active child, and she used to tell her grandnieces with much pride how she accomplished the feat of hopping on one leg right across High Street three times without stopping.
The school routine of a little Belfast maiden in the latter decades of the eighteenth century was not unlike that with which the entertaining journal of Anna Greene Winslow, a small Boston schoolgirl contemporary, makes us familiar. There was a separate school for English, another for writing; in addition girls had to attend a sewing and knitting school. In all these branches Mary became very proficient. Her needlework was exquisite. She was fond of reading, and read only the best authors. Her letters, some of which will be quoted in due course, are admirable. One wishes, as one reads them and those of Elizabeth and Jane Emmet and Matilda Tone, that the delightful art were revived by the teachers of the girls of to-day.
Captain John McCracken, being a travelled man and an admirer of the French nation, wished to have his children taught French. Belfast of that day supplied, it would appear, no better teacher than an old French weaver who had picked up his knowledge of English on the banks of the Lagan, and thought it the correct thing to translate his native tongue into the idiom of that classic region. Mary Anne used to relate afterwards, with great enjoyment that his translation of il faut always took the form, “it be to be.”
When Mary was in her teens the family left the house in High Street and went to a larger one in Rosemary Street. Two of the boys, William and John, married, but the family circle was not thus broken up for they brought their brides to live under the paternal roof in the patriarchal fashion of the period. So numerous were the inmates of the McCracken home, after a time, that their friends referred to it as “Noah’s Ark,” the appropriateness of the name being emphasised by the number of dogs, and cats, and other pet animals, who shared with the humans, the domicile.
One young man who was destined to leave an honoured name for his labours in the cause of Irish music was for many years a member of the McCracken household: Edward Bunting. He came to them in 1785 a young lad of eleven, sent by his brother, Anthony, from Drogheda to become apprentice to Mr. Ware, the organist of St. Anne’s Church, Belfast, and he remained with them for upwards of forty years. This frank hospitality gives us a pleasant insight into the spirit of the McCracken household. They were all intensely musical, and many a delightful evening was spent around “Atty’s” pianoforte when the McCrackens and Joys were reinforced by a numerous troop of Neilsons, Simmses, McTiers, and so on.
Much as Mary loved all her brothers and sisters, she loved Harry best of all. Was it to be wondered at? For the tall lad with his handsome, high-bred face, his graceful person, his charm of manner, exercised a remarkable fascination over all who came in contact with him. While yet a schoolboy his companions adored him for his courage and spirit of adventure, and admired his steadfastness and his unrivalled quickness of perception. As he grew up he became a great favourite in society, for which he possessed a very remarkable equipment of accomplishments. He was a clever mimic, but while delighting his friends with his skill in this direction, never allowed himself to wound the most sensitive feelings. The same considerations governed the exercise of his rich gift of humour.
The first break in “Noah’s Ark” took place when Harry left home to take up his quarters on the Falls Road near the cotton factory. About the same time the female members of the family, Mrs. McCracken, Margaret and Mary Anne, commenced, on a somewhat more extended scale, the business of muslin manufacturers, in which John McCracken had already been interested since 1779.[86] Her grandniece informs us that “Mary was the moving spirit of the business, and worked early and late. She has said that so closely confined was she at times that, when going to the post-office before breakfast, she felt inclined to leap and dance with delight in the fresh morning air. Her chief object in trying to make money was that she might have some of her own to give away as she wished. She was of a very sanguine temperament and did not spare herself, and to some extent she succeeded in her object; but, perhaps the times were against her. She had much struggling and anxiety, and the ultimate result was disappointing.”
Those were stirring times in which Mary McCracken grew to womanhood; and even a duller mind, than that which was housed in the fragile form of this little Belfast girl, must have been stimulated in the atmosphere of great ideas, which was her daily breathing. She was five years old when the Battle of Lexington was fought, and eleven when Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown; and the great battles for liberty that marked the years from 1775 to 1781 were distant in space only from the rising city on the Lagan, which followed their fortunes with an interest so passionate. It was the war of liberation of their own flesh and blood which the Belfast men knew was being waged across the dividing Atlantic. It was the doctrines of civil and political freedom which had been borne in the emigrant ships from Ireland that were vindicated at Bunker’s Hill, at Trenton, at Princeton, at Saratoga. Is it to be wondered at, that, young as she was, Mary McCracken followed the story of the American War with a sympathy and understanding beyond her years? She was nine years old when the “armed men” who had sprung forth on Ireland’s soil from the sowed “dragon’s teeth” of England’s laws, formed in their splendid ranks on the Falls Road—the first Volunteers of Ireland. Her brother Frank was one of those who wore their gallant uniform. She was twelve years old when the Volunteer Convention at Dungannon made certain the granting of Grattan’s demands for the liberty of the Irish Parliament. She was ripe enough to apprehend the lessons contained in the failure of that Parliament and to trace it to its true origin. She was nineteen when the great news came from Paris, and Liberty sprang forth full armed to claim the world, from the mighty ruins of the Bastille.
“Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive—
But to be young was very heaven!”
THE CUP TOSSERS
Mary McCracken, as the old Gipsy, and one of the Teeling girls are said to have sat for this picture by Crowley.
In 1790 there came to Belfast, as an officer in the 64th Regiment, a young man who was destined to exercise a memorable influence on the fate of Mary McCracken, and the brother who was so dear to her. She had just completed her teens when Thomas Russell made his appearance in her native city—and won for ever her faithful heart. Alas! that he never suspected the treasure that was his! He himself was eating out his own heart for the beautiful Bess Goddard; and when Miss Goddard married Mr. Kington, Russell fell in love with Miss Simms. When he came to Belfast in 1803 it was Miss Simms of whom he dreamt. Mary McCracken was for him as a sister infinitely dear, a comrade infinitely staunch and true in the great Cause. But she was nothing more; and with an unconscious cruelty which only the blindness caused by his absorption in his own hopeless passion for another can excuse, he made her the confidante of his love for Miss Simms.
It is through the eyes of Mary McCracken that we of to-day are permitted to see Thomas Russell. So living and breathing is the portrait, for which a woman’s love has mixed the colours, that though Russell has been lying for one hundred and fifteen years in the grave which she made for him in Downpatrick, it seems to us as if we might have passed him in the streets to-day.
“A model of manly beauty, he was one of those favoured individuals whom one cannot pass in the street without being guilty of the rudeness of staring in the face while passing, and turning round to look at the receding figure. Though more than six feet high, his majestic stature was scarcely observed owing to the exquisite symmetry of his form. Martial in gait and demeanour, his appearance was not altogether that of a soldier. His dark and steady eye, compressed lip, and somewhat haughty bearing were occasionally strongly indicative of the camp; but in general the classic contour of his finely formed head, the expression of almost infantile sweetness which characterised his smile, and the benevolence that beamed in his fine countenance seemed to mark him out as one who was destined to be the ornament, grace and blessing of private life. His voice was deep-toned and melodious and though his conversational powers were not of the first order, yet, when roused to enthusiasm, he was sometimes more than eloquent. His manners were those of the finished gentleman, combined with that native grace which nothing but superiority of intellect can give. There was a reserved and somewhat haughty stateliness in his mien, which to those who did not know him had at first the appearance of pride; but as it gave way before the warmth and benevolence of his disposition, it soon became evident that the defect, if it were one, was caused by the too sensitive delicacy of a noble soul; and those who knew him loved him the more for his reserve, and thought they saw something attractive in the very repellingness of his manner.”
We have already related in other Memoirs of this series[87] some of the memorable events which followed the arrival of Russell in Belfast: the visit of Tone, which led to the foundation of the United Irishmen (1791); the establishment of the Northern Star (1792); the military raids of 1793, etc.; the reception accorded to Tone and his family on their way to America in 1795. In all these events the McCrackens, and Mary in particular, were keenly interested. She was a diligent reader of the Star, and it is recorded that after her recovery from a fever her first exclamation was: “Oh! I have missed so many Stars!”
In September, 1796, Government, which had already marked with intense displeasure the efforts made by young Protestant patriots like H. J. McCracken, Lowry and Tennant, on the one hand, and Young Catholic patriots like C. H. Teeling and his brother-in-law, John Magennis, on the other, to allay the religious feuds then devastating Ulster, swooped down on the most active agents of this policy of reconciliation. On the same day as C. H. Teeling was arrested in Lisburn, Russell and Neilson were arrested in Belfast. A month later Henry Joy McCracken was taken up; and in the spring of the following year, his brother, William.
As soon as the prisoners received (through the efforts of Lord O’Neill) permission to see their relatives, the McCracken girls, accompanied by William’s wife, paid a visit to Dublin, to be near the brothers. We find them again in Dublin the following year, when their influence, combined with that of Mrs. Neilson, brought about a reconciliation between Harry and Samuel Neilson, both whose tempers had suffered considerably from the wear and tear of prison régime and close confinement.
In the autumn of 1797 the McCrackens were released from Kilmainham. Harry’s health was so much shaken by what he had undergone during his imprisonment, that for some time his life was despaired of. But early in the fatal year ’98, we find him as active as ever in organising the Union. In February he went to Dublin on business connected with it, and he remained there until the eve of the Rising in May.
It is a matter of history now that Henry Joy McCracken became Commander-in-Chief of the Insurgent forces in the north only three or four days before the outbreak, and only in consequence of the arrest of Dickson, the original commander-in-chief, and the cowardice of the gentleman appointed to replace him. All that one man could do to make the most of a situation, even then desperate, was done by McCracken. But it was of no avail. On June the 7th the battle of Antrim was fought and lost; and Harry McCracken, and Jamie Hope and the faithful few who had refused to lower the Banner of Green were on the hills “on their keeping.”
And now it will be our privilege to hear Mary McCracken herself, tell the end of Henry’s story in her own most moving words:
“Some days after the battle of Antrim, not having received any intelligence of my brother, I set out in pursuit of him, accompanied by Mrs. M.——, sister of John Shaw, of Belfast, who wished to get some information respecting her husband and also a brother of Mrs. Shaw. We went towards the White House and made some enquiries in the neighbourhood. In the evening we joined J. McG. at the country residence of Mr. John Brown, a banker, then in England, whose gardener, Cunningham, had given shelter occasionally to the wanderers. At nightfall this man took us to a house near the Cave Hill, belonging to John Brier, whom I knew a little, where we got a bed that night. In the morning I urged Mrs. M. to return home, which she generously refused, although she had gained the information she required. She insisted on accompanying me. Her husband had got safe into Belfast, disguised as a countryman with a basket of eggs, and was then safe in Mr. Shaw’s house; he had been at the battle of Antrim also. The next day we continued our search, and at last met with Gawin Watt and another person, who promised to take us in the evening to a place where we would get intelligence. The latter took us to a smith’s house, on the lime-stone road to Antrim....
“In the back room of this man’s house we found about eight of the fugitives in consultation as to what should be done. I recommended them strongly to separate and return to their homes, if they could with safety. They replied that there was something in view, but in the event of its not taking place, they would follow my advice. Three of the party undertook to escort us; we travelled up hill, across fields, drains and ditches, for two hours ... when we arrived at the Bowhill, where my dear brother and six others (James Hope, one of the number) were sitting on the brow of the hill, Henry seemed surprised and rejoiced at the meeting, and after sitting with the party for a long time, talking over their adventures and escapes, he conducted us to a house where we were received in darkness, the woman of the house not daring to light a candle, or make the fire blaze. I insisted on Mrs. M. occupying the only chair for the remainder of the night, while I took a low stool and rested my head on her lap. My brother was to be with us at seven in the morning; we thought that night very long, but when seven o’clock came, and no Harry appeared, we became very uneasy.... He came at last, having waited for the others till after two o’clock. We then set out on our way home, and he accompanied us a little way, wishing to see McG., whom we sent out to him.”
About ten days afterwards, Mary received a letter from Harry, and a little later she had another meeting with him at the house of a poor labourer, called David Bodle, near Cave Hill. Arrangements were made to get the fugitive off to America under an assumed name, but on his way to the coast he was captured.
“It was on Sunday afternoon, July 8th, my birthday, that we got intelligence of Harry’s capture.... My father and I set off immediately for Carrickfergus, and with difficulty obtained permission to visit him; the officer, who accompanied us politely standing at a distance, not to prevent our conversation. Having desired me not to use any solicitations on his account; and after expressing to me his wishes on many matters, he desired me to tell my brother John to come to him. My mother had sent him a favourite book of his, Young’s ‘Night Thoughts,’ and I observed a line from it written on the wall of his cell:
“‘A friend’s worth all the hazard we can run.’
“We remained all night in Carrickfergus, and tried the next morning to see him again; but were not admitted. We saw him, however, through the window of his cell, when he gave me a ring, with a green shamrock engraved on the outside, and the words, ‘Remember Orr,’ on the inside, which he desired me to give to his mother. Since her death it has remained with me. On the 16th, he was brought in a prisoner to Belfast, in the evening. My sister and I immediately set out to try if we could see him. He was then standing, with a strong escort of soldiers who were drawn up on the middle of Castle place. We could not speak to him there. He was then taken to the artillery barracks in Ann Street.”
After a brutal refusal from Colonel Durham, the sisters at length obtained, from the humanity of Colonel Barber, admission to their brother. At this interview Harry requested that his cousins, Mrs. Holmes and Miss Mary Toomb, should be called as witnesses on his behalf.
“I arose at six, and set out in a carriage for the place where Miss Toomb was then staying with a lady, near Lisburn. I endeavoured to keep up her spirits as well as I could, fearing from the state of grief and anxiety she was in, she would be unable to give evidence. She came with me, and on arriving in town, July the 17th, I proceeded to the Exchange, where the trial was just commenced. The moment I set my eyes on him I was struck with the extraordinary serenity and composure of his look. This was no time to think about such things, but yet I could not help gazing on him; it seemed to me that I had never seen him look so well, so full of healthful bloom, so free from the slightest trace of care or trouble, as at that moment, when he was perfectly aware of his approaching fate.
“I sat very near the table when the trial was going on. Colonel Montgomery was President. The first witness called was Minis. The other witness, James Beck, a poor miserable-looking creature, swore that he had seen him at Antrim, and knew him by a mark on his throat, which mark was not seen until his neckerchief was taken off.”
James Hope learned afterwards from a soldier on guard that morning that neither of the witnesses had ever set eyes on McCracken until that day, when he was pointed out to them by an officer, who also told them of the mark on his throat.
“Immediately preceding the examination of the witnesses, my father, who was just recovering from a severe and tedious fit of sickness, and who appeared to be sinking beneath the weight of old age and affliction, was called aside by Pollock, who told him that he had such evidence against his son as would certainly hang him; that his life was in his hands, and that he would save it, if my father would persuade him to give such information as Pollock knew it was in his power to do, namely, who the person was who had been appointed to command the people at Antrim, in whose place he (McCracken) had acted. My father replied, that ‘he knew nothing, and could do nothing in the matter: he would rather his son died than do a dishonourable action.’ The tyrant, however, not content with the trial of his virtue, would torture him still farther by calling Harry to the conference, and repeated the same offer to himself, who, well knowing his father’s sentiments, answered that ‘he would do anything which his father knew it would be right for him to do.’ Pollock repeated the offer, in which my father said, ‘Harry, my dear, I know nothing of the business, but you know best what you ought to do.’ Harry then said, ‘Farewell, father,’ and returned to the table to abide the issue of the trial. After I left him, I was told that Major Fox went up to him and asked him for the last time if he would give information, at which he smiled, and said, ‘he wondered how Major Fox could suppose him to be such a villain.’...
“After the examination of the witnesses, I rose and went forward to the table; I stated what appeared to me to be unlike truth in the evidence that had been given by the witnesses for the prosecution, expressing a hope that they would not consider such evidence sufficient to take away life; the testimony of one witness impeaching the character and credit of the approver, on whose statements the charge was mainly dependent for support.
“Harry had taken notes of the trial, and before its termination said to me in a whisper, ‘You must be prepared for my conviction’; all his friends could then do for him was to endeavour to get his sentence commuted to banishment. Before the close of the proceedings I hastened home with this intelligence, and my mother went instantly to General Nugent’s house, and requested an interview, but he refused to be seen. I returned to the Exchange before my mother came back, but found that Harry had been removed. I little expected that any efforts to save him would be successful; but I felt I had a duty to perform—to prevent misrepresentation, and to put it out of the power of his enemies to injure his character while living, or his memory when dead. I followed him to the artillery barracks, where I saw Major Fox just going in, and asked his permission to see my brother; he desired me to wait a little, but I followed him, and when he came to the door of my brother’s cell, I remained behind him at a few paces distance; the door of the cell was opened, and I heard him say, ‘You are ordered for immediate execution.’ My poor brother seemed to be astonished at this announcement; indeed he well might be, at the shortness of time allotted to him; but seeing me falling to the ground, he sprang forward and caught me. I did not, however, lose consciousness for a single instant, but felt a strange sort of composure and self-possession; and in this frame of mind I continued during the whole day. I knew it was incumbent on me to avoid disturbing the last moments of my brother’s life, and I endeavoured to contribute to render them worthy of his whole career. We conversed as calmly as we had ever done. I asked him if there was anything in particular he desired to have done. He said, ‘I wish you to write to Russell, inform him of my death, and tell him that I have done my duty....’ He said he would like to see Mr. Kelburne, who was our clergyman. I told him I feared that Mr. Kelburne would be unable to come, but that if he wished to see a clergyman, Dr. Dickson was then under the same roof, and would come to him. He replied he would rather have Mr. Kelburne, as it would gratify his father and mother. He, of course, was sent for, but being confined to his bed by illness, it was a considerable time before he made his appearance. In the meantime Dr. Dickson was brought to him; they retired to the far end of the room, when I observed Dr. Dickson take out his pocket book and write something in it; he afterwards said that he never met with any person whose mind was better prepared to meet death. Mr. Kelburne soon after arrived, and when he did, he burst out crying, and said, ‘Oh! Harry, you did not know how much I loved you.’ Mr. Kelburne, after some time, endeavoured to assume composure.... Harry, perceiving the effort at appearing more concerned than he really was, looked at Dr. Dickson and smiled. Mr. Kelburne knelt down, as I believe did all present, and joined in prayer; he soon after retired, and wished me to accompany him, which I refused.
“During the early part of the day Harry and I had conversed with tranquillity on the subject of his death. We had been brought up in a firm conviction of an all-wise and overruling Providence, and of the duty of entire resignation to the Divine Will. I remarked that his death was as much a dispensation of Providence as if it had happened in the common course of nature, to which he assented. He told me there had been much perjury on his trial, but that the truth would have answered the same purpose. After the clergymen were gone, I asked for a pair of scissors, that I might take off some of his hair. A young officer who was on guard went out of the room and brought a pair of scissors but hesitated to trust them into my hand, when I asked him indignantly if he thought I meant to hurt my brother. He then gave them to me, and I cut off some of Harry’s hair which curled round his neck, and folded it up in paper, and put it into my bosom. Fox at that moment entered the room, and desired me to give it to him, ‘as too much use had already been made of such things.’ I refused, saying I would only part with it in death; when my dear brother said, ‘Oh! Mary, give it to him; of what value is it?’ I felt that its possession would be a mere gratification to me, and not wishing to discompose him by the contest, I gave it up.
“The time allowed him was now expired: he had hoped for a few days, that he might give his friends an account of all the later events in which he had taken a part. About five p.m. he was ordered to the place of execution, the old market-house, the ground of which had been given to the town by his great great grandfather. I took his arm, and we walked together to the place of execution, where I was told it was the general’s orders that I should leave him, which I peremptorily refused. Harry begged I would go. Clasping my hands around him (I did not weep till then) I said I could bear anything but leaving him. Three times he kissed me, and entreated I would go; and looking round to recognise some friend to put me in charge of, he beckoned to a Mr. Boyd, and said, ‘He will take charge of you.’ Mr. Boyd stepped forward; and fearing any further refusal would disturb the last moments of my dearest brother, I suffered myself to be led away.... A Mr. Armstrong, a friend of our family, came forward and took me from Mr. Boyd, and conducted me home. I immediately sent a message to Dr. McDonnell and Mr. McCluney, our apothecary, to come directly to our house. The latter came, and Dr. McDonnell sent his brother, Alexander, a skilful surgeon. The body was given up to his family unmutilated; so far our entreaties and those of our friends prevailed.
“From the moment I parted with Harry, the idea which occurred to me in the morning that it might be possible to restore animation, took full possession of my mind, and that hope buoyed up my strength, and supported me at the moment of parting with him. Every effort that art could devise was made, and at one time hopes of success were entertained, but the favourable symptoms disappeared, and the attempt was at length given up. I was present when the medical men entered the room where the body was laid, and then retired and joined the rest of the family, awaiting the result with indescribable anxiety. My heart sank within me when we were told all hope was over, and that a message had been brought from the General that the funeral must take place immediately, or that the body would be taken from us. Preparations were made for immediate burial. I learned that no relative of his was likely to attend his funeral. I could not bear to think that no member of his family should accompany his remains, so I set out to follow them to the grave.
“A kind-hearted man, an enthusiast in the cause for which poor Harry died, drew my arm within his, but my brother John soon followed, and took his place. I heard the sound of the first shovelful of earth that was thrown on the coffin, and I remember little else of what passed on that sad occasion. I was told afterwards that poor Harry stood when I left him at the place of execution, and watched me until I was out of sight; that he then attempted to speak to the people, but that the noise of the trampling of the horses was so great that it was impossible he should be heard; that he then resigned himself to his fate, and the multitude who were present at that moment uttered cries which seemed more like one loud and long-continued shriek than the expression of grief or terror on similar occasions. He was buried in the old churchyard where St. George’s church now stands, and close to the corner of the school-house, where the door is.”
A weaker nature than Mary McCracken’s would have surely broken down after the strain of those tragic hours. But she came forth from them, only with fresh ardour to serve God, and country and friends.
Early in the new century she received a pitiable account of the state of destitution to which poor Russell’s sister, Margaret, had been reduced. He himself after his arrest in September, 1796, had been kept until March, 1799, in Kilmainham, whence he was conveyed with the other State prisoners to Fort George. More than three years’ internment in Fort George was followed by deportation to the Continent in 1802. During these years Miss Russell had been deprived of his support, and she was in a pitiable condition. Mary Anne McCracken got up a subscription for her among Russell’s friends in Belfast, but there were a great many claims on their resources just at that time and the response to her appeal was not very gratifying. Her charity nearly cost her dear; for a person who saw the list of subscribers reported to Government that she was raising money for arms.
The autumn of 1803 marked the close of Mary McCracken’s pathetic romance. In October of that year Russell, who had come over from France, in the early summer to assist Robert Emmet, and who had undertaken, with the faithful Jamie Hope, to rouse the North to a new stand for freedom, was taken prisoner in Dublin, and carried back in chains to Downpatrick to be tried for his life. Once more Mary McCracken, stifling the pain of her wounded heart, made superhuman efforts to save her doomed friend. During the weeks when he was in hiding she and her sister had already visited him, and provided him with funds for his journey to Dublin. When he was taken, the two sisters pledged their credit to the last penny, to raise the necessary money for his defence. It was Mary’s earnest desire to go to Downpatrick to be present at the trial, and only the representations of her family prevented her. On the eve of the trial she received a letter from Russell. It was all the reward her faithful heart obtained for the years of silent love it had lavished on the writer—but perhaps those words of farewell from the condemned cell in Downpatrick seemed to her better worth treasuring than the love letters of happier women.
It is to Mary McCracken that we owe the record of Russell’s most noble and touching “Speech from the Dock.” For she and her sister sent Hughes, a clerk of their brother John’s, to take notes in court of his address. And when the scaffold had done its work, and the gallant form lay mangled in its shadow, it was she who gave it, in the sacred soil of Downpatrick, the tomb, where with the “Three Wonder Working Saints of Erin,” Patrick, Brigid and Columcille, it awaits the Resurrection:
“The grave of Russell.”
Among the witnesses at the Russell trial there figured prominently a certain Patrick Lynch, and the mention of his name will serve as an introduction to our account of some of the various interests with which Mary McCracken filled her life. There still remained the long span of sixty-three years, before she was summoned to join the dear ones, to whose love the years of her youth had been dedicated. These sixty-three years were full of service to the country for which they had given their lives.
We have already mentioned that Edward Bunting was, for some forty years, an inmate of the McCracken household. It was under their roof that his celebrated collections of “Ancient Irish Music” were made, and all the McCrackens, but especially Mary, took the very keenest interest in the work. In 1802, Patrick Lynch, a native Irish speaker (who had given lessons in the language to Russell during the latter’s sojourn in Belfast in the early ’Nineties), was sent by Bunting on a tour to Connacht to collect airs. Of his progress he writes (during Bunting’s absence in London) detailed reports to John McCracken and “Miss Mary”—and it is clear from these letters that they were as much interested in the mission as Bunting himself.[88]
In 1803, John McCracken, Senior, died, and in 1814 Mrs. McCracken and her son, William, were both called to their reward. Shortly after their mother’s death the McCracken sisters gave up business and went to live with their brother Frank (who had remained a bachelor) in Donegal Street. The talent of Miss Margaret McCracken for housekeeping left Mary with a great many free hours on her hands—and these she devoted to active works of charity. The picture her grandniece has left us of her avocations is a true one for many years of her life. Her mornings were spent in out-of-door occupations—collecting for some charity, attending meetings, or visiting the poor in their homes, or the poor children in the Lancastrian School. Of the charitable institutions in which she took an active interest her grandniece mentions an industrial school for girls, established in the Famine year; the Belfast Ladies’ Clothing Society; the Destitute Sick Society; an anti-slavery society, and an association to prevent the employment of climbing-boys in chimney sweeping. In the afternoon she rested, and her evenings were largely devoted to letter-writing (for she had a large correspondence) or to that social intercourse in which, even to extreme old age, her genial spirit delighted.
Of her personality her grandniece gives some very attractive glimpses:
“In personal habits she was scrupulously clean, but indifferent about her dress, unwilling to spend money on it, and giving it little thought.
“She liked to read the newspapers, and always spent some time in doing so, but for other reading she had little leisure. When she did read a novel or hear one read, it was to others as great a treat as the book to hear her comments, how she entered into the story, and discussed the characters with such thorough enjoyment, such child-like feeling of reality. In her later years she used to relate anecdotes of family and local incidents, and reminiscences of her youthful days; these told in her lively and pleasant manner, were listened to with pleasure. Sometimes, but more rarely, and usually when she had only one hearer, she would speak of the graver and sadder events in which she had been concerned, but evidently with such sorrowful remembrance that a listener had not the heart to urge her to continue the theme, intensely interesting though it might be.
“She was accustomed to say that people ought not to pride themselves on their ancestors, and should not be valued for what their forefathers had been or done, but only for what they themselves are, and would quote the lines on the moon—
‘I with borrowed lustre shine,
What you see is none of mine.’
Nevertheless, she took most unmistakable pride and pleasure in some of the doings of her ancestors. The way in which she used to relate anything which gave evidence of a generous and unselfish description was not to be forgotten by those who heard her.
“She had naturally a quick and hasty temper, though evidence of this was rarely seen; but even when at an advanced age, if a helpless person were wronged, or an animal cruelly treated, it was startling to see how her eye would flash, and to hear her hot, indignant words.
“Her decay was very gradual. She was compelled by degrees to give up her accustomed occupations, till at last she was confined to the house. Walk for walking’s sake she would not. As she became unable for other work she took up the occupation of knitting. Her sight was wonderfully good; her hearing was so much impaired as to prevent her taking part in ordinary conversation; but she was always able to converse with one person comfortably for both. She delighted in seeing a large party round the table, and when a laugh went round, she with beaming face and happy smile would join in the mirth, and sometimes say—‘Well, I don’t know what you are laughing at, but I like to see you enjoying yourselves.’
“In the autumn of 1865 she had an attack of bronchitis from which she recovered, but mind and body had become weak. She faded peacefully and gently away, apparently contented and happy, without weariness or pain, until, after some hours of unconsciousness, she breathed her last on July the 26th (the feast of her own namesake, Saint Ann), 1866, having completed her ninety-sixth year on the 8th of the month.”
Within our own time pious and reverent hands have laid the remains of Henry Joy McCracken in the grave of his devoted sister. And what Mary McCracken did for Russell, has been done in turn for herself by a patriotic townsman.[89] Beneath the slab he has laid upon the grave in Old Clifton Cemetery brother and sister, once more re-united, await the Resurrection. “In death they are not divided.”