WARD AND LOCK'
PRICE ONE SE
THE CLERK'S INSTRUCTOR AND
MANUAL. With Useful Instruction
on Business Matters and Private Con-
duct.
THE PRACTICAL LETTER WRITER,
with Hints and Rules for Epistolary Cor-
respondence, by Precept and Example.
THE FLOWER GARDEN and KITCHEN
GARDEN. Practical Instructions for the
Management of Flowers, Shrubs, Yege-
tables, &c.
THE HORSE: How to Choose Him, How
to Use Him; with Hints and Cautions to
Purchasers.
HEALTH; or, the Art of Self-Manage-
ment. With a Treatise on the Turkish
Bath, Bathing, Ac.
HINTS AND HELPS for Emergencies,
Accidents, Pecuniary Embarrassments,
and Legal Difficulties.
THE MOTHER'S MEDICAL ADVISER,
and Guide for Emergencies, with Prac-
tical Directions for Diet, Clothing, and
General Management.
HINTS on ELOCUTION and PUBLIC
SPEAKING. By C. W. Smith, Author
of "Common Blunders.
USEFUL BOOKS.
LLING EACH. ,
BEST METHOD of DOING COMMOlf
THINGS: 400 Household Receipts and
Practical Hints.
THE HAND-BOOK of ETIQUETTE: *
Complete Guide to Polite Society for
Ladies and Gentlemen.
THE ECONOMICAL COOKERY BOOK,
for Housewives, Cooks, and Maids of
All Work. By Mrs. Warren.
THE PRACTICAL FAMILY COOKERY
BOOK, containing all necessary Di-
rections for preparing Stylish, Medium,
and Plain Dinners; with a Separat
Treatise on Pickling, Preserving, the
Method of making Pastry, Bread, Ac.
HANDY BOOK of the VEGETABLE
KINGDOM. 200 Illustrations, by W. S.
Coleman.
HANDY BOOK of the ANIMAL KING-
DOM. 150 Illustrations, by T. Scott
Harvey.
HANDY BOOK of the SKY, AIR, and
EARTH. With 83 Illustrations.
POCKET GUIDE to LONDON. With
numerous Engravings, and a New Map
of London.
WARD AND LOCK'S WELL-TIMED SERIES OF SELECT ILLUSTRATED
THREE-AND-SIXPENNY VOLUMES.
Suitable for Presents and School Prizes, and especially adapted for Young People. Each
volume beautifully illustrated, well-printed, efficiently edited, and handsomely bound
in extra cloth, gilt side, back, and edges.
THE WONDERS OF THE WORLD, in
Earth, Sea, and Sky, as related to his
Young Friends by Uncle John.
FIFTY CELEBRATED MEN; their Lives
and Trials, and the Deeds that made them
Famous. Illustrated with numerous En-
gravings on Wood.
FIFTY CELEBRATED WOMEN; their
Virtues and Failings, and the Lessons of
their Lives. Illustrated with numerous
Wood Engravings.
THE LTFE AND SURPRISING AD-
VENTURES of ROBINSON CRUSOE,
of York, Mariner. By Daniel Defoe.
With a Biographical Sketch of the Author.
Embellished with a great number of En-
gravings on Wood.
TIIE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND
MERTON. By Thomas Dat. Illus-
trated with 100 Engravings by the Bro-
thers Dalziel.
A BOY'S LIFE ABOARD SHIP, as it is
Told by Himself. Full of Adventure and
Daring Deeds.
LIFE IN A WHALER; or, Perils and
Adventures in the Tropical Seas. By
S ailor Charlie.
GREAT INVENTORS; the Sources of
their Usefulness, and the Results of their
Efforts. Embellished with numerous
Engravings.
HOUSEHOLD STORIES, collected by the
Brothers Grimm; to which is added,
"The Caravan, an Eastern Tale. By
William Haoff. Profusely illustrated
with Wood Engravings from designs by
eminent artists.
THE MARVELS OF NATURE ; or, Out-
lines of Creation. By Elisha Noyce.
With 400 Engravings by the Brothe-
Dalziel.
EVENINGS AT HOME ; or, the Jnvenilo
Budget Opened. Consisting of a variety
of Miscellaneous Pieces for the Instruc-
tiou and Amusement of Young Persons.
By Dr. Aikin and Mrs. Barbauld.
THE BOY'S BOOK OF INDUSTRIAL
INFORMATION. By Elispu Noyce.
With 365 Engravings by the Brothers
Dalziel.
FERN LEAVES FROM FANNY'S
PORTFOLIO. First and Second Series
comphte. Beautifully illustrated with
page and other Engravings.
LONDON: WARD AND LOCK, 158 FLEET STREET.
' Just published,
SELECT TALES FOR THE YOUNG.
J A SERIES OF ENTERTAINING AHO INSTRUCTIVE UTXXE EOGKS FOE TO UN 3 TSOTLB.
j Elegant Wrapper in Colours, price 6<L each, or cloth gilt and gilt edges, 9d.
| EDGEWORTH'S (Miss) FRANK. NO SUCH WORD AS FAIL.
CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN TALES OF TRUTH AND KINDNESS,
j WEALTH. FLORENCE, I'M FOR PEACE.
1 FORTY STORIES ABOUT FORGIVE- EDWARD HOWARD. &c.
AUNT AFFABLE'S PRETTY PLAY-BOCKS:
FOR ALL GOOD LITTLE NEPHEWS, NIECES, AND
CHILDREN GENERALLY.
Super-Royal Svo., handsomely printed, with Coloured
Illustrations, price 6d. each, or on Cloth (Indes-
tructible), Is.
1. PICTURE PROVERBS for CHIL-
DREN ; or, Reason in Rhyme.
2. The A B C of OBJECTS. [MALS.
3. CHILD'S PICTURE BOOK of ANI-
4. GIANT ALL-TALK and DWARF
ALL-WO 1!K.
5. The LARGE ABC BOOK.
6. CHILD'S BOOK of RIDDLES.
7. ADVENTURES of ROBINSON
. CRUSOE.
13. The CHILDREN in the WOOD.
8. MOTHER HUBBARD and HER T
DOG. )
9. The DEATH and BURIAL of f
COCK ROBIN.
10. A NEW STORY about MOTHER ,
HUBBARD. '*
11. NUMBER CASTLE ; or, the Four
USEFUL GIANTS.
12. MR. NOUN and MRS. VERB;
or, Grammar in Fun.
London: Ward & Lock, 158 Fleet Street;
[See Overt
Crowquill. With beautifully Coloured
Pictures.
edges.
The best and cheapest Books for Schools and Self-Instruction.
THE ILLUSTRATED DRAWING BOOK.
By R. S. Born. Illustrated with upwards
of 300 subjects for study, price 2s.
THE ILLUSTRATED ARCHITEC-
TURAL, ENGINEERING, and ME-
CHANICAL DRAWING-BOOK. By
R. S. Burn. 300 Illustrations. Piice2s.
THE STEAM-ENGINE. By R. S. Burn.
Descriptions and Illustrations of the
Stationary, Locomotive, and Marine En-
gines. 2s.
MECHANICS and MECHANISM. By
R S. Burn. 250 Descriptive Eugrav-
ings Price 2s.
ORNAMENTAL DRAWING and AR-
CHITECTURAL DESIGN, with 300
Engravings. By R. S. Burn. Price2s.
THE ILLUSTRATED WEBSTER SPEL-
LING-BOOK. 90th thousand. Demy
8vo, embellished with upwards of 250
splendid Engravings, 128 pages, cloth
gilt, Is.; coloured, extra cloth, gilt edges,
2s. This will be found the cheapest
Spelling-Book ever pnblished. Also, the
ILLUSTRATED WEBSTER READER
containing 200 lessons on general sub-
jects, suited to the capacity of young
Earners.
UlSDCSi . WMlD AND LOCK. 158 FLEET STREET.
THE HISTORY
c? ■
MARGARET CATCHPOLE
A SUFFOLK GIRL.
BY
THE REY. RICHA^p' COBB OLD,
RECTOR OF WORTHA1T, AND RURAL DEAN.
£ TSim <BirUirrir, fnlargiir anil fntpnmait.
LONDON:
WARD AND LOCK, 158, FLEET STREET.
LONDON!
VEINTED BY EDMUND EVANS,
BAQ.UET OOXTETj FLEET ST.
PREFACE.
Independently of this simple history being a relation of
facts, well known to many persons of the highest respec-
tability still living in the county of Suffolk, it is hoped
that an instructive lesson may he conveyed by it to many,
who may not yet have seen the necessity of early and
religious instruction.
These pages will prove, in a remarkable manner, that,
however great may be the natural endowments of the
human mind, yet, without the culture of religious pnnci-
pies, and the constant discipline of the Holy Spirit, they
will never enable their possessor to resist the temptations
of passion, but will be as likely to lead to great crimes as
to great virtues.
It will be seen that, from the want alone of the early
impressions of religion, the heroine of these pages fell into
errors of temper and passion, which led to the violation of
the laws of God and man; but that, after the inculcation
of Christian faith and virtue, she became conspicuous for
the sincerity of her reformation and for an exemplary life:
that, though it pleased God to grant her "a place of re-
PREFACE.
pentance, yet it was through such bitter sorrows and suf-
ferings of mind and body as she most devoutly desired
others might be spared.
The public may depend upon the truth of the main fea-
tures of this narrative: indeed, most of- the fact3 recorded
were matters of public notoriety at the time of their occur-
rence. The author who here details them is a son of the
lady with whom this extraordinary female lived, and from
whose hands he received the letters and the facts here
given. He is persuaded that much will he found in the
history of Margaret Catchpole highly worthy of praise and
imitation; and, if that which is unworthy shall only be
taken as a warning example, he humbly hopes that the
public will be both gratified and benefited by the publi-
cation.
llectory, Worthamv
THE HISTORY
OF
MAEGAKET CATCHPOLE.
CHAPTER I.
early scenes.
The heroine of this romantic but perfectly true narrative
was bom in the year 1773. There was a large tract of
extra-parochial land toward the north of the bounds of
the parish of Nacton, Suffolk, reaching from Rushmere
Heath down to the banks of the beautiful river Orwell.
This tract was known by the name of Wolfkettel, and
commenced at the Seven Hills, and terminated on the
south side of Alneshbourne Priory.
The spot called the Seven Hills, though originally there
were sixteen, was, in all probability, the site of the famous
battle of Arwell, fought between the Earl of Ulfketel and
the Danes, in a.d. 1010. It was a wild waste, and a
great part of it to this day remains much in the same
state, fit only for sheepwalks or a warren, or as a preserve
for game. The tract lying nearest to the Orwell was very
early brought into cultivation; and at the time this nar-
rative commences, was famous for the production of the
best barley in the county. In a cottage on these lands
lived Jonathan Catchpole, an industrious labourer, and
father of six children, of whom Margaret was the second
daughter, and youngest child but one.
The farm upon which the father and his sons worked
2
was then held by Mr. Denton, who was well known for his
famous Suffolk cart-horses—strong bone, short joints, clean
legs, stout chests, high crests, light chestnut, with silvery
manes, and tails that ought to have swept the ground, but
for a barbarous custom of docking them at that period,
one of the most insane fashions of the day.
Jonathan Catchpole had a team of these horses to look
after, and was the head ploughman on the estate. His
boys were engaged in various parts of the farm.
The youngest daughter was made a sort of pet by the
rest of the family; and, as the eldest girl was always of a
sickly constitution, it fell to the lot of Margaret to carry
her father's and brothers' meals to them in the field.
Who has not seen the healthy face of childhood in
those ever interesting years when activity commences?
And what philanthropist, delighting in scenes of genuine
simplicity and nature, could fail to admire the ruddy glow
of youth, and the elastic step of confidence, with which
the young female peasant bounds to meet a parent or a
brother, at the welcome hour of noon, bearing the frugal
dinner of bread and cheese, or it may sometimes chance to
be bread and pork ?
The child becomes of some consequence, entrusted with
the basket of provision; and, as she stands against the
bank of the hedge-row, watching the progressive march
of the horses as they come toward her, drawing the plough
and turning over the soil, guided as they are by the
steady hand of her father, she presents a picture worthy
of observation.
On these occasions, Margaret was as punctual to her
hour as the sun. On reaching the field she would set her
basket down and jump into her father's arms, and kiss his
warm forehead, and receive in return a reward, which
even in infancy gave her the utmost delight, viz. a seat
upon one of the horses' backs, and there she would remain
till she was taken off by the same hands which placed her
there, and gave her the empty basket to carry home.
 May I come in the evening, father ? she used to say,
as she looked wistfully round the horizon, to see if any
appearance of rain forebode an unfavourable answer; for
this request  to come in the evening contained an imagi-
native delight,.exceeding in its kind the prospect of the
fox hunter for a coming run. For Margaret, when she
M i  - v^r-T CATCH POLE. 8
did "come in tlie evening-, used to have the privilege of
riding- home one of the plough-horses.
This was a singular penchant for a female child to im-
bibe, but with it mingled the pleasure of her father's and
brothers' smiles; and this, after a day of toil, seemed to
give elasticity to their spirits, and formed an agreeable
change to the unvarying monotony of ploughing straight
lines, the clinking of chains, and their rural  wooali come
ather, rcoree, rvooo,jch / sounds as unintelligible to some
readers as the language of the savages of the Caribbee
islands, when first discovered.
Sometimes the crack of the whip would make the horses
start, and the young- men, her brothers, who would try to
frighten their sister, found, instead of so doing-, that it
only increased the pleasure of her ride. At length, she
began to trot the leading horse home.
After a time, this privilege was extended to riding- the
farm-horses down to water; and this appears to have been
the very summit of Margaret's delight. She used to take
her brother's whip in her tiny hand, drive the whole team
before her into the water, keep them in order while there,
and then drive them out again, up the sandy lane, into the
stable-yard.
It is well known that at such times it is no easy task
to sit a cart-horse; for they will kick, and plunge, and
exhibit that rough kind of amusement known by the name
of "horse-play, which has as much of shrieking and
biting as it has of gambolling in it.
In going out to, and coming home from water, horses
accustomed to the heaviest labour, if at all well fed, will
exhibit no mean share of this species of spirit; and woe
be to the lad without a whip in his hand, or who has not
a very steady seat!
Gainsborough and Constable were both lovers of the
scenery around Ipswich; and many are the sketches in the
possession of their Suffolk friends, which speak their
admiration of the beautiful landscapes which surround the
river Orwell.
Had these artists seen Margaret in her equestrian
character, they would have immortalized her; for nothing
could have been more appropriate to the spirit of their
works.
Margaret wa^earIess-£tf-aJSTewmarket jockey j and
4 rriSTORY of
never was known to have had a single fall. She kept her
seat as well as any of the tutored children of the celebrated
but unfortunate Ducrow : indeed, it may be fairly ques-
tioned if any one of his troop could have managed to sit a
Suffolk cart-horse with the same composure.
The fame of our young heroine's exploits reached but
little farther than the sequestered farm-house to which her
parents belonged, excepting now and then at the Ipswich
races, when some of the lads saw an awkward rider, they
would exclaim to each other,  Margaret would beat him
hollow.
Time flew swiftly on, producing no farther change in
the family of the Catchpoles than what may be usually
seen in the habitations of the labouring class. Those are
generally the most stationary race of all people in a parish,
who have constant employment on a large farm: the
owners of lands change their places of abode—sell their
estates—and leave the country; the tenants frequently
change their occupations; but the labourer remains to
cultivate the soil, and is always found a resident among
those "poor who shall never perish out of the land.
They have their friends and fellow-labourers, and feel as
much interest in each other's welfare as the members of
richer or wider-spread fraternities.
The Catchpoles and the Cracknells were two families
that principally worked upon the lands of Mr. Denton.
Their houses were indeed widely separated; but as their
labours were in the same field, their occasions of meeting
were frequent, their intimacy became strict, and they were
of mutual assistance to each other. One lived near the
street at Nacton, and the other upon the farm; so that
whenever there was any occasion to go to Nacton, the
Catchpoles always had a friend's house to call at, and
the Cracknells were as constantly using the Catchpoles'
cottage at the entrance of the lane leading down to the
farm-house.
This intimacy was productive of especial accommoda-
tion on the Sabbath-day ; for the Catchpoles, being at
a great distance from church, they made use of the
Cracknells' cottage, near the street, and used to carry
their meals there, with the view of attending the church
service twice on that day.
At that time, education was not so widely spread as il
MARGARET CATCIITOI-E. £
is now; and the particular spot in which this labourer's
cottage stood being extra-parochial, they h'ad to seek
what little instruction they could obtain from the neigh*
bouring parish of Nacton. The Reverend Mr. Hewitt was
as attentive to his people as he could be, and was much
assisted in his duties by the family of Admiral Yernon,
who at that time lived at Orwell Park, and by Philip
Broke, Esq., the great landlord of that district, and the
father of our deeply-lamented and gallant Suffolk hero, Sir
Philip Broke. But education was not considered then so
f^eat a desideratum as it is now, though the pious wish of
ngland's patriarchal sovereign, George III.,  that every
cottager might have a Bible, and be able to read it, was
nobly responded to through every densely peopled district
in his kingdom.
The Catchpoles were not an irreligious family, though
they could none of them read or write. They were not
ignorant, though they were uneducated. The father
always repeated aloud the Lord's Prayer every night
before his family retired to rest, and the first thing before
they went to their work in the morning. They were
generally respected by their master and mistress, their
friends and acquaintance. They were a well-conducted,
orderly family, and were united in love as dearly as those
who had the greater zest of education and cultivation to
heighten their domestic affections.
Margaret grew up to her thirteenth year, a fine, active,
intelligent girl. She had a brother younger than herself
by five or six years, of whom she was very fond, from
having nursed him during the occasional absence of her
mother. Her elder sister was always, as we have stated,
of a sickly constitution, and very delicate: she had very
little bodily strength, but she had learned to knit and to
sew, and in these things she excelled; and was the semp-
stress of the whole family. She was of a sweet temper,
so gentle, so affectionate, and so quiet, that, though a
complete contrast to her sister, she nevertheless main-
tained a just ascendancy over the high spirit of Margaret,
which was always curbed by any quiet reproof from the
calm wisdom of the invalid.
"We have seen something of Margaret's infant spirit:
we must now record a simple fact of her childhood, which
6 HISTORY OF
^exhibits a singular instance of intrepidity and presence of
mind in a child not yet fourteen years old.
It chanced that her mother one day sent her down to
the farm-house to ash for a little broth, which had been
promised by Mrs. Denton, her mistress, for poor Susan,
ller father and her brothers were all at work on a distant
part of the farm; and, being harvest-time, master and man
. were every one engaged. When Margaret arrived at the
gate, she heard a shriek from a female in the house, and in
another minute she was in the kitchen, where the mistress
of the house had suddenly fallen down in a fit. In one
moment the girl of fourteen exhibited a character which
shewed the powerful impetus of a strong mind. The two
girls in the house were shrieking with fright over their
fallen mistress, and were incapable of rendering the least
assistance. They stood wringing their hands and stamp-
ing their feet, and exclaiming,  Oh, my mistress is dead!
—Oh, my mistress is dead!
 She is not dead ! said Margaret;  she is not dead!
Don't stand blubbering there, but get some coj^l water;
lift up her head, untie her cap, loose her gown, and raise
her into the chair. Not waiting to see how her words
were taken, she did the work herself, and caused the
others to help her. She used the water freely, and gave
the chest full play, dragged the chair toward the door,
sent one of the girls for some vinegar, and made the other
rub her hands and feet; and did not slacken her attention,
until she saw some symptoms of returning animation.
When the breathing became more composed, and the ex-
tremities more sensitive, she sent off one of the girls to the
harvest-field for help; and telling the servant-girl that
she was going for Dr. Stebbing, she went to the stable,
wnslipped the knot by which the pony was tied to the
rack; and, with only the halter in her hand, without saddle
or bridle, she sprang upon the fiery little Suffolk Punch,
snapped her fingers instead of a whip, and was up the
sandy lane, and on to the high road to Ipswich, before the
other girl was fairly across the first field towards her mas-
ter. She did not stop even to tell her mother where she
was going, but dashed past the cottage.
On she went, and well had she her own wishes an-
swered by the fiery little animal she bestrode. Her heart
MARGARET CATCIlPOLE. /
was up, and so was the pony's, who, feeling- a light weight?
upon his back, and a tight seat over his ribs, gave lull
play to his lungs and legs, and answered to her heart's
content the snap of the finger for expedition. Those who
beheld the animal would be astonished, and ask where all
the speed could be. But speed there was in his strong
and well-knit limbs. So close was he put together, that
his action was almost like a ball bounding down the side
of Malvern hills. Nothing seemed to check the speed of
Margaret or her steed. She passed every cart jogging on
to Ipswich market, without taking any notice of the
drivers, though she knew many of them well. Her mis-
tress and the doctor were the only things in her mind's
eye at this time, and they were four miles asunder, and the
sooner she could bring them tog-ether the better. She
even met Admiral Vernon's carriage just as she turned on
to the Ipswich race-course, at the part now called Nacto*
Corner. The Admiral's attention was called to the extra-
ordinary sight of a female child astride a pony at full
speed, with nothing but a halter over his head, and that
held as loosely as if the rider wished to go at full speed.
The servants called to the child, even the Admiral was
sufficiently excited to do the same; but he might as well
have attempted to stop a vessel in full sail, with a strong
and favourable wind.
Away she dashed, regardless of any impediment. She
passed one young farmer from Stratton Hall, who rode
what might be termed a high-bred horse. It was a noble
turf, and an open course; and the young man, as much
astonished as if it were an apparition before him, though
convinced that it was flesh and blood, stuck his spurs into
his charger's side, and gave him his rein with the full
determination to overtake her. But this was not so easy
a task as he anticipated. The little nag, hearing- the clank
of heels behind him, turned his head first on one side, then
on the other; and, lifting up his nose like a stag, darted
onward with redoubled speed. Not Mazeppa with more
sudden bound could have sprung forward with more spirit
than this wild little home-bred nag did down the wide
turf of the race-course. The youth called aloud to know
what was the matter, but Margaret heeded him not; and
long before she reached the stewards' stand, she had fairly
distanced the vouno- sauire of Stratton Hall. At length
HISTORY OF
she reached the end of the race-co xrse, and came on to
the common of Bishop's Hill. It is a very deep descent
down that hill to the town of Ipswich, which from its
summit seems to lie at the very bottom of an extensive
pit. But it is a noble expanse that lies before the spec-
tator upon that eminence. The beautiful river flowing1 to
the left, and forming an expanded semicircle bordering
the town, and the distant country rising with amphi-
theatric grandeur beyond the barracks, and above the
towers of twelve churches, might induce even a hasty
traveller to pause and look upon that sight. But Mar-
garet did not pause. Down she dashed from the verge of
the hill into the very thickest part of the back hamlet of
St. Clement's. It was market-day, and scores of pig-
carts, and carriers' vans, and waggons, stood on one side
of the road, taking up nearly half the street. But on
through them all at full speed dashed the intrepid girl.
From every house people rushed to see the sight—a girl,
with her bonnet hanging down behind her, and going like
lightning through the crowded thoroughfare, was an ex-
traordinary sight.
People gave way as she rode fearlessly on, and fol-
lowed her up St. Clement's Fore Street, over the stone
pavement across the Wash into Orwell Place, where lived
the ever humane though eccentric surgeon, Mr. George
Stebbing. But not until she reached his very door did
Margax*et give the first check to the pony.
A passing spectator, who was at the moment opposite
the surgeon's door, with an instinctive thought of her
errand, gave a violent ring at the surgery-bell, and re-
ceived such a joyous  Thank you, sir, from the child,
that he stopped to see the result.
By this time the street was full of spectators, all
anxious to know what was the matter; but Margaret's
eye was fixed upon the door, and the very moment it was
opened and the doctor himself appeared, she exclaimed,
 Oh, come to my mistress, sir, directly!—come to my
mistress!
The gentleman who had rung the bell was Mr. Na-
thaniel Southgate, of Great Bealings, a rich and excellent
agriculturist, and an acquaintance of the doctor's. Hav-
jig followed him into the surgeiy, and there learnt the
feat the child had performed, he at once resolved to take
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
her into his own service; and he gave her a crown as
present, telling her, if she was a good girl she should
come and live with him. With the former communica-
tion, Margaret, as might be supposed, was not a little
pleased; but upon the latter she put a very grave face.
The doctor's gig being by this time ready at tho
door, he placed Margaret beside him, and started for the
farm, chatting by the way about her poor sister Susan,
whom she asked the doctor to visit as he returned from
the farm. Once only did she seem to reflect in an
unfavourable manner upon the act she had done, and
said to the doctor,  I hope, sir, if my master should be
angry at my taking the pony, you will beg of him to for-
give me.
On arriving at the farm, the doctor found that the
mistress of the house was much better; and he then
learned from the servant-girls, that, but for little Mar-
garet's presence of mind and activity, the apoplectic fit
might have terminated fatally.
Having given the needful instructions as to the treat-
ment of the invalid, the doctor once more took Margaret
in his gig, and drove to the cottage; where, having visited
and prescribed for poor Susan, he took leave of the grate-
ful family by telling Margaret, that if ever she stood in
need of a friend to help her, she had only to  post off
again for the doctor.
Numerous were the inquiries concerning Margaret and
her expedition, and she found herself, much to her surprise
and chagrin, extolled for her horsewomanship. She began,
therefore, to be shy of riding the horses at the farm ; and
modesty told her, now that her fame began to spread, there
was something bold and conspicuous in her former plea-
sures of this kind. So sensitive was she upon this point,
that she avoided as much as possible all allusion to her
past habits, and for the future carefully avoided the
horse-yard and the horses. Her father and brothers
observed this, and would sometimes say,  Peggy, you will
soon forget how to ride.
 The sooner the better, she would reply,  if I am to
have people staring at me as they now do.
Susan perceived with satisfaction that Margaret, in-
stead of being vain, and puffed up with the notice of the
world, was quite the reverse. Numbers might have risen
10
HISTORY OF
in their own opinion, and have been giddy from the con-
tinnal praises of one and another; but in this case it
became a subject of annoyance rather than of congratu-
lation, and her sister began to fear, from finding her so
much more occupied in the house, and especially for
herself, that Margaret's health would suffer.
It was with some degree of satisfaction that an oppor-
tunity was soon afforded for a change of place and action
for her sister. Her uncle Catchpole came expressly from
Mr. Nathaniel South gate, of Great Bealings, to treat with
her parents about Margaret's going to service ; and mat-
ters were so speedily arranged, agreeably to all parties,
that she was to accompany her uncle on his return home.
All seemed to think it a . good thing for the girl; even she
herself, though quite new to the work of a dairymaid,
thought that she should thus escape the unpleasant
observation she had been subject to. This accounted
for the readiness with which she complied with her
uncle's advice.
When, however, the hour of departure came, never'
perhaps did a cottage-girl leave home with a heavier
heart: tears, unrestrained tears, ran m an honest current
over her young face. Oh, how Margaret loved her poor
sick sister! how deeply she felt the grief of leaving her!
nor would she consent to leave her, except under the faith-
ful promise that her father, or one of her brothers, would
frequently come and see her, and bring her word of
Susan's health. 4
 Dear sister, she said to Susan,  dear sister, if you
should be worse, oh, do let me come and nurse you! I
love to wait upon you, I feel so happy to see you smile.
"God bless you, dear little Peggy! was the reply.
"God bless you! Mind and be a good girl, and take
pains to do your duty well. Charles, or John, and some-
times little Ned, will walk over to Bealings. I will send
for you if I am worse, for I too love to have you near me;
but it is best for us both that we should be parted for a
time, and especially for you, as you can learn nothing
more at home.
The kiss of filial and parental and brotherly and sisterly
love was given through many tears, and the little Mar-
garet departed for her first place.
She went with a high character from home, and to a
MARGARET CATCI1P0LE.
11
place where that good character had preceded her, in the
estimation of the gentleman^ who so promptly rang the
bell for her at the doctor's door. She staid a day or two
with her uncle in the cottage in which she was born, and
then entered into the service of Mr. Nathaniel Southgate.
A.t her very first interview with her new master, she begged
of him never to talk about her riding the pony, and as
much as possible to prevent others speaking of it. Tim
very much raised her in the good opinion of her master
and mistress, for they had some fears lest she might be
too fond of riding to mind her work. They found her,
however, completely cured of this propensity, nor could
%he be induced, in a new and Strange place, ever to mount
a horse or pony.
How seldom does public praise*ma.ke mortals shy! yet
where true modesty prevails this is found to be the case.
It speaks highly for this young girl, who, from an innate
distaste to notoriety, shunned a habit which had once
been a prevaili'vg pleasure, and in which, till the world
spoke loudly of her merit, she felt no degree of shame.
How singular that such a being should ever become so
conspicuous, as she afterwards did, in that very line which
she now so sedulously avoided! Well may we all say,
"We know not what manner of spirit we are of.
In the situation which Margaret first occupied, her
mistress found her all that she required—she was verv apt
at learning to do her work, very diligent in the perform-
ance of it, and always gave satisfaction. She had plenty
of employment, and was stirring* with the lark, soon
understood the accustomed duties of a dairywoman, and
was always praised for cleanliness and good conduct.
A year passed away rapidly. Margaret, at fifteen
years of age,.was as tall as she was afterwards at twenty;
she was strong, too, though slim. One year makes a great
difference in a female at that age—some are almost women
at sixteen, when boys are, generally speaking, awkward
clowns. She went to service before she had completed
her fourteenth year.
Margaret remained a year and a half at Bealings, re-
markable for the strict propriety of her behaviour, and for
the cheerfulness of her disposition. She had stipulated
with her mistress that, in case of her sister's death, or of
her requiring* her aid at the hear approach thereto, shg
12
HISTORY OF
should have full permission to leave. It was on this
account that, in the Whitsuntide following-, she left her
situation, and went to attend her poor sister.
Susan, who was then in her twentieth year, had lingered
on, gradually getting weaker and weaker, until she was
quite unable to rise from her bed. Her heart always
yearned towards her sister; and, as she had promised to
let her be with her during her few last days, and she her-
self thought those days were almost numbered, she now
sought her assistance. Margaret's affection answered the
sister's call, and she was ready to place all her earnings
and all her labours at that sick sister's service. She hesi-
tated not ; but, taking a respectful and grateful leave of
the family at Bealings, she was, at Whitsuntide, again an
inmate of her father's house.
It has been stated, some few pages back, that between
the Catchpoles and Gracknells, as labourers upon the same
farm, there existed a close intimacy: it was Whitsuntide,
and Mrs. Cracknell's baby was to be christened. Poor
Susan was to have been one of the sponsors, and the child
to be named after her; but  poor Susan was laid on her
pillow, and could not answer to the call of her neighbour
in any other way than by her prayers. Margaret was
therefore asked to take Susan's place, which she consented
to do, and went early to Nacton, to render what assistance
she might be able to give in the celebration of this event.
Neighbour Cracknell kept a little shop of such goods as
might be obtained at the large, red-bricked, coffin-shaped
house of Mr. Simon Baker, grocer, St. Clement's Street,
Ipswich. This shop divided the fore and back hamlets of
St. Clement's, and was the first from the Nacton Road,
entering upon the pavement of the town. Master Crack-
nell and his boys spared what they could for the thrifty
wife at home, who had fitted up her closet window with
shelves, and placed thereupon a stock of threads, pins,
needles, soap, starch, tape, and such like small and least
perishable articles, as might make some return in the
shape of home profit, instead of working in the fields.
This cottage stood at the entrance of the village, and
the shop, if such it might be called, had frequent cus-
tomers among the poor. A single candle, a small loaf,
half an ounce of tea, a halfpenny worth of cheese, a penny-
worth of butter, or sugai^or snuff, or tobacco, could here
MARGARET CATCHROLE.
13
be obtained. Tims Dame Cracknell managed to turn a
penny in her own way; contented with small gains, she
provided for her rapidly increasing family in a decent and
honest manner, and looked forward with hope for more
custom. She made no outward show to create opposition,
and, had she always done so, might have gone on pros-
perously; but this joyful Whitsuntide, which found her
and her friends so quietly happy, was fraught with un-
toward circumstances, which neither she nor her neigh-
bours could foresee. She had invited a few friends to
partake of her christening fare, and expected her relative,
Stephen Laud, from Felixtow Ferry, to stand with Mar-
garet Catchpole and herself as sponsors for the little
Susan.
This Stephen Laud was a famous boatman, and for
many years plied at the ferry-boat between Harwich and
Langer Fort, now called Landguard Fort. That it re-
quired a skilful pilot to manage a ferry-boat, which had
nearly two miles to run from the Suffolk to the Essex
side, will be easily imagined. As government letters
were always conveyed from Harwich to the fort, at that
time, the ferryman was in the receipt of government pay,
and it was considered a good situation for an active man.
Such was Stephen Laud—and not only active, but a man
of no common intelligence. He had been left a widower,
with one son, William, whose uncle, a boat-builder at Aid-
borough, had taken a great liking to him. He had bound
him apprentice to Mr. Turner, the ship-builder, at Har-
wich, where the boy had acquired no mean tact at his
employment, and grew up a good workman, though some-
what too free a spirit for a settled character. He was
very fond of the sea, and, from the joyous buoyancy of
his disposition, the captains of the traders to Aldborough
used frequently to give him a run.
Mr. Crabbe, a brother of the celebrated poet, with
whom young Laud studied navigation, used to say he was
the quickest lad as a mathematician he ever knew. He was
a merry, high-spirited sailor, rather than a boat-builder.
He was very intimate with one Captain Bargood, a
master and owner of several ships then trading along the
coast, and over to Holland.
So taken was the captain with Will Laud, that he
would have persuaded him at once to join service with
14
HISTORY OF
him. Will was generally liked; and though his uncle
wished him to stick to the boat-building*, he could not but
confess that he would make a far better sailor. He knew,
however, that his old father, the pilot, would not approve
of his going to sea for a permanency, without his having
a voice in the matter; and as Captain Bargood offered to
give young Laud a fair share of profits without loss, and
Will had such a turn for the sea, he had sent him oyer to
his father, to ask his consent to this change in his course.
This was the subject of their conversation, as, upon the
Whitsuntide mentioned, they journeyed on foot from
Felixtow Ferry to Nacton, a distance of six miles.
 You speak famously, boy, of this captain: he may
be all right, and his offers to you seem to be good. I
have heard it hinted, however, that he is not over-nice;
and that though, as times go, he may be an honest trader,
yet that he can find friends to help him over with a cargo
of moonshine, and get a good run too into the country.
 I never heard a word of any such traffic, father, and
whenever I have been with him I have never seen him in
any suspicious company. He would never persuade me
to this work, father. I am the son of a government man,
and I hope I shall always prove myself an honest tar.
 I hope so too, my boy; I hope so, too; but when once
the block runs, down fall the sails. Take care, nay lad;
keep your eye ahead.
 Don't be afraid, father; only you give consent, and I
shall sail with fair wind and weather.
 I can but wish you well, boy; I can give you but
little help. You are now entering your twentieth year,
and seem to me determined to go to sea. I shall not
persuade you against your own inclinations; so, go; and
may the great Pilot above keep you in safety from the
dangers of the breakers ! I will do what I can for you.
This consent seemed to animate young Laud with most
fervent thankfulness, and his elastic spring carried him
over every stile he came to. As they neared the village
of Nacton he was chatty upon many subjects, but more
especially upon the object of his journey.
 I never was at a christening party, said the young
man;  whom shall we meet there, father ?
"Your relatives on the mother's side are all poor,
William, but honest people. I have long promised to ba
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 15
godfather to one of the Cracknells, and now I am called
upon to make good my promise. You will meet their
friends the Catchpoles, and one or two others. Perhaps
Margaret Catchpole may be there, as her sister Susan, I
hear, will never be likely to get out again.
u Margaret Catchpole ! Margaret Catchpole! I wonder
whether that is the girl whose name I heard so much
about two years ago. I was with Captain Bargood at the
Neptune, near the quay, assail the people in the street
were talking about a spirited girl riding a pony full speed
from Nacton to Ipswich for the doctor. The name I
heard mentioned was the same you speak of.
 And was the very person we shall perhaps see among
the party to-day.
 I am glad of it, for I can easily conceive she must be
an enterprising girl; I shall like to see her much. She
must be very young still.
 About sixteen. I have heard that she is a very
respectable young woman.
Conversation of this kind served to entertain the youth
and his father, and to divert the current of their thoughts
from the sea, until they arrived at Nacton Street. They
descended that ravine-looking village, and, passing the
blacksmith's shop at the bottom of the valley, ascended
the hill near Admiral Vernon's, passed the Church towards
the Ipswich road, and arrived at Master Cracknell's cot--
tage. The ever-ready Margaret had been before them to
assist, and had made herself useful in many ways. The
humble holiday party consisted of the Catchpoles, father
and two sons,—the two Calthorpes, Stephen and William
Laud, and the no small family of the Cracknells; and last,
not least, the heroine of the day, Margaret Catchpole.
The cottage, as the reader may suppose, Was full; but
Welcome were they all to the christening, and joyful that
day were all the party. Between the young men and
Will Laud a quick intimacy commenced. His character
seemed formed for a holiday,—all buoyancy, life, and
animation; he could at one time have his fun with the
children, another have feats of bodily strength with the
young men; tell a good story for the old people, and sing
a good song for the whole party.
Laud was greatly prepossessed in Margaret's favour;
be had heard much of her at Ipswich, and had been long
J (J HISTOEY OF
anxious to see ner. When he did see her, she more than
answered all his expectations. He thought to see a lively,
spirited child, with whom he might joke of her childish
but noble act, or romp; but he beheld a very respectable,
decent young woman, who, though active and intelligent,
was far from having any childish manners, lively, agree-
able, and unaffected, with a quickness and spirit well
answering to his own.
As for Margaret, such a bright vision of pleasure had
never before entered her thoughts or heart, as stole upon
her that day. In short, both William and Margaret may
be said to have imbibed a partiality for each other on this
day, which ripened into such an attachment as has seldom
been recorded among all the host of love-stories which fill
the pages of romance. But these pages record no romance
of unreal life; they tell a plain, unvarnished tale,—a tale
which, having been continually related in private circles,
is now given to the world at large, as a remarkable series
of events in
 The short and simple annals of the poor.
The merry christening passed away, and the friends
parted, but not for a long period. Charles Catchpole, who
had been mightily taken with young Laud, agreed to
accompany him to his father's. They all left the cottage
of Cracknell together, and all arrived in safety at their
respective homes; but not without Will Laud having
walked double distance, to shew a devotion to our heroine
which he, at that time, most sincerely felt.
But they, like all lovers and friends, must and did part.
Young William had a long and agreeable soliloquy with
himself, as he traversed again that road by night which
he had gone in the morning with his father. How dif-
ferent the current of his thoughts ! In the morning he
was all raging for the sea, but what a comparative calm
as to that desired object now ensued. There was tumult
stirring of another kind, which seemed to engross the
whole of his thoughts, and centre them upon the land, not
upon the ocean.
It is unnecessary to follow this youth through his every
day's journey to and from Margaret's cottage. His uncle
began to think that his father had succeeded in making a
landsman of him; for Time, which flies swiftly on the
MARGARET CATCIirOLE. 17
wings of Love, goes slower and more mechanically with
those who have to work hard every day, and whose bread
depends upon the sweat of their brow.
Charles Catchpole, though he caught infection from the
"oving spirit of young Laud, and found in him a love of
enterprise which charmed him, did not seem so fond of the
sea as to be induced to leave for it his more peaceful
occupation. The young men were so far pleased with
each other, because Laud endeavoured to entertain Charles,
and Charles was only too happy to be so entertained.
Yet the young landsman wanted to know more of distant
countries than young Laud, who had only been a coasting
trader, could tell him. He had once, indeed, been over to
Holland, but did not go far into the country; so that all
the information he could give related simply to the sea-
port towns on the coast.
Whence arose this inquiring spirit on the part of
Charles Catchpole, no one could determine. The lad had
once expressed a wish to be a soldier; and it was the old
clerk and sexton of the parish of Nacton who used to read
and explain to him that there were strange people in the
world j and these notions, which had for some time slum-
bered, seemed to be awakened by young Laud's company.
Will Laud had idle time to spare, and he devoted a
great portion of it to Margaret, and was a constant
attendant at Nacton. All the family knew of the attach-
ment, and it was no secret with any neighbour who
chanced to come in, all of whom were well pleased with
Will Laud, and congratulated their respective friends on
the future happiness of the young people. Even the
master and mistress, for whom the family worked, were
satisfied with appearances; and the maids at the farm,
who had never quite forgiven Margaret for her good
offices, were not a little jealous at the early prepossession
of the young sailor for  the girl, as they called her.
Poor Susan, the sick sister, was the only one of the
whole family who did not like Will Laud. There fre-
quently dwells in the sickliest forms the purest love.
Susan felt more interested for Margaret's future happiness
than did any one else in the family. Through all that
weakness of body, there was a strength of mind and of
judgment, which those who have for a long time had the
prospect of dissolution before them frequently possess.
13
III.-T.MiV of
She looked with penetrating1 eyes upon the young1 man.
She weig-hed well his spirit, listened to his free conversa-
tion, and formed her idea of the young1 man's character,
not from outward appearance, but from the tone of senti-
ment which came from his heart. She was shocked to
find that there was, through all his attentions and general
desire to please every one, a levity of expression upon the
most serious subjects. She did not say much to Margaret
upon this point; but her manner towards her lover was
colder, and, in some measure, more repulsive than her
sister liked. It is said, that  we can always tell those
who love us. It is equally true  that we can always
tell those who dislike us.
Poor Susan did not openly rebuke Will Laud. Yet he
perceived she did not approve of him, and said to Mar-
garet—"I do not think your sister Susan likes me.
Why should he think this 'I He had never heard Susan
utter a word of rebuke to him. But sometimes, in the
midst of his wild vagaries, a glance of that bright eye
which flashed, searching into his spirit, would make the
young sailor pause and finish his story in a tamer way
than he intended. Susan's affectionate disposition would
not allow her, in that apparently happy period of the two
lovers' intercourse, to speak anything harshly, but the
more than usual warmth of her interest was not to be
mistaken. That pressure of the hand; that kiss, with a
starting tear in the eye; that hope expressed that she
might be happy, though a fixed fearfulness of doubt
seemed to hover over her mind, whilst she so often prayed
for her sister, made Margaret almost tremble, as if Susan
foreboded evil.
 Dear sister, said Margaret to her one day;  dear
sister, you look so gloomily on my lover and me J*1
 No, Margaret. I look only with love upon you, and
am only, perhaps, too anxious for your future happiness.
I am not gloomy. I love you so dearly, Margaret, that I
pray that you may live in happiness all your days. I do
not like to lose any of your love.
"Nor I any of yours, dear Susan; hut sometimes I
fear I either have so done, or may so do. Laud fancies
you do not like him.
 It is only that I love you so dearly, that if any one
loves you less than I do, it makes me feel unhappy. I
MARGARET CATCIII'OLE.
19
like Laud very well as a visitor, and lie appears very fond
of you, Margaret; but be seems to me to think too much
of himself to be exactly what I wish him to be, for your*
sake. J
 May you not be mistaken, Susan ? I am very young,
and it must be years before we marry. Do not you think
he may be likely to improve with his years ? 
 I should have thought so, had I not observed that
vanity prompts him to boast of his own successes over his
ttncle and his father. He has got his own will of both,
and appears to me to forget the sacrifices they have made
for his humour, which he fancies to be for his benefit.
But I do not speak against him, Margaret. I only wish
him all that can be good, for your sake.
This conversation might have extended much farther
but for the entrance of Laud, who came rather in haste to
say that he was sent for by Captain Bargood to Felixtow
Ferry. He had been into the field with young Charles
Catchpole, and a sailor brought to him an urgent and
special message that he would come to the captain, as he
wished to see him upon very particular business.
 Margaret, he said,  I must take my leave of you
for a short time. I suspect the captain wants me to go a
voyage; but it will not be a long one. I am assured of
good pay, in a share, probably, of his profits, without
having to sustain the risk of loss.
Whatever present grief Margaret might feel at the
departure of her betrothed, she did not give way to any
deep lamentation. She knew that Laud must work for
his living, as well as she for hers, but she did not despair
of success: they were both young, both enjoying health
and strength. Regret she might feel, but Hope was ever
the bright beacon of Margaret's days. She could only
express her hope that they might soon meet again : and
as her father and brothers came in from their labour,
Laud shook them all by the hand, told them he was
going again to sea, and wished them  all health and
hearty cheer.
It was with much regret that the old man and his sons
found that Laud must leave them, and their honesLnature
failed not in expressing every good wish for a pleasant
voyage. Laud turned to the sick-bed upon which poor
Susan lay, and approached to bid her good-by. He was
20
HISTOKY UF
surprised to see her in tears, and greatly agitated : so
much so, indeed, that the bed-clothes shook with such a
tremulous motion, that they showed the extent of her
agitation.
 Good-by, Susan, said Laud, and extended his hand.
Susan turned her piercing eye upon him, took his warm
hand in her cold, transparent, bloodless fingers, and with
great effort spoke to him.
 William, I want to say a word before you go. Here
she paused to take breath, and every one who loved h«r
crowded round her bed.  I have observed, William,
much in your character that requires alteration, before
you can either be happy yourself or can make my sister
so. You have a lightness of thought, which you do not
blush to express, which appears to me bordering upon
infidelity. There is a God, William, who observes us all,
and knows every secret of our hearts, and in His sight
piety, parental love, and duty, are qualities which meet
His approbation, and the contrary provoke His displea-
sure. I have observed with pain that you sometimes
speak with levity of those whom you ought to love. You
may not intend to be wicked, but your language, with
respect to the guardians of your youth, is not good. You
will forgive my speaking my mind to you now, as I am
sure I shall never see you again in this world: but if ever
we do meet in another and a better world, you must alter
greatly in the sentiments of your heart. We shall never
meet if you do not. You want steadiness of principle and
firmness of purpose. You may lead those who look up to
you; but I can see that you may be very easily led by
others, who have only to exercise determination, and they
may tempt you to anything. You want, I repeat it,
steadiness of principle and stability of purpose. I love
my dear sister, and I can foresee that you will make her
very unhappy if you do not alter in this respect. Take
what I say in good part, and forget it not. I can only
pray for your welfare. If ever you are unkind to Mar-
garet, you and I shall never meet in another world.
Good-by, Winiam, good-by!
The effort had been too much for her weak state, and
she sank back exhausted, hiding her tears upon her
pillow.
Youth and health do not dwell long upon the words
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 21
of sickness, though love cannot fail to produce a powerful
effect for the time. Laud.returned to Felixtow, leaving
our cottagers to lament his departure, and Margaret to
the exercise of those duties to which her nature and in-
clination made her then, and ever after, so well adapted—
the nursing of an invalid. Had she not had these duties to
perform, she might have felt more keenly the loss of her
lover. She was never of a desponding disposition. She
knew that Laud must work hard; and she hoped that his
love for her would make him prudent aiid careful, though
it might be years before they both saved a sufficiency to
furnish a cottage.
Her duties to poor Susan became every day more ur-
gent, for every day seemed to bring' her slowly to her end.
Her attentions to this sick sister were of the gentlest and
most affectionate kind. Softly, gently, noiselessly, she
made every one go in and out of the apartment. Susan
wished that all whom she knew and loved should pray
with her, and her good mistress frequently came up from
the farm to read to her. Oh, how eagerly does the mind
of the sufferer devour the word of God!—the more
humble, the more sweet that precious fruit to the palate
of the sick ! How does she desire more and more of the
living waters of life, and lift her eyes to Heaven, and turn
them in upon her heart, to see whence her help might
come !
Poor Susan had been too long a sufferer not to have
learned the duties of patience; she had too humble a spirit
to think anything* of herself; but when she thought of
her father, mother, brothers, and sister, her whole soul
seemed absorbed in their present and future welfare.
Oh! what instructive lessons may be learned at the sick-
bed! How wise are the reflections then made upon life
and immortality! Could men only be as wise at all hours,
how happy might they be !
But Susan's hours were numbered, and her end drew
nigh. Scarcely three weeks after the departure of Laud,
she was called away; but her end was so characteristic of
piety and love, that, despite of the impatience of the
hasty reader, it must be recorded. On Saturday, the
24th of June, not long before the family were about to
retire to rest, Susan said to Margaret,  Lift me un, doar,
lift me up—I feel myself going. As might be expected,
22
HISTORY OP
a word of this sort called them all around her. The
oor, weak, wasted, emaciated girl, with an eye as bril-
ant as the purest crystal, and a countenance expressive
the calm spirit within, looked upon the mother bathing
er thin hand with tears, and the affectionate father and
brothers a little more composed, but not less afflicted.
Edward, the youngest, knelt close by her side; whilst the
affectionate Margaret, with her arm and part of her chest
supporting the raised pillow, against which the sufferer
leant, held with her left hand the other transparent one of
her dying sister.
Who shall paint the silver locks of age, and that calm
eye, watching the waning light of a dear daughter's life ?
 Let us pray, said the dying girl; u let us pray.
Around that bed knelt six of her relatives, and in deep
humility heard Susan's prayer for them all, whilst they
could only answer, with a sob,  God bless you !
But now came an effort, which seemed to agitate the
sufferer beyond all former exertions: the clothes around
her poor chest seemed to shake with excess of emotion, as,
with a most earnest and impressive look, she half turned
herself round, and uttered the name of her sister.
 Margaret, she said,  Margaret, you will never
marry William Laud—he will cause you all much sorrow;
but do not forsake the right and honest path, and you
will find peace at the last. Margaret, my dear sister,
never suffer him to lead you astray! Promise me, pro-
mise me never to be his, except he marry }'ou amidst your
friends.
 I never will, dear Susan—I never will.
 Bless you ! God bless you all! And with one look
up, as if she would pierce the skies, she raised both her
hands to heaven, and said, "0 blessed Saviour! and
with those words her spirit took its flight to eternity.
What a thrill, a holy thrill, ran through the hearts of
all, as they witnessed this solemn but cheerful end of her
they so dearly loved! That night was, indeed, one of
serious reflection among them all: they thought and
talked of her, and blessed her, and resolved to follow lies
advice, and keep the honest path.
margaretcatchtole.
23
CHAPTER II.
the temptation".
Laud reached Felixtow Ferry: he had seen his parent,
and then went to the shore to meet the captain. There
they stand under the cliff, by the shore, opposite the har-
hour and town of Harwich, whilst the light gleams upon
the distant beacon of Walton-on-the-Naze. There is a
boat a short distance on the calm wave, and not far ahead
a brig is seen standing off and on. The captain is point-
ing to the brig, and seems very earnest in his conversa-
tion; whilst a sort of cool composure is settled upon the
firm attitude of Will Laud, as he listens and seems to
remain immoveable.
Oh! would that he had so remained! Many an after-
pang, which the birth of that day's sorrow occasioned,
would have been spared.
 Well, Laud, I make you a fair offer, said this artful
captain ;  I make you a fair offer of the command of the
brig: there she is, as tight a vessel as ever cut a wave. I
will venture to say, that when you helped to lay her keel
with Turner, you little dreamt of commanding on board of
her.
 I have no objection to the craft, captain; but I do not
like the job.
 No : I suppose you would like to live at home along
with the old ferryman, your father; or, perhaps, knock
away at boat-building on the Aide. Pshaw, Will, pshaw I
this is a tame kind of life. I took you for a fellow of
more spirit, or I never should have taken you for my
messmate.
 When you took me for such, you took me as an
honest man, and all your dealings were above-board.
Now yrou want to make me a smuggler. This is the
work, captain, I do not like. My father is an honest
man, and under Government—why should I bring dis-
grace upon him ?
 And does it follow, Will, that I am what you call a
smuggler, because I do a little in a free trade ? Where's
the disgrace you speak of?—and who is to bring it upon
21 HISTORY OF
us ? Come, Will, tliere are two sides of a question, and
we may hit upon the right as well as the wrong'.
 But we shall be cheating- the Government of our
country.
 As to that, Will, look from the highest to the lowest,
and see if they do not all do so as long as they can with
impunity.
 I do not see that.
 No, Will, no; because you shut your eyes. But
who pays more tax than he can help, or as much as is
strictly due, either for his horses, servants, powder, malt,
hops, windows, silk, woollen, or any commodity whatever,
upon which a wholesale tax is imposed for the good of
the country ? Don't talk, then, of cheating' Government.
I call mine om'y a little free trade; and if I choose to
employ a few free hands and pay them well, what is that
to anybody 1
 You may employ them with more freedom in an
honest way, than running- such risk of life, liberty, and
property, as you do. I almost as much grieve that I ever
knew you, captain, as I do now at being compelled to
leave your service. I have been obliged to you hitherto,
but you want now to lay me under an obligation to which
I have no stomach.
This is only since you came to the ferry, and went
to the christening. Go back, my boy, go back and turn
ploughman. You will like that better than ploughing the
waves. You will only be, after all, a lubberly landsman.
But I must hail my fellows, and be off. What a pity
such a brig should go a-begging for a captain! Your
own work, too, Will. Well, well, I did not think you
such a fool. Here, with a silver spoon in your mouth,
you would throw it away, and take up with a wooden one.
Go, eat your bread sopped in warm water, in a wooden
bowl, and. leave your old messmates and friends to good
fare, an active life, and cheerful company. Good-by,
Will; good-by.
And the captain turned round to give the signal to his
boatmen to pull to shore ; but without the least intention
of giving up his prey. It was only as a cat would pre-
tend to let her victim escape to a little distance ? under the
idea of having more play.
 Go to your girl, boy; go to your girl, said he, as
iiargauet catciipole. 25
he took a step toward the beach. "She will ba glad to
see you without employment, and sick of the sea for her
sake.
 I'll tell you what, captain, my girl's an honest one,
and if you were to make her a disloyal offer, she would be
the first to heave up her anchor, or cut her cable, and haul
to windward and be off.
"I don't make her any offer; I have nothing- to do with
any of her sex, and the less you have to do with them the
better, Will. But if you must have her in your eye, why
not for her sake try to get a comfortable berth for her ?
In a very short time, you will be able to secure enough to
make her happy. After a few runs, you may have a snug
cot, near this very cove, and be as comfortable as you wish
to be. But if you have made up your mind, and are
determined not to accept my offer, why then I must find
another who will; and I warrant, that I need not go far
before I meet with cne who will jump at the chance.
 I say, captain, how many voyages shall I go, before
that time comes you speak of?
 That depends upon our luck. The quicker work we
make, the sooner we shall keep our harbour. One year,
perhaps two. At all events, three, and your berth is
sure.
 Well, captain, but how shall it be for share ?
 Why, there's the brig-, and look ye, Will, she's all
right and tight, and everything well provided aboard her.
She is under your command; your first trip to Holland;
frour cargo, gin; and as to other goods, snuff, tobacco,
inen, and such things, I let you barter with for yourself.
Only secure me the main chance. As to risk, that's all
mine. You shall receive, say one-sixth of the profit for
the first year, one-third for the second; and an equal share
after. Now, my boy, but that I know your pluck, and
your tact, I should never make you such an offer. There
you have it.
"Captain, I'm your man !—I'm your man !
And so he sold himself to as artful, desperate, and bold
a rover, as ever crossed the Channel. How true were
poor Susan's last words to him— You want steadiness of
principle and stability of purpose! From that hour,
Will entered upon a course of life which led to his own
ruin, and the ruin of others. He was caught in the toils
26
HISTORY OF
of the smuggler, from which, though he once escaped,
he never had sufficient stability to entirely emancipate
himself.
Captain Bargood, to whom Will thus sold himself, was
a clever "as well as a desperate adventurer. He contrived
to keep up appearances as a steady trader, and had vessels as
regularly chartered as any of England's noblest merchants.
His sails visited with proper invoices all the ports along
the coast, and he had connexions in every town of the first
class of dealers. Yet this man managed withal to have
an under-current in the contraband trade, which paid him
far greater profits than his regular account.
So well did he arrange his plans, that if a vessel of his
was taken by the coast-guard, he had always a captain or
a mate to father her, and as he always paid them well, his
own fair fame was suspected by none but those who occa-
sionally bought goods of him at a price so far below the
market, that they were content to let their suspicions sub-
side in their own profits. He was a good judge of men,
both of sailors, landsmen, gentry, and men oi business. He
knew how far to trust them, and how soon to shorten his
sail. His ships, captains, and crews, were as well known
to him as anything in his own unostentatious cottages at
Aldborough, Hollesley, Harwich, or Ipswich; in which he
occasionally took up his abode, as business or inclination
prompted. But he equally well knew Will Laud, and
foresaw in him the very commander who should bring
him in many a good prize in the shape of spirits or tobacco,
furs or linen. He cared for no man's success but his own.
He could be rough, smooth, hot, or cool, just as he thought
best to gain his end. Money was his idol, and, as a quick
return and enormous profit for a small outlay, the
smuggler's trade seemed to him the most promising.
Laud would, and as the sequel will shew, did prove a
valuable servant or slave to him. This man outlived
every one of his captains, and died about four years ago:
namely, in the year 1841.
But the young sailor is arm-in-arm with the captain,
the boat is hailed, the crew, four oars and a steersman,
approach the shore, and the captain calls out—
 Now, Jack, high and dry for your new commander !
The boat grounds, and Laud and his future master are
seated in the stern.
MARGARET CATCTrPfH.E. 27
M Long time bringing-to, captain V said the gruff and
gurly-looking John Luff, a fellow who seemed formed of
such materials as compose a cannon-ball. He looked like
what he was, an iron-hearted and iron-fisted desperado,
whose only pleasure was to serve a bad man, and to rule
every one in the ship who had a little more feeling than
himself.
They were soon on board the brig, and Laud was duly
introduced to the crew, and appointed their captain.
 Yes, master, yes, said the mate,  we understand.
You need not spin us a long yarn; business, say I, and the
sooner the better. I will take care of him, trust me.
He's a smart boy. He '11 do, captain, he '11 do.
The mate, John Luff, and the master, seemed to under-
stand each other. The captain shook hands with Laud,
and bidding him take care of his own craft, he left
them outward bound, and came ashore at Woodbridge
Haven.
Let it suffice, for the reader's information, that Laud
was successful in his new career. He made his voyage
pay well, and contrived to send some handsome presents
to Margaret, too handsome to be acceptable. Alas! how
little did that desperate youth think'that he was giving
pain instead of pleasure to all those who had any interest
in his welfare! How little did he think he was laying
the foundation of misery and woe to his father, to the
Catchpoles, to the Cracknells, and to every one who knew
him!
His first present was received by Margaret at a time
when the heart of a true lover is most open to the kind
acts of friendship. Poor Margaret and the family had
just returned from the funeral of Susan, and were seated
in the cottage, talking over the good qualities of their dear
departed and beloved friend. Her sayings and doings,
her affectionate advice, her patience and resignation, were
all topics of conversation, and each had some kind act to
record, not one a single fault to mention. One or two of
the Cracknells, and a workman or two on the farm, who
helped to carry the corpse, were all of the party who were
not relatives. The good mother had prepared the mourn-
fhl meal, some cake, bread and butter, a cup of tea, and a
pint of beer each for the men. They were partaking of
this humble meal in a very subdued and quiet spirit,
28 historic of
as there came a rap at the door, and young Edward
opened it.
 Ccme in, said the father, and in walked a weather*
beaten man, who from his dress might be taken for some
honest ploughman, but whose countenance betrayed a
Tery different expression—none of that openness and sim-
plicity which good labourers and countrymen wear, but a
shaggy brow, and matted thick black hair. His eye*
b.'ows half covered the sockets of his eyes, which peeped
from under them with an inquisitive glance, to see if all
was safe.
"Does one Margaret Catchnole live here? said the
man.
 Yes, she does, was Margaret's quick reply ;  what
do you want with her ? I am she.
 Oh ! you be she, be you ? Then I be commissioned to
deliver this here parcel into your hands; and, easing his
shoulder of a heavy bale of goods, tliey came with some
weight upon the chair which Edward had vacated for the
guest.
"From whom does this come? said she.
"I don't know who he is. I was at work on the
marshes at Bawdsey Ferry, when a young sailor came up
to me, and asked me if I knew where Nactonwas. I told
hkn I knew whereabouts it was. He then asked me if I
would take this here bundle to one Margaret Catchpole, a
labourer's daughter, living, as he described, in just this
p^ace, which I have found.
 Did he give his name V
 No ; he said he couldn't come himself, but that this
here would remind you of him.
All immediately concluded who he was, and Margaret
asked Edward to bring the packet into the sleeping-room,
whilst the countryman was asked to sit down and take a
draught of beer.
The parcel was unpacked. There were silks and shawls,
caps and lace, ribands and stuffs, and gloves; parcels of
tea, coffee, tobacco, and snuff; together with curious-
headed and silver-tipped pipes; in short, enough to stock
a small shop. But there was nothing to give pleasure to,
Margaret. That poor girl's heart sank within her at
Bight which she at once perceived was far too costly to b
honestly procured. She called to Edward to assist her
MARGARET CATCill'OUt.
tying up the bale again, and removing it into the room
where the pretended countryman was seated, As she
entered, the fellow roughly accosted her—
"Well! you find summut there, I dare say, to tempt
you soon to put aside these dark-looking dresses which
you all wear. I must he going: can I take anything
back for you ? 
 Yes, said Margaret—"yes; you may take the whole
bundle back the same way you brought it, and tell the
young- man who gave it you that I should have valued one
single pair of honestly purchased gloves more than all the
valuables he has sent me.
There was a twinkle of that small grey eye, and a
twitch of the muscles of that sun-burnt face, which
shewed that even the hardy, rough-looking countryman
was startled at such an honest spirit as then addressed
him. This person was none other than John Luff, the
mate of the Aide, who had undertaken to perform this
duty for Captain Laud, from a motive, without much love
in it, simply because he feared that the captain might be
persuaded by his girl to leave off a smuggler's life. He
saw in an instant that such would have been the case, had
young Laud come with him, or brought the load himself.
He had assumed the countryman's dress to avoid any
notice from the coast-guard, and, until he came to the
lane leading to the farm, he had brought the bale of goods
in a sack slung over his shoulder, as if it were corn, or
chaff, or flour. He was not very easily put out, nor long
in giving his answer.
 No, young woman, I have had lug enough to bring
it here, and I got a crown for my job; mayhap, if I were
to take it back to the youngster, I might lose half my
crown, and so be paid for my trouble. I'm not fond of
broken heads for a love-ditty. You may find some one
else to take it back: I've done my duty.
"No, you have not, said Margaret; "you are no
landsman, I am sure : your duty is not that of an honest
labourer. You are—I am sure you are—connected with
the smugglers on the coast. You may take this parcel
for yourself. I give it to you, to do what you like with ;
but do tell the young man, when you see him, that I
hate his presents, though not himself.
"I won't have anything to do with what's not my
so
historv of
own, said the man,  although you tell me I'm not an
honest man. I'm off. I was to meet the young chap
again to-morrow at the same time and place. If you had
any small love-token now, or any words which might not
anger the young fellow, why, I shouldn't mind taking
'em; but if you haven't any, why then I '11 tell him you
didn't care anything about him or his present. So, good-
by to you.
The fellow took up his hat and stick to depart.
 Hold! said Margaret— hold ! and taking her
father's hat down from its peg, she tore off the crape, and
folding it up, she approached the disguised seaman, say-
ing— Give him this—do give him . this—and tell him,
I'd rather we all wore the like for him, than the rich
things he has sent us. Will you tell him this ?
"No doubt he'll be much obliged to you: but you
won't be long in this mind. So, good-bye to you all.
and the man departed, leaving that spirited girl to think
with pain of the dreaded words of Susan— Margaret,
you will never marry William Laud 1
CHAPTER III.
misfortunes.
Well would it have been for the Catchpoles and the
Cracknells, had they burnt every bit of valuable stuff
which the smuggler had that day brought. What years
of anguish would it have spared them! — what miseries !
what agonies ! Nothing unlawful can long prosper.
Sorrow and bitterness follow the days of unjust gain, and
whosoever thinks to be happy by the sudden influx of ill-
gotten wealth, will find himself grievously mistaken.
Wealth gotten by honest industry and fair dealing may
enable a good man to soothe the sufferings of others, but
even when obtained, men find that it is not the being rich,
but the regular employment in a prosperous line of life,
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
31
that gives the pleasure. Sudden prosperity is too often
destructive of a man's peace of mind; but sudden pro-
sperity, by evil means, is sure to bring its own ruin. Had
but that first bale of goods been burnt, Margaret might
have continued the happy, cheerful child of Nature,
respected and received as the honest, good-hearted girl,
she really was.
It may fairly be said of Margaret, that she had no
covetous hankering after any of the goods which were
that day presented to her eye. She told all her friends
what they were, and consulted with them what should be
done with them. She would have given them up to the
government officers, but she saw that it would involve her
lover. She would have sent them to Laud's father, but
again the idea of causing him distress deterred her. Oh!
that she had cast them upon the broad sea, and let who
would have caught them ! But they were goodly things
to look upon; they were costly—too good to throw away.
And as Mrs. Cracknell said they might all be serviceable,
and it was a sin to waste them, she persuaded Margaret
to let her have them.
 Let my good man take them home; we may by
degrees get rid of them. I can do the smaller packages
up in smaller parcels, in my way; and as to the silks and
lace, I can find perhaps a distant customer to take them
off my hands.
 You may do what you like with them, said Mar-
garet, "only do not let me know anything more about
them.
 You know, Mr. Catchpole, said Mrs. Cracknell,
 that we may all want a little help one day, and these
things may provide against a stormy hour. At all events,
you shall lose nothing by them, though they now bring
you no profit.
It did not take much time to persuade these simple-
minded people to part with things for which they had no
demand and no taste.
Mrs. Cracknell had them conveyed to her cottage,
where she had them sorted out, and, as prudently as pos-
sible, disposed of them according to the means of her
humbler customers.
After a time, she found herself gradually improving in
circumstances, and, had she been content, might have
g2 HISTORY OF
gone on improving for years. Her profits were too rapid,
however, not to excite a stronger mind than she pos-
sessed. She made, of course, handsome presents to the
young Catchpoles, and Margaret had the mortification of
seeing a smart pipe, and of smelling the fumes of rich
tobacco, even in her own cottage, well knowing they were
the fruits of her lover's misdoings.
Meantime, that lover's name began to be notorious
along the coast. Margaret heard no good of him. The
coast-guard had set a mark upon him, and it became
known throughout the country that Will Laud was the
ringleader of as desperate a gang as ever infested the
shores of Great Britain.
So frequent were the inroads made at this period upon
the commerce of the country, that government had to
employ a very active force to stay, though she could not
put down, so discreditable a feature upon her coasts.
At this time the shores of Norfolk and Suffolk were
most conspicuous for contraband trade. Severe and
deadly were the continual actions between* the preventive-
service men and the smugglers; lives were continually
lost on both sides; and dreadful animosities sprang up
between the parties upon the sea-shore.
Will Laud and his associates had great,luck; and
Captain Bargood found in him as bold and profitable
a fellow as he could wish. Many were the hairbreadth
escapes, however, which he, in conjunction with his crew,
experienced. Laud was a tool in the hands of his mate,
though he himself was not aware of it; for whilst that
fellow had his own way, he always managed to get
it through the medium of the captain's permission. He
would, in his bluff way, suggest, with all becoming sub-
ordination,* such and such a scheme, and generally sue-
ceeded in the enterprise.
They had observed for a long time a scout upon the
beach under Bawdsey Cliffs, and knew that he was one
of the Irish cruisers, who had been transplanted to watch
their craft: Laud proposed to nab him when he could.
He had been ashore one day to meet his employer,
and had met this merry-hearted Irishman at the Sun Inn,
in the street of that long, sandy village of Bawdsey. Pat
was a loquacious, whisky-loving, light-hearted fellow, who,
without fear, and with ready wit. made himself agreeable
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 33
to everybody. He frequented the various inns along the
border, and was generally liked for his dash of gallantry,
his love of drinking, and his generous spirit; he was
a brave fellow, too, and watchful for his honour. He had
seen along the beach a man roaming about, and had con-
cealed himself, not far from a fisherman's cottage, on pur-
pose to watch him; but all he could make out was, that
the man went to the back of the cottage, and there he lost
him. Pat went to the fisherman's cot, found the man and
his wife at their meals, searched about the premises, but
could spy nothing. Pat had seen this thing several
times, and was fully convinced that the man he saw was
a smuggler.
In Bawdsey Cliff the smugglers had a cave of no small
dimensions. It had formerly been a hollow ravine in the
earth, formed by the whirling of a stream of water, which
had passed quickly through a gravelly bed, and met with
opposition in this mass of- clay. It had made for itself a
large crater, and then had issued again at the same place,
and ran through a sand-gall and gravelly passage down to
the sea. This was discovered by a tenant of the Earl of
Dysart, who, in sinking a well near his shepherd's cottage,
suddenly struck into the opening of this cave. As the
springs were low at this season, the cave was almost empty
of water, and formed a most curious appearance. It was
even then called the Robbers' Cave, and curiosity was
greatly excited in the country to visit it. It was so
smoothly and regularly formed by the eddies of the whirl-
pool, that the nicest art could not have made it so uniform.
The proprietor sank his well some feet lower, until he
came to a good stream; but in making the well, he formed
an archway into this curious place, and left it so for the
gratification of public curiosity. Time swept on, and thf
cave became less frequented, and at last forgotten.
A few years, however, previously to this narration, some
smugglers had been disappointed of their run, and had
thrown their tubs down the well, with the consent of their
agent the fisherman, probably a descendant of the old
shepherd's, who dwelt in the cottage. This led to the
re-discovery and improvement of this famo.us depot of
erms, ammunition, stock-in-trade, and place of retreat,
which was then occupied by Will Laud and his associates,
and to which very spot John Luff was at that time bound.
34 HISTOKY OF
These men had contrived to make the cave as comfort-
able a berth as a subterraneous place could be. They had
ingeniously tapped the land stream below the cave, and
laid it perfectly dry, and with much labour and ingenuity
had contrived to perforate the clay into the very chimney
of the cottage ; so that a current of air passed through the
archway directly up the chimney, and carried away the
smoke, without the least suspicion being awakened.
This place was furnished with tables, mats, stools, and
every requisite for a place of retreat and rendezvous.
The descent was by the bucket well-rope, which a sailor
well knew how to handle; whilst the bucket itself served
to convey provisions or goods of any kind.
Such was the place into which vanished the choice
spirits which poor Pat had seen, and into which Pat him-
self, nolens volens, was shortly to be introduced. It
would be needless to add, that the fisherman and his wife
were accomplices of the smugglers.
Some short time after, Pat had an opportunity of dis-
covering the use of the well as an inlet and outlet jof the
smugglers, and conceived the idea that contraband goods
were stowed away at the bottom of it. He had seen a
man, after talking to the woman at the spot, descend, and
then come up again, and depart.
"Now's my turn, says Pat to himself, as he came out
from his hiding-place, and went to the well. As every
sailor could let himself down by a rope, and ascend by it
likewise, Pat was soon at the bottom of the well, but found
nothing. He began his ascent, working away with his
hands and feet in a manner which a sailor only under-
stands. He was gaining more daylight, and hoping that
he should get out before the woman (whom he concluded
was gone for help) should return. He had gained the
very part where the archway into the cave was formed,
and there found a sort of stay, or bar, at the opposite side,
to rest his leg upon. He was taking advantage of this
post to get breath, and had just swung off again to
ascend, when he felt his ancles grasped by a powerful pair
of pincers, as it seemed, and in another instant such a
jerk as compelled him instantly to let go the rope, and he
came with all his weight against the side of the well.
Stunned he was, but not a bone was broken, for his tor-
mentors had taken the precaution to have a well-stuffed
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 3f>
hammock ready to break his fall. He was in a moment in
the cave, and when reviving1, heard such a burst of
unearthly merriment, he could think of nothing but that
he had arrived at that dreaded purgatory, to escape which
he had paid so much to his priest.
In a faint, feeble voice, Pat was heard to exclaim—
 0, Father O'Gharty; 0, Father O'Gharty, deliver
me!
This caused such another burst, and such a roar of
"0, Father O'Gharty! 0, Father O'Gharty! from so
many voices, that the poor fellow groaned aloud. But a
voice, which he fancied he had heard when on earth,
addressed him, as he lay with his eyes just opening to a
red glare of burning torches.
"Patrick O'Brien! Patrick O'Brien! welcome to the
shades below.
Pat blinked a little, and opened his eyes wider, and
saw, as he thought, twenty or thirty ghosts of smugglers,
whom he supposed had been shot by the coast-guard, and
were answering for their sins in purgatory.
 Come, Put, take a drop of moonshine, my hearty, to
qualify the water you have taken into your stomach: this
liquid flame will warm the cold draught.
Pat had need of something to warm him, but had no
idea of drinking flame.
 I hope, he said,  your majesty will excuse a poor
Irishman.
"No excuse! no excuse! By the saint, your name-
sake, you shall swallow this gill, or maybe you'll have a
little more water to simmer in.
Pat made no further opposition; and one of the un-
couth, black-bearded demons, handed him a cup of as
bright, shining liquid as any which the sons of whisky
ever saw.
 Drink, Pat, drink, said the fellow;  a short life and
a merry one.
 Och! sighed Pat, and the next moment the burning
liquid ran down his throat, warming his inside with such
a glow, as made the blood circulate rapidly through every
vein of his body. Whether it was the pure gin he had
drunk, or the naturally aspiring disposition of the man, he
began to look around him, and to note the habitation in
which they dwelt. Pikes and guns were slung here and
36
HISTORY OF
there; cables and casks lay about the room; swords and
pistols—weapons which seemed more adapted to fleshly
man than disembodied spirits—made the reviving- spirit
of this son of the Emerald Isle bethink him that he had
fallen into the hands of mortals. He now looked a little
more wise, and began to give a good guess at the truth,
when the one who seemed to be the captain of the band
soon dissipated all his doubts by saying, "Patrick O'Brien,
here's to Lieutenant Barry and the preventive service.
Come, Pat, drink to your commander, 't is the last time
you will ever be in such good company.
These words convinced him that he was in the smug-
gler's cave; and as he knew them to be most desperate
fellows, his own lot did not appear much more happy than
when he thought himself in the company of evil spirits.
 Come, Pat, drink. You need a little comfort.
Pat drank, and though he foresaw that no good could
come to him, yet as the spirit poured in, and his heart
grew warm, he thought he would not seem afraid, so he
drank  Success to Lieutenant Barry and the coast-
guard!
 Now, Pat, one more glass, and we part for ever.
Ominous words— part for ever! He heartily wished
himself again in his own dear island, ere he had ventured
a peep at the bottom of the well. The smugglers—for
such he found they were—grinned upon him most uncere-
moniously, as if they had some horrid purpose in view,
and seemed to enjoy the natural timidity which began to
creep over his frame.
Pat drank his last glass : John Luff arose, commanded
silence, and, in as gentle a voice as such a fellow could
assume, said,  Mr. Patrick O'Brien, you are welcome now
to your choice of departure.
"Thank ye, gemmen, thank ye, and I shall not forget
your hospitality.
Pat rose, as if to depart.
 Mr. Patrick O'Brien, the choice of departure we
give you is the choice of death!
Pat's heart sank within him, but he did not lose all his
courage or presence of mind; and the latter quality sug-
gested to him that he would try a little blarney.
"Why, gemmen, you wouldn't kill a poor fellow in
cold blooff would vou?
MAKGABET CATCHPOLE. £7
"No, Pat, no; and for that reason we have made you
welcome to a drop, that you may not die a cold-blooded
death. Draw swords I
In an instant twenty sharp blades were unsheathed.
 Now, Mr. O'Brien, take your choice: shall every
man have a cut at you—first a leg, then a hand, then an
arm. and so on, until your head only shall remain—or will
you he rolled up in a hammock for a sack, as your wind-
ing-sheet, and, well shotted, sink as a sailor to the bottom
of those waters we have just quitted?
"Thank your honour, said the poor victim of their
cruelty,  thank your honour; and of the two I had rather
have neither.
There was no smile upon any of the ferocious counte-
nances around him, and Pat's hopes of anything but cruelty
forsook him. Just at this moment the bucket descended
the well, and in came Will Laud, or Captain Laud, as he
was called, who, acquainted with the fact of the Irishman's
descent (for he was the very person whom Pat had seen
to make his exit, and had been informed by the woman of
his being drowned), was a little relieved to see the man
standing in the midst of his men unscathed.
He soon understood the position in which he was
?laced, and, after a few words with his Lieutenant, John
mff, himself repeated the already determined sentence of
his crew.
So calm was his voice, so fixed his manner, that the
bold Irishman perceived at once that his doom was at
hand. Assuming, therefore, his wonted courage, making
up his mind to death, he looked the commander in the
face, and with the composure of a mind comparatively at
ease, said—
 Since I must die, let me die dacently. My choice is
made—the hammock for my winding-sheet, the water for
my grave, and God forgive you all.
Not a word more did the brave fellow utter, but stood
like a hero, or a martyr, ready for execution.
Now to the credit of Laud be it recorded, that m his
soul he admired the intrepidity of the man's spirit; and
murder, base murder of a bold man, never was his in-
tention.
He whispered to his mate, though in a moment after ho
exclaimed to his crew.  Do your duty.
38 HISTORY OF
Pat was tripped up, rolled up in the hammock, swung
upon the chain, heard the whistle, and in an instant found
himself, as he thought, descending to the shades below.
In fact, however, he was ascending, though consciousness
for a time forsook him, and the swoon of anticipated suffo-
cation bereft him of his senses. When he did recover, he
found himself at the bottom of a boat, bounding over the
billows, and was soon on board a ship. Here he revived,
and was treated by the crew with kindness; but after
many days he was put ashore on the eastern coast of his
own dear isle, with .this gentle admonition:—
"Patrick O'Brien, 'all's well that ends well.' Let
well alone for the future, and now farewell.
So ended this spree, which may serve to shew the mind
and habits of those men with whom Will Laud had to
deal.
At times these desperate men would be mutinous, but
their common interest kept them together. The persons
of several were well known along the coast, and farmers
found it to their interest to wink at their peccadilloes.
It was no uncommon thing for them to have their
horses taken out of the fields, or even out of their stables,
for a run at night; but they were sure of a handsome
present being left upon their premises—casks of gin, real
Hollands, packets of linen; and, sometimes learning the
thing most wanted by a particular farmer, he would be
surprised to find it directed to him by an unknown hand,
and delivered, without charge, at his door.
The handsomest saddles and bridles which could be
procured, whips, lamps, lanterns, handsome pairs of
candlesticks, guns, pistols, walking-sticks, pipes, &c.,
were, at various houses, left as presents. Such was the
state of the traffic, that the best spirits could be always
had at the farm-houses on the coast (for all knew where
it might be had without any difficulty), only let the
money be left for it with the order. In this manner was
the revenue defrauded; and there were men in high
authority who used to defend the practice by calling it
England's best nursery for seamen. Seldom, however,
were good men secured from these sources. The gene-
rality of smugglers were not such as England wanted to
defend her liberty and laws.
About this time so many presents were sent to Mar-
MARGARET CATCIiPOLE.
39
garet, and left in such a clandestine manner at or near the
cottage, that although she herself was never corrupted by
any one of these temptations, yet the effects of them
began to show themselves in her family. Charles, the
elder brother, used to find the presents, and dispose of
them to Mrs. Cracknell, and he found his own gains so
rapidly increase that he began to be idle 5 would not go to
plough; disliked working on the land; took to carpenter-
ing at the old sexton's at Nacton; learned to read and
write j and again encouraged his old penchant for soldier-
ing. At length he left his parents and friends, and
enlisted in the 33rd regiment of foot, under the fictitious
name of Jacob Dedham, at the Black Horse public-house,
St. Mary Elm's, Ipswich. He passed himself off as be-
longing to that parish; and but for the accidental circum-
stance of a Nacton lad, of the name of Calthorpe, seeing
him at the inn, his friends and relatives would have been
ignorant of his departure. His regiment soon after his
enlistment sailed for the East Indies; and the history of
Charles Catchpole, alias Jacob Dedham, would of itself
form no uninteresting narrative. He rose in his regiment
by great steadiness and assiduity. He became a singular
adept at learning Eastern languages and customs. Ho
was taken great notice of by Sir William Jones, the great
Oriental linguist, who recommended him to a very import-
ant charge under Lord Cornwallis, who employed him in
a confidential duty, as a spy, upon the frontiers of Persia.
We shall have occasion to contemplate him in a future
part of this history. For the present Ave pass on to
some further fruits of the smuggler's intimacy with the
Catchpoles.
Robert, another son, in consequence of the unwhole-
some introduction of rapid profits, took to drinking,
smoking, and idle company, and very soon brought him-
self to an early grave; giving the deepest pangs to his
parents, and creating sorrow and suffering to all. He died
of delirium tremens, in the year 1791.
James became a poacher, and was shot in a desperate
affray with the gamekeepers of Admiral Vernon. He
lingered on his brother's bed until December 15th, 1792,
and expired in deep distress, and with a declaration to poor
Margaret, that it was her acquaintance with Laud that
brought him to rui». Tho youngest son alone preserved
40 HISTORY OF
any steady fixed principles, and was tlie prop of his parents
hopes.
The whole family now fell into disrepute, and the bit-
terest days of adversity followed. Tales began to be cir-
culated of Margaret's connexion with the smuggler.
Sailors were seen to come and go from the cottage; and
if they went but to ask for information, the lying tongue
of slander was sure to propagate some infamous story. It
was true that presents were left about the cottage, and
that agents of the Cracknells were ready to receive them j
but Margaret never touched a single thing that was so
found. She was not insensible to all she saw, and she felt
the full weight of Laud's misconduct; but she never for*
got to pray for him, and hoped, with that fondness which
true love only can know, that he would one day be con-
verted. But she partook of the ignominy which now
visited her family, though she assuredly did not deserve
it. She recommended her father to take another cottage,
and even to seek work under another master. Anything
she considered would be better than a place where he met
with such continual misfortunes.
It must not be supposed that Mrs. Denton was unkind
to Margaret, though her own servants took every opportu-
nity to persuade her that she was a very worthless person
—she seemed to think a removal would be best. Accord-
ingly Jonathan Catchpole changed his abode, and, from a
regular workman on that farm, became a jobbing labourer
wherever he could find employment. He and his family
lived at a lone cottage on the borders of Nacton Heath.
Edward became a shepherd's boy, and Margaret had
serious thoughts of once more going out to service; but
where ? Alas! she remembered how happy she had been
in her first place, and the very remembrance of that hap-
piness made her shrink from having to relate to her for-
mer benefactor the then miserable consequences of her
first attachment.
Laud's father shared in the general stigma attached to
his son's name—he was accused of conniving at the
youth's excesses, and lost his situation as ferryman of the
government packets from Harwich to Languard Fort.
What miseries, heaped one upon the other, now fell with
blighting force upon poor Margaret!
But a greater trial just now awaited her—a dreadful
MAKGAKET CATCHPOLE. 41
conflict took place below Felixtow beach between the
coast-guard and Laud's crew. A run was planned and put
in execution from the Walton Marshes for Woodbridge—
carts were brought to the cliff, the coast-guard, as was
thought, being- attracted to Sizewell Gap, and everything
being open before the smugglers. The cargo was landed,
and the run began, when the preventive-service men, who
had been secretly informed of the intended ruse at Size-
well Gap, came out of their hiding-place in a double band,
headed by Lieutenant Edward Barry, a brave young
Bailor, second son of Mr. Henry Barry, a miller and farmer,
of Levington Hill. The onset was tremendous, and the
resistance deadly j but might and right were on one
side, and bore down the stalwart forms of the violent
smugglers.
Three of the crew were killed, and the others, unable
to stand against the assault, fled as well as they were able.
Young Barry and Laud had a severe personal encounter,
in which the death of one or the other seemed the deter-
mination of both. Laud was the most powerful man, but
Barry was the most expert swordsman; but what was
the experience of the sword-arm in so dark a night ? The
two commanders seemed to know each other even in the
darkness, for they fought with voices of encouragement to
their men. The smugglers had fled, and Laud began to
fear he was alone; but the pursuers, too, had gone, and
still the two captains were contending-. At this moment
the contest was most deadly—Laud had wounded young
Barry by a thrust. Though it was slight it was felt by
the officer, and he determined neither to ask nor to give
quarter. Laud had driven him up the side of a bank, and
was in the act of giving a thrust at his heart, as Barry,
with the advantage of his situation, like lightning gave a
cut at his head, which at once went through his hat, and
descended upon his forehead. Down fell the smuggler
like a thunderbolt, and another moment the sword would
have been buried in his side, had not Barry been compelled
to act on the defensive by the opposition of John Luff.
Finding a new antagonist, and being himself wounded,
this young man thought best to gather up his strength for
a defensive retreat. He was not pursued. Hearing some
of his own men he called to them, and, recognising him,
they advanced with him to the spot where, as Barry
42 HISTORY OF
supposed, Captain Laud lay dead. But Luff had thrown
him over his shoulder, and, being well acquainted wit
the marshes, had carried him over some planks, and so
escaped.
CHAPTER IV.
deceit.
Margaret was seated in her father's cottage, now no
longer that happy spot it used to he to her, but a change
of abode had brought no rest from the troubles and
anxieties of her mind: that very day she had heard of
the dreadful encounter between the coast-guard and the
smugglers, and the report of the death of Will Laud, the
notorious commander.
Margaret heard of her lover's death, as may be sup-
posed, with the deepest emotion; but she was not satisfied
that the accounts she received were correct, and had
serious intentions of going to the ferryman's house to
make inquiries for herself, when a rap came at their lone
door, and who should come in but the ferryman himself,
the father of Laud. The old man seemed to observe the
altered state of the family upon whom he intruded himself,
and could not help saying, at once,—
 I bring you bad news, Margaret, very bad, and of
my poor boy. The old man paused, and Margaret's heart
quailed, but in the next moment it revived.  But he would
have me bring it!
"Is he not dead then? exclaimed the poor girl, as
with a bound, she seized the aged ferryman by the arm:
"is he not dead 1
"No, not yet—as least he was not when I left him two
hours ago, and he would make me come to you, and tell
you he wished earnestly to see you before he died.
 Where is he ? where is he ?  exclaimed Margaret.
"At my poor cot on Walton Cliff; but ohj Margaret,
so altered, so dreadfully marked, and sc unhappy, that if
you do see him I question much if you will know him.
But will vou come and see him?
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 43
u Will I ?—that I will! Only you sit down and eat a
bit, and I will soon be ready.
It took but a short space of time for Margaret to make
preparation for her journey. Laud was alive, though ill,
dangerously ill; still she might be the means of restoring
him, if not to health of body, at least to a more healthy
state of mind. She is ready, and the old man and Mar-
garet depart together.
"Is he much hurt? was Margaret's first question,
after they had advanced beyond the heath on to the high-
road;  is he much wounded ?
 I fear he is. At times he is like a madman, raving
at everything, cursing all smugglers and his own mis-
fortunes. The fever is high upon him; he glares wildly
at the old woman I have got to do for him—calls her a
smuggler's hag; and then he mentions you, Margaret,
and the tears roll down his face, and he finds relief. His
wound is on the forehead—a deep gash, throug-h the
bone; and the pain he suffers from the dressing is
dreadful.
 Have you had a surgeon ?
 No, Margaret, no—I dare not: I fear lest he should
betray himself. His life would be forfeit to his country's
outraged laws, and he would die a more bitter death than
now awaits him in my cot.
There ran a sensitive shudder through poor Margaret's
frame as she thought of the situation of her lover. Pa-
rental affection had been more cautious than she would
have been, and she secretly rejoiced. She thought like-
wise of her own situation; but selfishness had no portion
in her soul. Laud might die! The thought was ago-
nizing; but he would die, perhaps, a true penitent. This
was surely better than being suddenly sent out of the
world with all his sins upon his head. She felt thankful
for so much mercy.
"Does he ever seem sorry for his crimes? she in-
quired of the old man.
"I cannot exactly say he does, was the reply, "though
he speaks so vehemently against his captain. I wish he
saw his situation in a more forcible light.
 Time may be given him for that yet, Mr. Laud; at
least, I pray God it may be so.
u Amen, say I; amen t
44 HISTORY of
"How did he find you out? How did he reach
home? , . ,
 He was brought here upon a comrade s bacit, a
stout sailor, who came accompanied by old Dame Mitchel,
who, if report speaks truth, is well acquainted with the
smugglers- She says that John Luff, the captain s mate,
brought poor Will to her house j and when he learned that
I was living only half a mile off, he persuaded her to
come and help me to do for him. He brought him to mp
at night.
With conversation of this kind, the father and the
maiden pursued their course till they arrived at a very
sequestered cottage, near the ruins of Walton Castle, close
to that celebrated spot where the Earl of Leicester landed
with his Flemings in a.d. 1173.  It stood upon a high
cliff, about the distance of a mile from the mouth of the
Woodbridge haven, two miles from the Orwell. At this
time but few stones mark the spot. There is little doubt
that it was a Roman fortification, as a great many urns,
rings, coins, and torques, have been found in that neigh-
bourhood. It is supposed to have been built by Con-
stantine the Great when he withdrew his legions from the
frontier towns in the east of Britain, and built forts or
castles to supply the want of them. So says the old
Suffolk Traveller.
Our travellers arrived at this lone cottage, where a
faint, glimmering light from the low window told that the
watch was still kept at the sick man's bed. The father
entered first, and soon returned, telling Margaret that she
might come in, as sleep, for the first time since the night
he had been brought home, had overpowered Laud's
senses.
By the faint gleam of that miserable light, Margaret
perceived how dreadfully altered were the features of her
lover. He lay in a heavy, hard-breathing, lethargic sleep,
and the convulsive movements of his limbs, and a restless
changing of the position of his arms, told that, however
weary the body, the spirit was in a very agitated state;
and, oh! how deadly, how livid was his countenance!
Scarcely could Margaret think it the same she had been
accustomed to look upon with so much pleasure: the brow
was distorted with pain, the lips scorched with fever &
stiff white moisture exudedjrom his closed eyelids. A
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
45
painful moan escaped his heaving chest, and at last he
surprised the listeners by a sudden painful cry.
 Margaret, ahoy ! Margaret, ahoy ! Hullo! hullo !
Don't run away. Here, here! I want you !
And then his limbs moved, just as if he was in the act
of running after some one.
The fever was evidently high upon him, and poor Mar-
garet was herself greatly afflicted at seeing his extreme
suffering. She gave way to tears, which affected the
poor father so much that the old man could not refrain
from weeping. The woman alone seemed composed; as
if she had been accustomed to scenes of horror, sh«
exhibited no signs of tenderness or concern. She con-
tinued to mumble a piece of brown bread which she held
in her hand, lifting up her brows from time to time, and
darting her sharp grey eyes, first at the smuggler, then at
the girl, and then at the old man, but without uttering
or seeming to hear a word, or to feel a single human
emotion.
As she looked upon her, a thought shot through Mar-
garet's brain of no very friendly nature toward the singu-
lar being before her—she could not help thinking that this
Moggy Mitchel was a sort of spy upon her lover. How
keen, how quick, how apprehensive is true love !
To prove that Margaret's suspicion was not altogether
groundless, that very night the old woman went out of
the house, under pretence of seeing what sort of night it
was;, and as Margaret sat watching by the bedside of
Laud, the moon, which was just rising above the summit
of the cliff, showed her, through the lattice, two dark
figures standing together. She could not, of course, dis-
tinguish their features, but the outlines of their forms
were very strong, and not to be mistaken—she was sure
it was John Luff and Dame Mitchel, and that they were
in close conversation on the verge of the cliff.
The old woman shortly returned to the room, and it
was evident to Margaret that something had excited her.
 We must get him well as soon as we can, were the
first words she uttered; and had not her former coolness
and her late meeting upon the cliff awakened in Mar-
garet's mind some sinister motive prompting this speech,
she might have been deceived by it.
Margaret had the deenest and purest motives for de-
46 HISTOKX OF
siring the young man's restoration to health: she loved
him, and she hoped to re-establish his character, and to
recover him not only from his sick-bed, but from his state
'of degradation. But in all her efforts she found herself
frustrated by the interference of this beldame, who, as
William progressed towards recovery, was constantly
keeping alive within him some reports of the successes of
the crew, of their kind inquiries after his health, and the
hopes they had of soon seeing him among them. Inde-
pendently of this, there came presents and compliments
from Captain Bargood, and these increased as Laud
recovered.
Nothing so much stung Margaret's heart as to find
that all her attentions, prayers, entreaties, and admoni-
tions, were counteracted by the secret influences of these
agencies; but her object was a righteous one, and she did
not slacken in her endeavours to attain it. She found, as
Laud gradually recovered, that he was fully sensible of
his past folly, and quite alive to the devoted affection she
hadgshown to him; but she found also that no touch of
religious feeling blended with his regret for his past
conduct.
This gave her the deepest pang, for she would rather
have heard him offer one thanksgiving to the Being to
whom all thanks are due, than find herself the object of
his praise and gratitude.
It was at this time that Margaret wished she had been
a scholar. There was a Bible in the cottage, an old black-
letter edition, containing the Book of Common Prayer,
the Genealogies recorded in the sacred Scriptures,
together with the Psalms of David, in metre, by Stern-
hold and Hopkins, with curious old diamond - headed
notes of the tunes to each psalm.
Margaret would gladly have read the holy book to her
lover, but she might as well have had a Hebrew edition
before her, for not a word could she decipher. He could
read, and her only way of inducing him so to do was by
expressing her desire to hear him read. She found this,
however, a difficult and dangerous task, for, independently
of the distaste which the old woman had to the Bible,
she found her lover very restless and feverish after any
exertion of the kind. Where the spirit'is unwilling, how
Irksome is the task!
WCftttflBEt CATCHPOLE. 47
"How plain is that description you read to me this
morning of our first parents' fall, said Margaret one day,
when the enemy was absent: "how plainly it shows us
the necessity of our denying ourselves anything and every-
thing which God has forbidden us!
"It does, indeed, Margaretj but no man can help
sinning!
 I doubt that—I think Adam could ha7e done so.
"Then why did he sin, Margaret?
"You read to me, that the woman tempted him or
persuaded him, and that the serpent beguiled her into sin:
so that the serpent was the author of sin.
"Yes: and the woman was first deceived, and then
deceived her husband. You must admit that she was the
worst of the two.
"I own that she was, and is the weakest; but her
sorrows appear to have been the greater, and she has been
little better than a slave to man ever since.
 Well, Margaret, well, you have been very kind to me,
and I know now that you are a good girl, and wish me to
be good. I wish I may be better. * '
 Do not only wish it, dear William, but pray to God
to make you so, and I do think that He will.
 Well, well, I will be better—yes, I will, if I get over
this blow on the head; but oh, how it aches! You must
not bewilder me too much.
So did this interesting conversation cease, by the man's
appeal to his want of strength, when he was asserting a
will of his own, which, though bold in words, was but
fickle in actions.
Every day, as her patient advanced towards recovery,
was poor Margaret more and more convinced that Laud
wanted stability of purpose to resist evil,—he was, like
every passionate man, self-willed and wicked. Margaret,
though at this time uneducated, had been a very atten-
tive listener to all good instruction—she was far from
being ignorant of right and wrong. Her principles were
f ood, and through her most eventful years she exhibited
ut one great error, which was her blind passion for the
unhappy man whom she would have made, if she could,
a better being; and every day she found a more persever-
ing enemy in Mrs. Mitchel, who counteracted all her
salutary influence with Laud. Silent and morose as this
43 nisfwrrtwr
woman was at times, she could be loquacious enough when
it suited her own purpose. -
 I have, said she, one day, "just left a choice set ot
fellows upon the beach, as merry a set, Will, as 1 ever
saw, and all rejoicing in your improvement. -Luff holds
your office until you join them again. They have had fine
success lately, since young Barry is laid by the leg. I
have brought you a box of raisins, and sueh^a choice can
of sweetmeats, as a present from the captain.
 Ah! they are all good fellows, but I do not think
that I shall ever join them again.
 Pshaw, my lad! this is only a love-fit for the mo-
ment. (Margaret was absent upon an errand.) "If
that girl does not know what it is to have a high-spirited
young fellow like yourself for a lover, without making
nim a poor, tame, milk-and-water poodle, why then she
ought to make herself always as scarce as she is at this
moment. I have no patience with the girl—she does not
know her own interest. I suppose she would have you
Btick to the plough's tail, or toil all day at the spade, and
bring her home a hard-earned pittance at the week's end.
Pshaw ! Will, you are formed for better things.
 But she's a good girl, Moggy, said Will.
 Oh, ay! the girl is well enough, and decent toe. I
don't mean to say she would not make a chap a good sort
of wife either, but she's not the sort of girl for 3rou, Will.
She's no spirit about her. She don't see how a young
fellow like you can do better by her, in a bold, dashing
way, than by such tame, dull, plodding industry as her
family use.
"No; but then she wishes to see me happy, and I
might be popped off the next skirmish.
 You always look on the black side of things. Here
are your fellows making their fortunes rapidly, and
you talking of drudging- on in a quiet, stupid way,
with the chance of being informed against and executed
for vour past doings. Young Barry won't easily forgive
Nor I him, either, was the significant reply, with a
clenching of the fist and a grinding of the teeth, which
proved how artfully the ho- had worked upon Laud',
w jrst feelings. r
Margaret, on her return, could perceive that her absence
MARGARET CATCHPOEE. 49
had been taken advantage of to effect a purpose adverse to
all her hopes.
Against all these disadvantages, however, Margaret
combated with some success, and by degrees had the
happiness of seeing her patient get the better of his
sufferings. The wound would have healed sooner and
better, had Laud's mind been kept free from feverish
excitement. It did heal up, though not so well as Mar-
garet wished—a frightful scar extended over the os
frontis, directly to the high cheek-bone. For a long time
the eye seemed as if it had perished, but as the fever
abated its sight returned.
It will be sufficient to record, that in due time Laud
perfectly recovered, and the services of his nurses became
no longer necessary.
If at this time any situation had offered itself by which
Laud could have gained an honest livelihood, he would,
probably, have accepted it, and become an honest man ;
and in talking with Margaret of his future life, he
promised that she would never again hear of anything
against him. He would go to sea, and earn an honest
livelihood, even if he was obliged to serve a foreigner.
 Well, Laud, I will trust you again, said Margaret,
on the day she took her leave of him:  I will trust you
again, William, though my heart aches bitterly at parting
with you, whilst you have no regular employment, but I
shall pray for you wherever I am. I shall probably go
to service soon, for I do not like to be a burthen to my
friends.
They parted affectionately, for Laud felt that he owed
his life to her care; and she, that all her hopes of future
comfort in this life were centred in his welfare. Yet that
very night did William Laud meet his former comrades,
and was persuaded to join their crew at the Bawdsey
Cave, to assume the name of Hudson, and to become
again neither more nor less than a desperate smug-gler.
We will not follow him through his career of guilt :
suffice it to say, that he contrived to send word to Mar-
garet that he had entered into the service of a Dutch
trader, and was promised a future share of his ship. He
pretended to have quitted the society of the smugglers,
who at that time so infested the eastern coasts of this coun-
try; and as she heard no more of his name, and received
4
50 iiisttftty of
no more suspicions presents, slie suffered Iier heart to
cherish the fond hope of his reformation.
The anticipation of days to come, and the promised
pleasure of those days, are always greater than are ever
realized by mortals. It is, however, one of the greatest
blessings of life to anticipate good. The hope, too, of
another's welfare, and of being the humble instrument of
promoting the interest of another, is the sweetest bond of
woman's cherished affection. Truly may such be termed
man's helpmate, who would do him good, and not evil, all
the days of his life.
Poor Margaret found, that the more she hoped for
Laud's amendment, the more constant became her attach-
ment, the more she excused his past life, and the more
deeply her heart became engaged to him.
CHAPTER V.
wild scenes.
Margaret, true to her intentions of going to service,
found a kind friend in Mrs. Denton, who recommended
her to Mrs. Wake, of the Priory Farm, Downham Reach.
Here, in September 1792, she took up her abode as ser-
vant of all work. The whole farm-house was formerly the
priory of a small body of Augustine Monks, and was known
by the name of the Alneshbourne Priory. It is surrounded
by a moat of considerable depth and breadth, and was for-
merly approached by a drawbridge from the southern
side.
The site of this old house is still a most romantic and
sequestered spot. In front of it, along a pleasant green
slope to the shore, runs a rippling stream, which having
passed through the moat, meanders along the meadow
down to the Orwell, whose broad waters look here like a
magnificent lake.
On either side of the valley rise the rich woods of
Downham Reach; and behind the house, in the green
meadows, may still be seen, though now covered in with a
Margaret catchpole.
61
roof and used as a barn, the chapel of this sequestered
fraternity.
Lofty elms overshadow the summit of this ancient
house, though they grow upon the open space beyond the
moat; and the woods of the owner of the present house
and the district, Sir Philip Broke, stand conspicuously
towering- on the sides of the hills. The lover of peaceful
nature could not fail to be struck with the tranquil yet
picturesque scenery around this spot. Here Gainsborough,
who, in his young-er days, was much encouraged by Drc
Coyte of Ipswich, loved to roam, and catch the ever-
varying tints of spring and autumn. Here Constable,—
the enthusiastic, amiable, but pensive John Constable, one
of the best of England's landscape-painters,—indulged
himself in all the hopes of his aspiring genius; and Frost,
a native of Ipswich, one of the best imitators of Gains-
borough's style, and whose sketches are at this day most
highly esteemed, used to indulge himself in the full enjoy-
ment of his art.
At the period we write of—the year 1792—the Orwell's
waves went boldly up to the port, as new and briny as in
the days of the Danish invasion. Now they no longer
wash the town. A wet-dock, with its embankments and
its locks, shuts out the ebb and flow of waters, and may
be convenient to the inhabitants of the place; but sadly
interferes with the early associations and recollections of
those who, like the writer of this narrative, passed their
boyish years upon the banks of the Orwell.
But we must no longer wander from our narrative.
Margaret, as servant at the Priory Farm, conducted her-
self in so exemplary a manner, that she soon gained the
good will of her master and mistress, and the good word
of all the labourers upon the farm. Amongst these latter
was a young man who was particularly acquainted with
Margaret's history, and whose name has occurred in a pre-
vious chapter. This was no other than John Barry, the
elder brother of young Edward Barry, who so gallantly led
the attack upon the smugglers on the night in which Will
Laud was supposed to have been killed. John was well
aware of Margaret's attachment and engagement to Will
Laud ,• and he knew the part his brother had taken in the
conflict; and believed, as Edward told him, that he had
slain Margaret's love -. Whether it was the sympathy
£3 HISTORY OF
which arose toward the poor g'irl under these circuia-
stances, or the real pleasure which he felt in her society, it
is certain that he became so deeply enamoured as never
to be able to root out of his mind this his first and last
attachment.
This young man was a contrast in every respect to
Will Laud. John Barry was the elder son of a small
farmer and miller at Levington, who, having a numerous
family, was anxious they should all be employed. John,
as was customary in that day, sought employment away
from his parents' house. He had asked their permission
to let him turn his hand to farming for a year; and as he
was already a good ploughman, and understood the various
methods of culture, he readily found an employer. He
was also as good a scholar for that period as could be found
in any of the adjoining parishes. Added to this, he- was
a good-principled, steady, persevering, industrious young
man. His father was not badly off in the world for his
station. He it was who first discovered the use of crag-
shells for manure. His man, Edmund Edwards, finding a
load or two of manure was wanted to complete the fertili-
zation of a field which Mr. Barry cultivated, carried a load
or two of the crag, which lay near the mill, to make it up.
He observed, that in the very place which he thought
would prove the worst crop, on account of the seeming
poverty of the soil carted, there arose the most luxuriant
produce. Next year Mr. Barry used it more freely, and
found a more abundant recompense. He then opened
immense crag-pits, supplied the country around, and ship-
ed a large quantity at Levington Creek. By these means
e became known as an enterprising man. His second
son took to the sea, and became active in the service of his
native coast. Another son went out to America, and did
remarkably well.
John went as head man to Mr. Wake, of the Priory
Farm. When he left his father's house, the worthy miller
gave him one guinea, with this advice—
"Many a man, John, has entered into the world with
less than that, and by industry, integrity, and good be-
haviour, has risen to usefulness and respectability ; and
many a man, John, who has entered upon life with thou-
sands and thousands of those shining* coins, has sunk to
worthlessness and degradation. Go, boy; be honest,
MARGARET CATCIIl'OLE.
53
sober, steady, and diligent. Keep your church and God's
commandments, John, and you will prosper. But should
misfortune ever visit you, remember that whilst your mo-
ther and I live you will always find a welcome home.
God bless you, boy! God bless you !
John left home, with a guinea in his pocket and with
love in his heart. He did well, even in his first situation.
He lived in the farm-house with Mr. and Mrs. Wake, about
seven miles from his father's house. He did not then
dream that he should ever visit any distant shore connected
with his native country. His dreams were of home, in-
dustry, and peace. He had enough—was contented—was
well respected; had good health and full employment, and
was a burthen to no one. From his constant habit of
witnessing the energy, and activity, and good disposition
of the youthful Margaret, and from a certain knowledge
of her past misfortunes, he imbibed a delicacy of interest
in her behalf, which was shewn to her by repeated acts of
respect, which others on the farm less delicate did not care
to shew. Margaret herself perceived these attentions, and
felt grateful to him for them. Whilst some would now
and then relate what they heard of the wild adventures of
Hudson the smuggler, John Barry always carefully con-
cealed any mention of matters which he could see gave her
pain. So cautious had been his advances towards a more
intimate acquaintance with Margaret, that no one on the
farm suspected that John Barry, the son of the well-to-do
Mr. Barry, of Levington, was in the least captivated by the
humble maid of the Priory. Margaret, however, suspected
and dreaded that such might be the case; and she avoided
him as pointedly as she could, without offence to one whom
she so much respected. Barry, however, was too honest
to conceal his feelings from the only person he wished to
know them. Returning one evening from work along
Gainsborough's Lane, he met Margaret, who had been to
Sawyer's Farm upon an errand for her mistress.
 "Margaret, you know I love you, said the young man,
41 though I do not believe that any one upon the farm be-
sides yourself has any idea of it.
 I feared you did, John, and it grieves me very much
to hear you say so.
<l But why should it grieve you ? I love you honestly,
and will always do my best to make you happy 
HISTORY OF
"Yes, John, I do not doubt you in anything you say,
and I feel very grateful to you for your kindness; hut 1
cannot return your love.
 Why not, Margaret ? Why should you not learn to
like me ? I am not indeed like your former lover, but i
think I love you quite as well. _ »
 That may be also, John; but when I tell you that it
is impossible for me to suffer you to cherish such feelings,
you will, I hope, not be angry with me.
 I am not angry : I know your past attachment; but
I hope that you do not intend to live and die single he-
cause Laud is dead.
 No; but whilst he lives, John, I neither can nor ought
to give encouragement to any other.
 But he is dead ! 
 I would let any one else but yourself suppose so.
 My brother Edward told me himself that he saw him
fall.
 Yes, John, and your brother Edward thought that he
gave him his death-blow; but I am happy, for his sake
and for Laud's, that it was not so.
 Are you sure of this ?  sighed the youth, as if he
half regretted that his brother had not done so. "Are
you sure of this ? 
 Quite so—quite so! To no one else would I speak it,
but I am sure of your goodness. I know you will not
betray me.
 Never, Margaret, never !
 Well, then, these very hands healed the wound which
ydur brother gave him. I myself nursed him through his
dangerous illness; and I know at this time that he is in a
respectable foreign merchant's service, and as well as ever
he was.
This was a tremendous blow to the young man's pros-
pects; an answer which he did not in the least expect, and
from which he could find no encouragement. He begged
Margaret's pardon for what he had said, which was freely
given, and a promise made on both sides never to di-
vulge that day's secret. Alas! this promise was broken
by both, as we shall presently see, at the very same mo-
ment.
But where is Laud, and what is he doing at this time?
While the honest-hearted girLUulanyipg all attachment to
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
55
any but himself, and living upon the hope of his future
welfare and well-doing, what is he about t
He is standing at the Green Cottage, as it was called,
on account of the green shutters which used to shade its
casements, close to Butley Abbey. The dark-frowning
ruin of this seat of the black canons of St. Austin, for-
meriy so grand and extensive, was then in a state of
crumbling desolation. Here, close against that magnificent
old gateway, seemingly in mock grandeur, was a very fine
arch, surmounted with the arms of Michael de la Pole, the
third Lord Wingfield, Earl of Suffolk, who was slain at
the battle of Agincourt with Edward Plantagenet, Duke
of York.
Not far from these ruins, with a mind somewhat par-
taking of the darkness of that desolation, stood Laud and
Luff in close conversation; the subject of which was no
other than Margaret Catchpole !
Luff had found out Laud's deep-rooted fancy for the
maiden, and, villain as he was, was proposing a deep-laid
scheme for the destruction of the poor girl, who at that
very time was undergoing a severe trial of her affection.
 I '11 tell you what, Laud, the thing is easily to be done.
.We have nothing to do but to run the cutter, at the be-
ginning of our next voyage, into Harwich Harbour, at the
fall of the evening*, when the mists hide us from the shore f
you and I can run up the Orwell in the gig, and soon carry
off the prize. Once on board, and she is yours as long as
you like.
 I think I shall leave the service and marry.
"And get a halter for your pains! No, Will; no, my
boy; you are made of sterner stuff than that. What! for
the sake of a girl whom you may have for many a cruise,
and who will Like you all the better for your spirit, would
you consent to run the land-robber's risk of being hanged ?
You will soon have a new cutter, and your old crew; and
though we may have a long voyage, surely it will be far
better to have your damsel with you, though she may be
unwilling at first, than to be living ashore in continual
fear of the officers of justice.
 But Margaret supposes me at this moment in a
foreign ship, and in an honest trader.
 Let her think so still. Only once get her on board
the Stour, and never trust me if we don t quickly run over
66 HISTORY OF
to Holland, get you decently married, and you may settle
with her on shore in a short time.
 Well, Luff, I think it might be done, and fairly, too;
and if it be, you shall have half my share of the prize upon
the next run.
 'T is a bargain—'t is a bargain! and when we next
meet in Bawdsey Cave, our first trip shall be for the har-
hour. In the mean time, let us enjoy ourselves as we can.
The Green Cottage just mentioned, was one of those
places hired by Captain Bargood, on the eastern coast,
which was always kept neat, and ready for his occupation,
by a dame whom he permitted to live in it rent-free, and
paid her something extra too for housekeeping. This was
a place of resort for his captains when out of immediate
employ, when his ships were repairing or building, at home
or abroad. The method he took to secure their services,
and to keep them in readiness for the sea, was to initiate
them into the mysteries of poaching when on land.
So well did this bold fellow play his cards, that his men
seldom wanted employment.
Game they always had, in season or out of season—no
matter—they stuck at nothing! If they wished for a good
custard at Whitsuntide, and made of the richest eggs,
they would have pheasants' and partridges' eggs by hun-
dreds. In fact these smugglers were as well known for
poachers by many of the people on the coast, as they were
for dealers in contraband goods. They, too, enjoyed the
keen zest of the sportsman in a tenfold manner, if the ex-
citement of the field, the danger of the enterprise, and the
success of the sport, be any criterion by which the pleasure
of such things may be estimated.
Tame, indeed, they considered the turn-out of the Mar-
quis of Hertford, with his green-brogued keepers, and
their double-barrelled-guns and brushes, for a walk, or
rather a stand, at the end of a plantation, where the
pheasants rose in a shower, and were killed like barn-
door fowls. They often saw the noble sportsmen turn
into those coverts, against which they knew they had been
such successful poachers the very night before.
If hairbreadth escapes, contests with keepers, making
nets, snares, and gins, were amusements to these fellows,
they had enough of them. They could, upon occasion,
bribe an unsteady keeper, or rn.ake.Jiim drunk, and go his
MARGARET CATCIIP0LE. 57
beat for lrim. All manner of desperate adventures were
their pleasures. Sometimes their society was courted by
farmers and others, who ehanced to know, and would
occasionally entertain them. Their knowledge of all that
was going on in and out of the country made them wel-
come visitors to others; and in a very dangerous period
of our struggle at Flushing, when an order from the
coast was to be carried in spite of danger and difficulty,
the intelligence and spirit of these men were made use
of by some in power, who could never countenance them
openly.
One instance of a singular kind of frolic may here be
mentioned, which might have been of serious consequence
to a young man of fortune.
This gentleman resided in his own house, and upon his
own estate, not far from Hollesley Bay; and though pos-
sessed of many broad acres, abundantly supplied with
every species of game common to that country, yet,
singularly enough, he was an exception to that prevalent
habit of all country gentlemen—the being a sportsman.
The writer of these pages has often heard him narrate the
following facts:—
Laud, or rather Hudson, as he was then called (for
Laud wras generally supposed to be dead), met this young
man at the Boyton Alms-houses, when the following con-
versation arose:—
 Good morning to you, captain. But little stirring at
sea, I suppose?
"We 're ashore awhile upon a cruise.
 So I suppose. What tack do 3rou go upon to-night?
 That I know not, sir; but not hereabouts. We shall
probably run down to Orford.
 I know you are all good hands. I never went sport-
ing in my life, and never saw any poaching. Now,
captain, it's no use being qualmish upon the subject, but
upon my word I shoula like to see how you poachers
manage to take your game. You need not fear that I
should inform against you, or take advantage of your
secrets—for I am no sportsman, as you know, and care as
little about game as any man; but I have heard so much
of your adroitness, and of the methodical manner in which
you proceed, that I really should like to see it. Come,
what shall I give you to take me with you to-nigbt?
58
HISTORY OF
The smuggler looked at him with a very significant
countenance, as much as to say,  Are you in earnest ?
May I trust you ? It was very few he thought he could
trust; but there was a simplicity and honesty, a straight-
forward singleness of mind, and such a real, truthful
heartiness of character about the young man, that a far
less shrewd man than Laud could see there was no danger
in him. So far from ever intending evil to any one, he
was kind even to a fault: witness his very treatment of
such a man as Laud. He had often seen him about his
marshes, or along the river's side, or in the village, or
upon the heath. He knew what Hudson was; and like
many others in that retired country, became an occasional
talker with him, even upon the subject of smuggling. He
knew that his own horses came in for a share of night-
work, as well as his neighbours'; but he always found
himself well treated by the smugglers, and frequently
acknowledged the receipt of some acceptable present. He
knew the habits of poaching which these seamen enjoyed
ashore, and he never interrupted them. His own lands 4
were always abounding in game for his friends, and he
never knew that they were poached.
 Well, captain, wda; say you ? Will you take me ?
"That I will, with all my heart. Where will you
meet me?
 Where you like. Where shall it be ? 
"Suppose my messmate and I call you at eleven
o'clock? We can take a glass of grog with you, and per-
haps use your own cart and horse. We shall most likely
go to Iken or Orford. But I will see my mate, and have
everything arranged, and be with you by eleven.
The honest bachelor who had made this appointment
with Laud and Luff, had no idea of his temerity and of
the danger of the deed. He saw only, for the time, a
certain mystery, which he wished to see unravelled, and
forgot all the penalties the law attached to it.
Our worthy bachelor received his two promising visitors
at eleven o'clock, having first sent every servant to bed,
and parted with an aged mother, who was ignorant,
blessedly ignorant, of her son's movements at such a time
of night; Laud and Luff were let into the house; they
came, partook of his good cheer, and then opened upon the
subject of their campaign.
MAKGAKET CATCHPOLE.
59
They told him their intention to have a drag over some
of the stubbles of the Marquis of Hertford's estate,
between Iken and Orford, and they instructed him in the
plan of operation. Five men were to meet them in the
lane leading down to Iken Wood: they carried a net
capable of covering four furrows. Not a single word
must be spoken. Five would drag in front, and three
behind; one was to hold the check-string, by which an
alarm was conveyed to every one who had hold of the net.
In case of a sudden jerk at this string, each person
dropped his hold of the net, and ran for the nearest
hedge, where he concealed himself until he heard the
signal to join forces again, which signal was for that night
the crowing of a cock. When by sundry kicks in the net
they found that game was enclosed, they were to drop the
net, at the sound of a small reed whistle, so low as only
to be heard by those who were at a short distance. As
the young host was only a novice, it was proposed that
he should take his station between Hudson and Luff, his
two visitors.
After all proper hints had been repeated, and these
worthies had sufficiently regaled themselves, they all went
to the cart-lodge; took out the market-cart, harnessed the
old chestnut gelding, something between a cart-horse and
a roadster, and off they started for as novel an expedition
as ever any man of fortune undertook.
Will the reader believe that a man of good character—
ay, and as honest, upright, good-natured, kind-hearted,
and benevolent a man, as any of his rank«and condition—
a man of an intelligent and unwarped mind—and one who
through life was looked upon as good a neighbour as
could be—should so forget himself as to trust his reputa*
tion, his honour—his very life and happiness (for at that
time the (lame Laws were very severe), between two as
great rascals as ever stole a head of game, or shot a fellow-
creature, in the frenzy of their career ?
The reader must imagine a man far above ah want, and
with every blessing which an abundant fortune could
supply, without any idea of intending an affront to the
lord of Orford, or any of his affluent neighbours, seated in
his own lug-gage-cart, with his very name written in large
letters, X. Y. Z., Esq., with his place of abode upon it!
He must imagine such a man, trusting himself between
60 HISTORY OF
two notorious characters merely for the spree of tho mo-
ment, and purely for the sake of cu riosity running the
risk of losing his character and his liberty, and yet with-
out a thought of his danger. Yet the tale is as true as it
is strange. Had not the writer heard the subject of it
often declare the fact, he should have believed it im-
possible.
They are off, however, and Luff is the driver. As if
acquainted with his horse, and the horse with him, they
went at a rate which astonished even the owner of the
animal. He had said, Let me drive, for I understand
his humour j but he found that another understood his
own horse as well as himself. This brute was like a
donkey in one respect. Except you gave him a jerk with
the rein, and at the same time gave a rap on the sides of
the cart, you cruld not get him to move. What, then,
was the surprise of the Squire to find that a stranger could
make the old horse go as well as he could. But not a
word was to be spoken—so in silence he brooded over the
singular knowledge of his coachman, and gave him credit
for his driving, which he richly deserved. It was evident
the old horse had been in his hands before that night.
On they went through Boyton, Butlev, the borders of
Eyke, to the lane leading down to Orford. Here at a
certain gate they stopped, and on the other side of the
hedge were the five men with the net. The old horse
was tied to the gate, the net unrolled, spread out, and,
without a single word being spoken, each man took his
station.
It was just the dawning of the morn, when they could
hear the old cock pheasants crowing to their mates, to
come down from their perches to feed. A rustling wind
favoured the work; a large barley stubble was before
them, lying with a slope up to the famous preserve of Iken
Wood.
As they proceeded onward, sundry kicks in the net
told of the captured game, which was regularly and
dexterously bagged, by the leading man passing on to
the net to the place of fluttering, and wringing' the necks
of the said partridges, pheasants, hares, rabbits, or what-
ever they were; then passing them along the meshes to
the head of the net, whence they were safely deposited in
the differen o^me-hags of the foremen.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
61
That this sport was as much enjoyed by these men as
that enjoyed by the best shot in the land; that these fel-
lows were as expert in their movements and as experienced
as Colonel Hawker himself, and as bold as any foxhunter
in the country, is quite true.
There was one in that party whose courage was soon
put to the test, after a fashion which he little calculated
upon, and never forgot.
After having bagged a considerable quantity of game,
and swept several acres of stubble, they were ascending
the middle of the field, toward the covert, when a sudden
violent check of the alarm-string, which ran from one to
the other, told that they must drop the net, and be off.
Off they ran, helter-skelter, as fast as they could, to the
nearest fence.
The Squire's heart was in his throat, and his courage in
his heels, as, with unwonted speed, he ran for his life to the
"ence. Into brake and briar, amidst nettles and thistles,
brambles and thorns, dashed the hero of the night, with
his top-boots sticking plounce into the mud, and, for the
life of him, not daring to extricate them, for fear of his
being heard and taken by the gamekeepers. The watei
oozed coolly over the tops, conveying a gentle moisture to
his feverish skin, and proving no small consolation for his
exertions.
There he lay in a dreadful fright, expecting every
instant some stout keeper's hand to seize him by the
shoulders, and lug him out of his hiding-place. Then it
was for the first moment that he felt the awkwardness of
his situation. Reflection told him his danger. Though
he durst scarcely breathe, he felt his heart beat tumul-
tuously against his chest, at the thought of his folly and
the possibility of detection.
 Oh, what a fool I am, thought he,  to run the risk
of transportation for such a freak! My name is on my
cart; it is my horse, and the fellows will swear they were
in my employ. On me will be visited the vengeance of
the iaw. Lord Hertford will never forgive me. I shall
have all the magistrates, squires, noblemen, gentlemen,
gamekeepers, and watchers up in arms against me; and
all for what?—for a foolish curiosity, which I have thus
gratified at the expense of my character. Oh ! if I get
out of this scrape, never, never will I get into such a one
ajfain!
62
HISTORY OF
In the midst of these painful impressions, the Squire's
heart was gladdened by the cheerful sound of  bright
chanticleer. Never did cock crow with a pleasanter
sound than that good imitation, which told that the coast
was clear.
Some time did the Squire hesitate whether he should
join the sport again, and a still longer time did it take
him to extricate his boots from the mud, for he came out of
the ditch minus the right leg1 covering, and, after sundry
tugs, and, when out, sundry shakings, &c., to turn out the
water, and then, as may he supposed, no small difficulty
in getting it on again, he managed to join his companions,
who had almost felt persuaded that he had totally de-
camped. The cause of this alarm was a poor unfortunate
jackass, which had strayed from the lane into the stubble,
and which, standing with his head and ears erect, had pre-
sented to the foreman the appearance of a determined
gamekeeper.
A few more acres were dragged, more game secured,
and the party once more safely seated in the cart. Two
sacks of game lay in the bottom of the vehicle, which
were both deposited (saving one bagful for the host) at
the Green Cottage at Butley Moor. What a happy.man
was that host, when, after all his dangers, he found him-
self again within his own doors! happier still, when, after
entertaining his free companions, whose jokes upon his ex-
pressions of joy at escape were amusing enough to them,
though painfully interesting to himself; happier still was
he, when, at four o'clock in the morn, he let them out of
his house, and bade poachers and poaching good-by for
ever!
Nineteen beautiful cock pheasants were hung- up in his
larder: but so ashamed was the Squire of their being seen
there, that, before he retired to his own bed, he put them
all into a box, with hay, &c., and directed them to Mr.
Thomas Page, his wine-merchant, in London. His sjwlia
opima were not mentioned till years had in some measure
worn off the rust of danger, and then he gave his friends
and neighbours reason to rejoice in his adventure, and that
he had escaped transportation.
MARGARET CATCIirOLK
63
CHAPTER VL
harvest-home.
It was the evening before harvest-home, September 29,
1793, that a sailor called at the back-door of the Priory
Farm, Downham Reach, to ask for a draught of fresh
water. It was no uncommon thing for sailors to call for
such a purpose. Downham Reach was the nearest point
at which ships of large tonnage would usually anchor, and
shift their cargoes in lighters for the town of Ipswich,
whence it was distant about four miles. The crews of
vessels frequently had to walk up to the town from this
spot; so that it was no uncommon thing for them, upon
landing near the Priory Farm after a voyage, to be glad
of a sparkling draught of clear water. The desired
draught was handed to the sailor by the ever-ready hand
of Margaret Catchpole, who always took an interest in
men belonging to the sea.
 Is dis de Priry Barm ? asked the man, in broken
English.
 This is the Priory Farm, was the quick and eager
reply of Margaret.
 How bar to Gipswitch ?
"Four miles to Ipswich. What country are you
from ?
 Mynheer be brom Hamsterdam. I lept me bessel in
de harber. Mynheer de Captan did 'mand me up to
Gipswitch. 'E 'mand me 'top at Priry Barm to tale von
Margaret Catchpole dad 'e vou'd come up 'ere to-morrow,
at nine o'clock in de eve.
 What is your captain's name ?
"Von Villiam Laud.
The reader need not be told the rest of the conversation,
which of course related to the captain. How he was ?
How he got on ? Whose service he was in ? How he
would come up ? And where Margaret was to meet him?
It was all arranged that she should be upon the shore at
nine o'clock, and look out for a small sail-boat, which
should come up the river and run ashore against t&e creek:
that the watchword should be "Margaret^ and that
punctuality should be observed.
64 HISTORY OP
Margaret's quick understanding soon construed all the
sailor said into proper English, though she could not per-
ceive that the man only feigned a foreign accent and man-
ner. He was indeed one of Laud's crew, an emissary sent
on purpose to decoy the poor girl on to the strand, that ha
might carry her off to a foreign shore, against her own
determined purpose.
It is not to be wondered at that she should be a little
agitated. Whose heart would not have been so under
similar circumstances? The expected arrival of some
fashionable and insinuating man of fortune into the saloon
of fashion has not agitated the heart of an amiable and
interesting young lady more sensibly than poor Margaret
felt herself fluttering within at this peculiar time. It is a
great question, however, whether any high-spirited damsel
could prevent the exposure of her high feelings with more
effect than this poor girl did hers, who not only had her
own interest to induce her so to do, but her lover's also.
The last day of September came, and with it all the
bustle and pleasure of Harvest-Home. No small share of
work fell to Margaret's hands, who had to prepare the
harvest supper for fourteen men, besides women and
children.
At that time of day, all the single men lodged in the
master's house, and were expected to conform to all the
rules, regulations, hours, and work, of a well-regulated
family.
Once in a year, the good farmer invited the married
men, with their wives and families, to supper; and this
supper was always the Harvest-Home. This was the day
on which the last load of corn was conveyed into the barn
or stack-yard, covered with green boughs, with shouting,
and blowing of the merry harvest horn.
All the labourers upon the Priory Farm were assembled
at six o'clock in the evening : nine married men, and five
single ones; the wives, and those children who were old
enough to come to the feast, together with the boys, four
in number, who had to work upon the land.
A picture fit for the hand of Wilkie was exhibited in
that ancient farm-house. It is surprising that no good
artist should have painted the Harvest Supper. The
Rent-day, Blindman's-buff, The Fair, The Blind Fiddler,
or any of hi3 celebrated works, could scarcely afford a
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 65
more striking subject for the canvass, or the printseller,
than The Harvest Home. Such a scene may have been
painted, but the writer of these pages has never seen it
described, though he has often witnessed it in real life,
and has shared with innocent pleasure in it 3 rustic joy.
Margaret received great assistance from some of the
married women. One pair of hands could not, indeed,
have prepared sufficient eatables for such a party:—
smoking puddings, plain and plum; piles of hot potatoes,
cabbages, turnips, carrots, and every species of vegetable
which the farmer's lands could produce—beef, roast and
boiled, mutton, veal, an'd pork, everything good and sub-
stantial; a rich custard, and apple-pies, to which the chil-
dren did ample justice, for all were seated round this well-
furnished table in the old kitchen, celebrated for its curious
roof and antique chimney-piece.
The lord of the feast, or head man in the harvest-field,
took his station at the head of the table, whilst the master
of the house, and his wife, his sister, and even his daughter,
were the servants of the feast, and took every pains to
gratify and satisfy the party.
Poor labourers are not the only class in England fond
of a good dinner. There are hundreds and thousands,
with half the appetites of these joyful sons and daughters
of the sickle, who glory in a feast. How often is the rich
table spread with every delicacy, and at an enormous cost
the greatest rarities provided, and a group of lords and
ladies seated thereat! Things just tasted and dismissed,
and all due ceremonies performed, the company rise with-
out any satisfaction, and return to their homes grateful to
nobody; sometimes hungi-y and dissatisfied, moody and
contentious; disappointed, disaffected, tired, and palled by
the very fashion of the thing, in which there has been no
enjoyment and no thankfulness.
It was not so at this rustic feast. Simplicity and
pleasure sat upon each face. Fathers and mothers, sons
and daughters, felt thankful to God for their master's
prosperity, and received his attentions with unaffected
gratitude.
After the feast, and a flowing jug or two of brown ale
had been emptied, the wives and children were invited into
the best parlour to tea and cakes, whilst the merry reapers
were left to themselves, tr enjoy in their own way the
66
HISTORY OP
stronger harvest aie, which was just broached by the hand
of their master.
Margaret had done her duty well, and was busily
engaged washing up the dishes as fast as she could, that
she might, in the midst of this bustling evening get her
work sufficiently forward not to be missed, should she run
down to the shore.
"Boy, take the can to the girl and have it filledfor
the master had deputed Margaret to draw whatever ale
was called for.
This was soon done, and the boy returned just as the old
clock struck eight.
Margaret heard with a fluttering heart the songs, ac-
cording to custom, commencing; and getting her work
well forward, she resolved, after the next can of ale was
replenished, to be of£
Accordingly, she ran up the back stairs, and brought
down her bonnet and shawl, which she left behind the
staircase-door, and anxiously awaited the moment to be
off duty. She had put every plate in the rack, laid all
the iron spoons in the drawer, cleaned the spit, and
placed it, bright and shining, over the chimney-piece.
All the skewers had been strung, all the knives and forks
washed and wiped, boilers, saucepans, gridirons, and the
rest of the culinary utensils cleaned, and placed in their
proper places; in short, scarcely any one would have
believed that they had that day been used. Clean they
were, and cleaner the well-washed face and hands of the
active girl, who had finished her work, and prepared
herself for an interview with one whose image had been
graven on her mind through every period of her short
service.
At last she heard that welcome sound, more enchant-
ing to her ear than any song which the young men had
sung:  Boy, take the can to Margaret!
It was soon replenished; and scarcely was the kitchen-
door closed, ere the bonnet and shawl were put on, the
latch of the door lifted up, and the bright rising moon
shining gloriously in at the door. Happy moment! what
pencil could portray the features of that face upon which
the moon so clearly shone on that September night ?
Poor girl! 't was a breathless moment of long antici-
pa ted pleasure to thy good and honest heart, such as
MAJRGAREi CAluilrOLE.
67
many a one, like thee, may have experienced; but such
as none, be she who she may, could have more anxiously
endured.
At last, Margaret is off.
The pleasure of the feast continued; and, as the foam-
ing ale went round, the spirits of the youths arose, am§
each bachelor who could not sing had to toast his favourite
lass.
There were singular disclosures made at this season,
which generally indicated the future destiny of the
bachelor. It was amusing enough to hear those who did
not choose to tell their lover's name attempt to sing, as
 the lord called upon him for a toast or a song.
 We haven't had Jack Barry's song, said a sly fellow
of the name of Riches, who himself was one of the best
singers in the party.  Please, sir  (for such the lord of
the feast was styled that night),  call upon Jack for his
song.
Now, the labourer at the head of the table knew that
Jack could not sing. He did not suppose, either, that he
had any favourite lass; for no one had seen Jack flirting,
or directing his attentions towards any favoured individual.
The lord, however, was bound to do his duty, when so
urged ; he therefore said,  John Barry, we call upon you
for a song.
"I cannot sing, master: I wish I could, was the reply.
 Then you must give us a toast; and you know what
it must be—' Your favourite lass.'
Jack hung down his head in solemn silence, for he felt
extremely awkward. He had a favourite lass; he felt he
had; ana no one knew it but himself; and if he should
toast her, he felt that he should be laughed at. He
remained in a state of painful suspense, between doubt
and fear. A thousand thoughts revolved in his mind,
whether he should not give a fictitious name, or some one
whom he had heard of, or only knew by sight; but then
appeared the certainty of some of them congratulating the
person he might happen to mention, and so bringing him
into a scrape. He thought also of dissimulation, and a
lie, at which Jack's honest nature revolted. But if he
should really tell his sweetheart's name! He felt for her,
he felt for himself, and .he remained a long time without
uttering a wori.
68 HISTORY OP
"Come, Jack, my boj, what's the matter? Give u®
your favourite lass! What makes you flinch, my lad ?
Jack remained silent, until some began to think he
meant to shirk the subject. The fact is, that Jack had
really some notion of bolting, and once or twice he cast a
sidelong glance at the door, with the full intention of an
escape j but Will Riches, perceiving this, most uncere-
moniously bolted the door; and, as the jug stood close by
him, he declared he would know Jack's sweetheart before
another drop should be drunk.
 Come, Jack, says he,  why not give us at once the
girl you love best ?
 Because she does not love me, was Jack's quick
reply.
Here was a most significant glance from one to another
round about the room; and more than one whispered to
his neighbour, "Who is it? Not a soul could tell, for
no one had the slightest idea who the girl could be who
would refuse so honest a fellow as Jack Barry. Some
began to think that Jack had stepped out of his latitude,
that he had dared to aspire to the master's daughter >
some, that it was Matilda Baker, the grocer's girl; others
set it down as Lucy Harper, of Stratton. But, be the
damsel whom she might, Jack's speech had set such a
spirit of curiosity a-working, that the married men hoped
to know for their wives' sake, and the single ones for their
mistresses' amusement. Jack had got further into the
mire by his floundering, and every one saw that he was
struggling all he could to escape.
 Well, Jack, who is she 1 Who is she ? Do we any
of us know her ?
 Yes, all of you.
Here they were all out at sea again.
 It must be the master's fair daughter, said Ned
Palmer to his neighbour.
 I don't think it, was the reply; u but he is not
willing to tell us, and it's hardly fair to press him.
 It's a law, a positive law—I've told mine, says John
Ruddock,  and I don't see why he should flinch from the
name. I must have it.
"The name! the name! exclaimed one or two resolute
fellows.
A tear stood in Jack's eye* This might be a good joke
MARGARET CATCHI'OLE. 69
to some; but the elders of the party, who saw it, espe-
cially honest Tom Keeble, the lord of the evening, felt for
the young man that respect which induced him to make a
sortie or parley, in the hope of giving him relief.
u Kiches, said he,  as the jug stands by you, I shall
call upon you for a song. Our young friend may, by
the time you have entertained us, have recovered himself;
and, after your song, I shall order the jug round to drink
your health, if we do not get the lass.
Now, Will prided himself upon his vocal powers, and
was a bold, forward fellow. He had no objection to sing,
nor had any of the company any objection to his song;
and, truth to tell, all hoped the jug of brown ale would
not be stopped long, either for the song or for  the fa-
vourite lass. So Will sang his song.
 I '11 sing you a new song, says he.  I '11 sing you
one in which you can all join in chorus in the house, as
you have often done in the field. I '11 sing you—
 HALLO LARGESS.
Accordingly, he lifted up his voice, and sang this truly
happy and appropriate harvest song:—
Now the ripened corn
In sheaves is borne,
And the loaded wain
Brings home the grain,
The merry, merry reapers sing a bind,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest hind,
Hallo Large ! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess !
Now the harvest's o'er,
And the grain we store,
And the stacks we pull,
And the barn is full,
The merry, merry reapers sing again,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest swain,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large I Hallo Largess!
Now our toil is done,
And the feast is won,
And we meet once more
As we did of yore,
The merry, merry reapers sing with glee,
And jamnd shout their happy harvest spree,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large ! Hallo Largess!
70
HISTORY OF
Now the feast we share—
'T is our master's fare,
May he long, long live
Such a treat to give,
And merry, merry reapers sing with joy,
And j Dcund shouts the happy harvest boy,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large I Hallo Large* I
Now we join in song
With our voices strong,
And our hearts are high
With our good supply,
We merry, merry reapers joyful come
To shout and sing our happy Harvest-Home,
Hallo Large I Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
The spirit of this song is in the chorus, which is
peculiar to the eastern counties of this kingdom. So
 Hallo Largess! may be well understood here, but in
many parts of the country is quite unknown. At the
time of harvest, when the men are reaping down the
fields, should their master have any friends visiting his
fields, the head man among the labourers usually asks a
largess, which is generally a shilling. This is asked not
only of friends and visitors, but of strangers likewise,
should they pause to look at the reapers as they bind up
the sheaves.
At evening, when the work of the day is over, all the
men collect in a circle, and Hallo, that is, cry, Largess.
Three times they say, in a low tone,  Hallo Large!
Hallo Large ! Hallo Large! and all, hand in hand, bow
their heads almost to the ground; but, after the third
monotonous yet sonorous junction, they lift up their
heads, and, with one burst of their voices, cry out,
 Gess f
Varieties of this peculiar custom may exist in some
districts. Sometimes the man with the most stentorian
lungs will mount an eminence and lead the rest, who join
in chorus. They generally conclude the ceremony with
three shouts, and then  Thank Mr., Mrs., Miss, or
Master (as the case of the donor may be)  for hia
largess. Whence the origin of this practice, is not now
easily to be ascertained. It was much more common than
it is. The habit of dividing the gains, too, at the harvest
frolic, is going fast out of fashion j nor is its substitute
•an amendment
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 71
At the period here mentioned, and in the Priory Farm,
it was customary for the lord to divide the largess among
the men, women, and children; which formed a species of
family nest-egg, to provide against some urgent necessity.
The custom has now degenerated into an ale-house revel,
and the money is all drunk out for the benefit of no one
but the publican.
 Will Riches, your health! said the lord, as, at the
same moment, he turned the contents of a canvass-bag
upon the table, which exhibited a very good aspect of
liberal contributions. The reader may suppose that every
master-tradesman who visited the farm had to give his
share, and that the lord had not been unmindful of his
solicitations, when, upon counting the contents of the
bag, there were found one hundred shillings and sixpence.
This exactly gave five shillings a-piece to the fourteen
men, half-a-crown ditto to the nine women, and two
shillings each to the four*boys.
The division of this sum gave great satisfaction; and
our persecuted friend, Jack Barry, had almost unperceived
accomplished a successful retreat in the interesting mo-
ment of pocketing the cash. But the watchful songster
bad him in his eye; and, as he rose to thank the company
for the honour done him in drinking his health, he inter-
cepted Jack in the act of drawing back the bolt of the
door.
 I think this is the best place I can speak from; and,
as Jack is so anxious to be off, perhaps to see his sweet-
heart, I hope he '11 give me the opportunity of proposing
her health in his absence, for not until he has given us
her name shall the bolt be drawn.
The poor fellow had counted on his escape, but little
thought of the extremity of ridicule he was thus bringing
upon himself. At length, urged on all sides, he could
resist no longer, but, in a kind of ludicrous despair, he
exclaimed—
 Well, then, I '11 toast the health of Margaret Catch-
pole!
The pencil of Wilkie could alone describe the wild
burst of unrestrained glee at this declaration.
 Margaret Catchpole! was as suddenly responded in
surprise by men, women, and children; and such grinning
countenances, and coarse laughter, and joking congratu-
72
U15TOKY UJf
lations, were beginning to shew themselves, that Jack, no
longer able to endure their gibes, bolted to the door, and,
finding no resistance to his will, made his exit, amidst the
roars of his companions, who vociferated, with a cheer,
u The health of Margaret Catchpole!
Jack fled precipitately from this scene of tumult and
confusion, and, as he passed the little foot-bridge over the
stream from the moat, he still heard the rude merriment
he had excited. The moon rose brilliantly over the little
chapel in the dark back-ground, and was reflected upon
the water in a line with the bridge, and shewed Jack's
figure in darkness crossing the light plank j but he was
soon in the shadow of those lofty trees, which darkened
the footpath towards the gamekeeper's cottage. He had
instinctively taken this path because it led to Levington,
his father's house; and he then remembered that parent's
parting words— If ever you feel yourself unhappy, my
boy, remember you have a home here, in which, as long
as your mother and I live, we shall be happy to give yon
a welcome.
Jack was really unhappy, and he had some cause for
feeling so, though he felt that it lay not with himself.
He knew that he had spoken the truth, though it had cost
him a severe pang; and whilst he felt much grief at the
thought of the jeers and quizzings he should meet with,
and the annoyances he might occasion the poor girl
whom he really loved, he had still spoken the truth, which
he was not ashamed to confess. He was arrested in his
progress by the voice of John Gooding, the old game-
keeper of the great Squire of Nacton—Philip Broke.
 Who goes there ?  was his question. .
 John Barry, was the reply.
 Where now, Jack—where now?
 What, Mr. Gooding, is it you? Has the tide turned ?
Can I walk along the shore to Levington?
 The tide has only just turned; but, if you take the
wood-path for a while to Nacton, you may then, if you
like it, keep the shore along Orwell Park, and pass the'old
Hall to Levington. But what makes you leave good
company at this time o' night?
u I have left them all very merry at the harvest supper,
but I had a mind to see my friends.
"Well, Jack, had it been anv other man upon the
margakt-t catchpole. 73
farm, I should have been suspicious of you as a poacher;
hut I know you well, and can believe you. I should not
trust some that you have left behind. I was just going
down to the Priory, to see how you lads fared to-night.
"Well, Mr. Gooding, you will find them all very glad
to see you, and no doubt they will make you welcome;
but will you trouble yourself to let master know where I
am gone to-night, that he may close his doors without
expecting to see me ? 
 That I will; and, when I get there, I will propose
your health, Jack, during your absence.
 Do so, Mr. Gooding; and tell them all, they have my
hearty good wishes for their health and happiness.
 Good-night.
u Good-night,
CHAPTER VII,
the conflict.
But where is Margaret all this time? She is on the
shore, casting an anxious eye upon the waters. The moon
is shining with such perfect brightness, that she can see
across the river, though it be nearly two miles from the
strand at Downham Reach to Freston Tower. She looks
toward the dark shades of Woolverstone, and with a lover's
anxious eye, fancies she can descry a sail. A sail thei*»
was,* but it came very slowly on, though a breeze
reached the spot where poor Margaret was standing.
In that old vessel, seated at the helm, was as extraor-
dinary a character as ever sailed upon the waves of the
Orwell; and as he will be no insignificant actor in some
succeeding scenes of this work, he shall be here introduced
to the notice of the reader. He is thus described in the
"Suffolk Garland.
 The ancient fisherman whose character is here por-
trayed is not a mere creature of the imagination, but an
eccentric being, once resident in the parish of St. Clement,
Ipswich, by name Thomas Colson, but better known by
the appellation of Robinson Crusoe. He was originally a
71
HISTORY OF
woolcomber, and afterwards a weaver j Uut a want of con<
etant employment in either of these occupations induced
him to enter into the East Suffolk Militia. Whilst quar-
tered at Leicester, he learned, with his usual ingenuity,
the art of stocking-weaving, which trade he afterwards
followed in this county. But this employment, in its turn,
he soon relinquished, and became a fisherman on the river
Orwell. His little vessel (if vessel it might be called, for
every part of it was his own handiwork) presented a curious
specimen of naval patchwork, for his extreme poverty did
not afford him the means of procuring proper materials.
In this leaky and crazy vessel, it was his constant custom,
by day and by night, in calms and in storms, to toil on the
•river for fish. His figure was tall and thin; his counte-
nance meagre, yet striking; and his eye sharp and pierc-
ing. Subject to violent chronic complaints, with a mind
somewhat distempered, and faculties impaired, he was a
firm believer in the evil agency of wizards and witch-
craft. * * * His mind was so haunted with the
dreams of charms and enchantments, as to fancy that he
was continually under the influence of these mischievous
tormentors. His arms and legs, nay, almost his whole
body, was encircled with bones of horses, rings, amulets,
and characts, verses, words, &c. &c., as spells and charms
to protect him against their evil machinations. On diffe-
rent parts of his boat was to be seen ' the horse-shoe
nailed,' that most effective antidote against the power of
witches. When conversing with him, he would describe
to you that he saw them hovering about his person, and,
endeavouring by all their arts to punish and torment him.
Though a wretched martyr to the fancies of a disordered
imagination, his manners were mild and harmless, and his
character honest and irreproachable. But, however power-
fill and effective his charms might be to protect him from
the agency of evil spirits, they did not prove sufficiently
operative against the dangers of storm and tempest. For,
being unfortunately driven on the ooze by a violent storm
on the 3d of October 1811, he was seen, and earnestly
importuned to quit his crazy vessel; but relying on the
efficacy of his charms, he obstinately refused; and the
ebb of the tide drawing his bark off into deep water, his
charms and his spells failed him, and poor Robinson sank
to rise no more.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 75
The writer of these pages knew Colson well. He has
often, when a boy, been in his boat with him j and always
found him kind and gentle.
The old man who sat at the helm of his crazy vessel,
now toiling up the Orwell, was a perfect fisherman,
patient, quiet, steady, active, and thoughtful. He had
enough to employ his mind as well as his body, and too
deeply was that mind engaged. The whole legion of evil
(Spirits seemed to be his familiar companions, or rather his
incessant enemies. He knew all their names, and their
propensities ; how they visited and afflicted men; and his
great study was, how to prevent their malice taking effect
upon himself or any one else. He would converse with
them, and parley with them; he would seem to suffer
when any of them took him by surprise and found him
off his guard. The loss of any one of his numerous
charms was sure to occasion the visit of that very demon
from whose attacks it was supposed to defend him. He
has often been tried by intelligent persons, anxious to dis-
cover if he really invented a new tale for each spirit; notes
were kept of the name and the peculiar temper he attri-
buted to each; and, months afterwards, he was questioned
again and again upon the same points, but he never
faltered—never attributed a wrong direction to any one—
but was as accurate and certain as on the first day he
spoke of them.
The whole purport of these attacks was to persuade
Robin to do some wicked deed, at which his mind re-
volted; and when they could not prevail against him, they
used to seem, to his suffering mind, to torment him, some-
times to pinch him, sometimes to pelt him, at others, to
burn or scald him, pull his hair off his head, to pull his
ears, his nose, or his arms; and, under all these seeming
attacks, the old man's countenance would exhibit the
species of suffering resembling the agonies of one really
under such torture. No one could persuade him that if
was imaginative; he would shake his head and say,  I
see them plainly—take care they do not visit you!
He was a very kind friend to many who were afflicted;
and never saw a person in distress whilst he had a fish in
his boat, or a penny in his pocket, and refused to help
him.
From the great encouragement he met with, and the
76 HISTORY OF
friends who were always kind to him, it is supposed that
he might have laid by a sufficiency for his latter day J, for
at one time he had amassed enough to have purchased a
new vessel, but in an evil hour he was induced to lend it
to an artful villain, whc represented himself in great dis*
tress, but who ran off with the whole.
It was curious to see the o*d man whilst repairing his
boat, which was, when given to him by Mr. Seekamp, but
a wreck, as it lay upon the mud near Hog Island. It
was curious to see him, whilst plying his hatchet, suddenly
stop, seat himself on a piece of timber, and hold parley
with one of the demons, who, in his frenzy, he fancied
attacked him. After searching about his person, he
would suddenly catch up the talisman, which shewn to
the enraged spirit would send him off, and leave the tor-
mented in peace. His delight was visible in the chuck-
ling joy of his speech, as he returned triumphantly and
speedily to his accustomed work.
Colson, who sat at the helm of his vessel, which creaked
heavily under the breeze as it sprang up, was in one of
his moods of reverie, when, stooping down and straining
his eyes to windward, he saw a sail. It was a small boat,
which seemed to have got more wind in her canvass than
Robin could obtain.
On came the boat; and the breeze began to swell the
many-coloured sail of the bewitched barque ; but Robin's
canvass was heavy compared with the airy trimming of
the feathers of the little duck that followed him. Like a
creature of life, she skipped along, and soon overtook the
old fisherman of the Orwell.
"What ship ahoy! What ship ahoy! exclaimed a
gruff voice from the boat below, as Robin, leaning over
the stern of his clumsy craft, looked closely into her with
an eager eye.
 It's only old Robinson Crusoe, replied the other
 You may speak long to him before you know what he
means, even if you get any answer at all.
 Ahoy! ahoy! was, however, the old man's reply.
"You've got the foul fiend aboard. What are you up to,
Will ? I know that's Will Laud's voice, though I haven't
heard it lately. Whither bound, Will? whither bound?
"Confound the fellow! muttered Will. "I never
heard him say so much before. The foul fiend always
MARGARET CATCHPOUE. 77
Bails with him. But give him a good word, John, and a
wide berth.
 Heavy laden, Robin ? heavy laden ? You've a good
haul, aboard. Crabs, or lobsters, or crayfish—eh, Robin ?
turbot, plaice, or flounders? soles, brill, or whiting? sand-
dabs, or eels ? But you've got plenty, Bob, or I mistake,
if not a choice. The tide is falling; you '11 never reach
the Grove to-night.
"I shall get up in time, Will. You've lightened my
eargo. You've got a pleasant companion aboard. You Ve
got my black fiend on your mainsail. There he sits,
pointing at you both, as if he had you in his own clutches.
Take care he don't drive you aground. He sticks close
to the sail, Will.
"Heave ahoy! heave ahoy! Good-night; and away
bounded the boat, which was then passing Pin Mill, in the
widest part of the river, and steering towards the shades of
Woolverstone. The obelisk rose high over the dark trees,
pointing to the clear, moonlit sky, its pinnacle still tinged
with the last red light of that autumnal evening.
But the breeze freshening, the little skiff darted along
the side of the greensward, which sloped to the water's
edge; and, as she passed, the startled doe leaped up from
her repose, and stamped her foot, and snorted to the herd
reposing or browsing on the side of the hill.
Woolverstone Park, with its thick copses and stately
trees, whose roots reached, in snaky windings, to the very
shore, was now the range along which the barque skirted
till it came opposite to the white cottage, which stands
on a small green opening, or lawn, slanting down to the
river.
The park boat was moored against the stairs, and a
single light burned against the window, at which a white
cat might be seen to be sitting. It was a favourite cat of
the gamekeeper's, which had accidentally been killed in a
rabbit-trap, and, being stuffed, was placed in the window
of the cottage. Visible as it always was in the same
place, in the broad day and in the clear moonlight, the
sailors on the river always called that dwelling by the
name of the Cat House; by which it is known at the
present day. High above it might be seen the man-
sion, shining in the moonbeam, and many lights burn-
"ng in its various apartments — a sign of the hospi-
78
HISTORY O*
tality of W. Berners, Esquire, the lord of that beautiful
domain.
But the two sailors in the boat were little occupied with
thoughts about the beauty of this scene, or the interest
that might attach to that side of the water. Their eyes
were bent upon the opposite shore; and, as they sailed
along, with a favourable wind, they soon passed the boat-
house and the mansion of "Woolverstone.
 Luff, do you think we shall be lucky ? I'd venture
my share of the next run, if I could once safely harbour
the prize from yonder shore.
 Why, Will, you speak as if the Philistines were to
meet you. Who can prevent your cutting out such a
prize?
 I know not; except that she is too difficult a craft to
manage.
 Pshaw, Will! her cable may be easily cut; and once
we have her in tow, with this side-wind upon our sail, we
shall be back again as quickly as we came.
 Maybe, maybe, John; but I do not like being too
desperate. I '11 fulfil my word, and give you more than
half my share, which you know is a pretty good one, if
you will lend me an honest and fair play.
 I '11 do nothing, Bill, but what you tell me. I '11 lay
like a log in the boat, and stir not without the boatswain's
whistle; and as to an honest hand, I '11 tell you what, Will,
'tis something as good as your own—it will do by you as
well as your own would do by me.
"Say no more, say no more! But look, John—I do
believe I see her by the shore.
 I see* something white, but that's the cottage in the
reach.
 No, no, John; keep her head well up; my eyes are
clearer than yours—I see her flag waving in the wind.
You may take your tack now, John—we shall run directly
across. Ease out the mainsail a bit, and I '11 mind the
foresail. Bear up, my hearty! bear up, my hearty !
With such words of mutual encouragement did these
men of the sea, the river, and the land, after passing
Woolverstone Park, steer directly across, towards Nacton
Creek, that they might hug the wind under Downham
Reach, and move more rapidly, in shallow water, against
the tide.
mahgattet catciipole. 79
Any one would imagine, from their conversation, that
they were intent upon cutting out some vessel from her
moorings, instead of a poor, defenceless girl, who, trusting
to nothing hut the strength of true love, stood waiting for
them on the shore.
There stood the ever faithful Margaret, with palpitat-
mg heart, watching the light barque, as it came bounding
over the small curling waves of the Orwell. In her
breast beat feelings such as some may have experienced j
but, whoever they may be, they must have been most
desperately in love. Hope, fear, joy, and terror, anxiety,
and affection—each, in turn, sent their separate sensa-
tions, in quick succession, into her soul. Hope pre-
dominated over the rest, and suggested these bright
thoughts—
 He is coming to me, no more to be tried, no more to
be disapproved, but to tell me he is an honest man, and
engaged in honest service.
What a picture would she have presented at that mo-
ment to any genuine lover of nature! Who could de-
scribe that eye of expectation, swelled as it was with the
animating hope of happiness to come! Who could de-
scribe that heaving heart, answering as it did to every
heave of the little boat which came bounding to the
shore! And what words shall speak that sudden emo-
tion, as the welcome sound of the grounding keel, and
the rush of waters following it, told that the boat wa8
ashore, which conveyed to a woman's heart all that she
had so long looked for, hoped, and feared—her lover's
return!
The watchword, "Margaret, was spoken, and in
another moment her joy and grief, and love and hope,
were, as it were, embodied in the embrace of him she
loved. Moments at such time fly too rapidly—an hour
seems but an instant. There is so much to say, to express,
to ponder upon, that the time is always too short. In
honest love there seems to be no fear, no death, no time,
no change—a sort of existence indescribably happy, in-
definitely blissful, hopeful, and enduring.
In the heart of Margaret, the poor Margaret Catchpole,
love was her life; and as she stood upon that strand, and
first welcomed her William, she felt the purest, happiest,
and holiest feelings of joy, rectitude, and honestv—such
80 HISTORY OP
as she never before had felt to such exten', and such as she
knew but for a few short moments, and often wished for
again, but never, never afterwards experienced.
Since his absence from Margaret, the character of Laud
had become more and more desperate, and to say that the
same pure feeling burned in his breast as did in Margaret's
would not be true. No man who leads a guilty life can
entertain that purity of love in his heart which shall stand
the test of every earthly trial; but Margaret, like many
real lovers, attributed to him she loved the same per-
fection and singleness of attachment which she felt
towards him. Had she known that this pure flame was
only burning as pure and bright in the honest soul of Jack
Barry, she would, it may be, have rejected Laud, and have
accepted him; but she knew not this. She was not blind
to the faults of the sailor, though she was blinded to his
real character. She expected to find a love like her own,
and really believed his affection to be the same to the last.
 Now, Margaret, he at length exclaimed,  now's the
time: my boat is ready, my ship is at the mouth of the
river. A snug little cabin is at your service; and you will
find more hearts and hands to serve you, than you ever
had in your life.
 But where am I to go, William ? What business
have I on board your master's vessel ? He would not ap-
prove of your sailing with your young wife. I thought
you came to tell me you were prepared to marry me from
my own dear father's house, and to be a comfort and a
blessing to my aged mother.
 Margaret, you say you love me. My time is short.
I am come here to prove the sincerity of my love, and to
take you, in an honest way, to a country where we may
be married; but if you send me away now, we may never
meet again.
 If you are true, William—if, as you say, your pros-
I)ects are good, and you have spared sufficient from your
awful gains to hire a cottage and to make me happy, why
not get leave of absence, and come and marry me in dear
old England ? 
 I may not be able to get leave for a long time; and
what difference does it make whether we are married
here, or in my employer's country ? Marriage is marriage,
Margaret, in every place, all the world over.
MAKGAKET CATCHPOLE. 81
_ u Yes, W ill ; but I have beard that marriages solem-
Dtized in some countries do not bold good in others; and
whether they did or not, I should like those who first
gave me birth to give me to you, William. My consent,
they know, is a willing one; but I should not be happy in
mind, if I were to leave my parents without their know-
ing where I was gone.
 What will it matter if they do not know it till we re-
turn ? I almost think you would like another better than
me, Margaret.''
 If you, William, were, in some respects, other than
you are, I should like you full as well; but, as you are, I
love you, and you know it. Why not come ashore, and
marry me at our own church, and in the presence of my
own parents ? As to any other, William, though another
may like me, I cannot help it, but I can help his having
me.
"Then there is another that does love you!—is there,
Margaret ? 
A blush passed over Margaret's face as she replied.
"Another has told me so, and I did not deceive him.
He thought you dead, or he would never have ventured
upon the subject. I told him he was mistaken, that you
were not dead, and that I still loved you, William.
 Then he knows I live, does he t
 Yes.
 And you have betrayed me ? 
 No: I have not told any one but him; and as he
pressed his suit, thinking that you were no more, I felt it
to be only due to him to tell him you were alive.
 And who is he, Margaret ? You would not have been
so plain with him if he had not had somewhat of your
confidence.
 He is an honest young man, and of very good and re-
spectable parents—he works at the Priory Farm; and
seeing him, as I do, daily, I can form sufficient judgment
of his character to believe he would never betray any
one.
 Upon my word, Margaret, he must be a prodigy of
perfection ! Perhaps you would like him to be bridesman
upon our wedding-day ? 
 I would, ind ?ed, if he would like it, and you had no
objection.
82
HISTORY Off
 What is his name ? 
 John Barry.
"What! of Levington?
"Yes.
 His brother is in the coast-guard. It was he who
gave me this, Margaret, this cut upon my forehead—this,
that you took such pains to heal.
 And it is healed, William: and your heart, too,
I hope.
 No, no, no!—I owe him one ! 
 Consider me his creditor, and pay it me; for I healed
that wound, and it brought with it reformation.
 I would not give you what I would give him.
"No, William; but you ought not to bear malice.
His brother has been very kind to me. I may say, he is
the only one who never reproached me with having been
the mistress of a smuggler. (There was a fearful frown
upon the smuggler's brow at this moment, and a con-
vulsive grasp of the poor girl's hand, that told there was
agony and anger stirring in his soul.)  But you are not
a smuggler now, William. I did not mean to hurt your
feelings. All reproach of that name has long passed away
from my mind.
William was silent, and gazed wildly upon the waters,
One hand was in his bosom, the other was in Margaret's
hand, as she leaned upon his shoulder. There might be
seen a strange paleness passing over his face, and a pain-
ful compression of his lips. A sudden start, as if invo-
luntary, and it was most truly so. It told of a chilliness
on the heart, that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins.
He actually trembled.
 William, you are not well.
 No, I am not; but a little grog, which is in the boat,
will soon set me right again.
 Shall I run and fetch it ? 
"No, no,—wait a bit, wait a bit. Hold—I was a
smuggler! Yes, you said I was a smuggler! The world
despised me! You bore the reproach of my name!
Well, Margaret, the smuggler comes home—he comes
to marry you. Will the world believe him to be altered?
Will they not call you, then, the smuggler's bride ? 
 No, William, not if you are really altered, as you
say you are. I wish you were in the British service;
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
83
seamen are wanted now, and the smuggler would soon
be forgiven, when he once sailed under the flag'of Old
England.
"'Tis too late,'tis too late, now, Margaret! I will
not say I may not ever sail under our gallant Nelson.
You might persuade me to it, if you would only sail with
me to Holland, and there be married to me, Margaret.
"You have heard me upon this point: do not urge it
any more. I have now stolen away from duty, William,
to meet you here, and I hope I shall not be missed. Let
me only hear you say you will come again soon, to marry
me at home, and I shall return to my service happy.
 I would if I could, but I cannot.
 Why not, William? why not?
*' Do not ask me why. Come, Margaret, come to the
boat, and share my fate. I will be constant to you, and
you shall be my counsellor.
 Nay, William, do not urge me to forsake all my
friends, and put all this country in terror as to what has
become of me. I cannot go on board your boat. I can-
not give you myself until God and my parents have given
me to you. So do not think of it 5 but, come again,
come again!—yes, again and again !—but come openly,
in the sight of all men, and I will be yours. I live for
>nly, William, and will never be another's whilst you
"But how can I live without you, Margaret? I can-
not come in the way you talk of; I tell you I cannot.
Do, then, do be mine.
 I am yours, William, and will ever be so; but it
must be openly, before all men, and upon no other
terms.
 Then it will never be!
Why so?
 Because I am a smuggler!
"You have been such, but you are not so now. You
have long forsaken the gang; you are forgotten, and
supposed to be dead. You may change your name; but
being changed in your life, it will only be known to me.
 And to Barry, too, Margaret; and then to his brother,
and to numbers of others, who will know me. I was re-
cognised this very night.
 What, if you change your name ?
84 HISTORY OF
 My name is changed, but not my nature. I am a
smuggler still!
"No, William, no—you cannot be! You are in the
service of an honest man, though a foreigner.
"No, Margaret, I am not. You see before you the
notorious Hudson. I am a smuggler still!
It was now poor Margaret's turn to tremble, and she
felt more than language can speak. She had heard of
Hudson—Captain Hudson, as he was called—but had
no idea that her lover was that, or such a man. She felt
a revulsion amounting to sickness, a giddiness overcame
her, and she felt as if she must fall to the earth. Half
carried, half urged, half pulled along, she was uncon-
sciously moving, with her eyes fixed fully upon the boat,
and approaching it, and she had no power to resist—a
sort of trance-like senselessness seemed to overpower her j
and yet she felt that hand, knew that form, and saw the
waters and the boat, and had no energy or impulse to
resist. Her heart was so struck with the deadliness of
grief and despair, that the nerves had no power to obey
the will, and the will seemed but a wish to die. We can-
not die when we wish it, and it is well for us we cannot.
Happy they who do not shrink when the time comes ap-
pointedly; thrice happy they who welcome it with joy,
and hope, and love!
Margaret revived a little before she reached the boat,
and resisted. The firm grasp of the smuggler was not,
however, to be loosed.
 You do not mean to force me away, William?
 I must, if you will not go.
 I will not go.
 You shall—you must—you cannot help it! Do not
resist.
 Shame, William, shame! Is this your love?
 It is, Margaret, it is. I mean you fair.
"Your means are foul. Let me go, William! let me
go!
 Yes: you shall go on board my boat.
 Not with my life, William. I will go overboard!
 Then will I follow you; but I cannot parley longer.
Come on!
The poor girl's struggles now became so violent, and
her efforts to escape so powerful, that Will Laud's utmost
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
85
strength could not drag her along the sand. Her fears,
too, wero increasing with his cruel violence; and these
fears were greatly increased by Laud giving a loud,
shrill boatswain's whistle. This awakened her to the
sight of the trap into which she had been beguiled, for,
in another moment, she saw a man spring from the
boat, and hasten towards her. He came along with
rapid strides to join them, and soon, with horrid voice,
exclaimed,—
"Your signal, Laud, is late indeed, but better late than
never.
That voice was too well known by Margaret: 'twas
the hated countryman's—'t was John Luff's.
This fellow seized her in his arms, and, as a tiger
would swing a fawn over his back, so poor Margaret was
swung over his shoulders in an instant. The last effort a
defenceless female can make is the shriek of despair; and
such a one was heard, as not only sounded through the
woods of Downham Reach, but reached the opposite
shores of Woolverstone Park.
That shriek was heard by one whose heart was too
true to nature to resist the good motives which it awak-
ened. Young Barry, as the reader knows, was journeying
toward the gamekeeper's cottage on the cliff, and had just
entered the wood in front of that dwelling, as the piercing
shriek struck upon his ear. He sprang over the paling
in an instant, and by the broad moonlight beheld a man
carrying a female towards a boat, and the other assisting
to stop her cries. He leaped down the cliff, and seizing a
strong breakwater stake, which he tore up from the sand,
rushed forward to the man who carried the female. It
was a good, trusty, heart-of-oak stake which he held, and
which in one moment he swung round his head, and sent
its full weight upon the hamstrings of Luff. The fellcw
rolled upon the sand, and over and over rolled the poor
girl into the very waves of the Orwell.
It was no slight work which Barry had now in hand.
It was a bold deed to attack two such daring villains,
both well armed, and he with nothing but a stake. But
the consequences he neither foresaw nor dreaded; the
cause was a good one, and he left the issue to God. As
quick as thought he had already dashed one foeman to
the earth; the other stood aghast, beholding Margaret
8g histort ok
fallen into tlie water, and his comrade rolling- on the
shore. He flew to help Margaret, and raising- her up,
determined not to relinquish her, but stood opposed to the
dauntless Barry.
"Villains, release the girl! was his exclamation.
"It is Barry's voice! shrieked Margaret. "Help,
John, help!
There was a strange opposition of feeling in all the
parties at these words. The blood curdled in the veins of
the smugglers, whilst it seemed to burst with overpower-
ing- fulness upon the forehead of the young man who now
attacked them. He fought for the prize of true love—
they for revenge. The moment they heard the name
uttered by the girl they seemed to think no more about
her j hut the fallen man sprang up, and Laud let Margaret
go, and both rushed, like enraged wild beasts, with full
force against young Barry. He, with true heroic daring,
committed himself at once to the encounter. He was a
fine athletic young man, a head taller than either of the
sailors, but odds were fearfully against him. Luff was a
stout, stiff, sturdy seaman; and Laud young, active, <3Col,
and desperate.
A smuggler is seldom without a weapon of offence and
defence. Luff seized his pistol from his girdle, and fired
at his brave antagonist; it missed its mark, and the stout
oak arm was not long in thundering a blow upon his head,
which again sent him sprawling upon the ground. It was
Laud's turn now to take his aim, which he did in the most
cool, determined manner, with as much ease, and as steady
a hand, as if he were firing at a holiday mark. It was a
cruel aim, and rendered the contest still more unequal. It
took effect in the young man's left shoulder, and rendered
that arm useless.
None but suoh a frame and such a spirit could have
stood against that pistol-shot. It made him stagger for
the moment; but he had presence of mind to ward off
die next blow of a cutlass with his good oaken staff. And
now might be seen the most desperate conflict for life or
death between the rivals. Barry and Laud closed and
parted, and struggled fiercely with each other, though the
former had but one arm to act upon the defensive with.
His right hand, however, was powerful enough to dash
the sword of Laud at least ten yards into the wave; and
MAUGAKETcatchpole.
87
with such dexterity did he handle his weapon, that had
not Luff come again unexpectedly to the encounter, the
contest must have been speedily terminated in favour of
Barry: Luff recovered his feet again, and rushed at
Barry with such rage, that again his other pistol misled
its aim.
Barry had now to act entirely upon his own defence,
with only one arm against four. He had this advantage,
however, that they had no time to load their pistols, and
had only their short butt-ends to fight with, whilst he had
a good long arm.
But assistance—unexpected assistance—was at hand.
A tall, gaunt figure strode along the strand, armed with
a long fisherman's pike, or hook, a weapon commonly used
to take codfish off the fishing-lines. His was a sinewy
arm, which few could resist or disable.
When such a man was aroused, harmless and peaceable
as was his general character, his appearance became truly
terrific; and his firm and steady step, and determined
resolution, told that he was a soldier of cool courage, not
easily to be beaten.
It was old Colson, or poor Robinson Crusoe, who, as it
has been stated, was making his way with fish up the
Orwell.
He and young Barry, now side by side, beat back the
smugglers to their boat. Desperate was the contest; but
there was no opposing the unearthly-looking being, with
his bones, perforated plates, and charms dangling about
his person. Well was it that he came so opportunely, for
without his help the fate of young Barry had been sealed
forever. It was bad enough as it was. The smugglers
retreated, and jumped into their boat. Laud, seizing a
carabine, levelled it at Barry, whilst Luff pushed off the
boat from the shore.
 Let fly at him, Will! let fly at him! Revenge your-
self and my fall!
A flash and loud explosion followed this advice. The
smoke cleared off in a second, and the pirates saw but the
stately form of Robin standing upon the shore. Young
Barry—the generous, brave, and faithful Barry—lay
stretched upon the sand.
Meantime Margaret had escaped. She had reached the
Priory Farm; and rushing into the room where the har-
88
history of
vest-men were assembled, fell down exhausted, with just
strength of voice to say,  Fly—fly—fly to the shore!
Barry will be murdered!
The gamekeeper was off before Margaret arrived, having
heard the report of the pistols; and he went into the
wood. The young men ran off to the shore, and soon
found the old fisherman supporting the head of the poor
young man. The blood was flowing fast from his wounds,
and he was in a swoon like death, though his heart beat,
and he breathed painfully. They formed a double row;
they lifted him up, and carried him along as gently as
they could; but the poor fellow groaned with the agony
of his shattered arm and wounded side.
Robin followed them, muttering curses against the
foul fiend, and every moment pointing to the departing
boat of the smugglers with a clenched fist, exclaiming,
 The foul fiend be with you! , He '11 consume you yet, ye
cowards 1
CHAPTER VIII.
disappointment.
There is a sad and fearful void in the disappointed
heart.
Poor Margaret! but one. short hour past and thy
prospects were as bright as the broad moonlight that
shone upon thy path. Yea, they were as bright to thine
eye as that beautiful orb in the most brilliant night; for
thy love was pure, true, and abiding.
How great was the reverse our heroine experienced
when she quitted her lover, and returned to the Priory
Farm worse than desolate! Had she never seen him
again, her disappointment could not have been so great.
Time might have taught her to consider him lost at sea,
or taken by the enemy, or killed in battle, or as having
died a natural death. But as it was, the tide had turned
o suddenly; the change from the full flow to the very
owest ebb was as instantaneous as if some gulf had swab
Margaret catciipole. 89
lowed up the river, and left the channel dry. Clouds,
black clouds intervened between her and her lover. She
had received a blight to all her hopes, save one, and that
was the last and best that any one could cleave to; it was,
 that God would change his heart, and one day make
him see the error of his way.
She little thought how distant that day was. But it
seemed that her sister's words were at this time true:
u Margaret, you will never marry William Laud.
Margaret was in the little parlour of the Priory Farm,
in all the agony of terror and the perturbation of con-
fessing her faults to her master and mistress, when the
murmur of returning voices told that the good farmer's
men were coming from the shore. Her soul was so full—
her heart so anxious—her confession so open, so sincere—
that even they who were most angry with her could not
find it in their hearts to be harsh and severe towards her
at such a moment of distress. She was so full of terror
that she dai*ed not to stir; she had no power to rise and
make inquiries upon the dreadful point upon which she
wished to be most satisfied. She heard the footsteps
approach; and as the parlour-door stood open, looking
into the kitchen, she saw the young men bringing in the
heavy body of the youth, to whom, perhaps, she then
owed her existence; for her resolution had been formed, to
have plunged into the waves sooner than be taken away,
against her will, by the smugglers. Certainly she owed
her present safety to the intrepid boldness of that
wounded man. She saw them bring him into the kitchen,
pale, bloody, and, as she first thought lifeless; but a
heavy groan, as they laid him down upon the floor, by the
fire, made her start up, and feel the first spring of joy in
her desponding heart, that he was not murdered. But
the joy that Laud was not his murderer was as great as
that the youth was not dead.
Her mistress's voice, calling to bring water and assist
her, restored her to a consciousness of her duties. Here
might be seen the benefit of active employment in divert-
ing her mind from its most painful feelings, rousing it to
think, and turning it away from tormenting itself.
The surgeon was sent for immediately; and after a
short delay in preparing a bed in a room by itself, the
young' man was carried up by his companions. Never
90 HISTORY OY
was there a more melancholy change from the mirth ol
 harvest-home/' to the misery of a house of woe. To
look into that kitchen, which so shortly before was
resounding with the cheerful voices of merriment, and to
see the long faces, to hear the whispers, and the ques-
tions, and the remarks made upon the circumstances
presented a scene so different and so painful, that descrip
tion would fail to express it. There sat the ancien*
fisherman, silent and thoughtful, his left hand upon his
forehead, and his right clutched convulsively with his
inward emotion. There stood the foreman of the field,
with his fellow-labourers, anxious to know who it was
that had given the wound; for they had as yet only been
told that two men in a boat had fired upon Barry, and
wounded him.
Meanwhile the old fisherman, who had witnessed the
scene, was so absorbed in his own reflections, that he did
not seem disposed voluntarily to afford them any informa-
tion.
At last one of them addressed Robin.-
 Who was the fellow that fired the gun, Robin ?
"The foul fiend! said Robin; "I saw him in the
boat.
 WThat foul fiend? was he devil or man ?
 He was a demon, who left me for a moment to tor-
ment others. I knew mischief would come of him as soon
as he left me. He is always stirring up infernal broils;
and would bring a host of enemies against me, if it were
not for this charm. Look here, and taking from his side
a perforated bone, he held it up, saying,  this is the rib
of Margery Beddingfield, who was gibbeted on Rushmere
Heath for the murder of her husband. When I shew him
this, he will soon be off. This is so strong a spell, he
cannot touch me. But look! there he is! there he is !
and the startled hinds closed round their lord, and looked
fearfully in the direction of the door, to see if the murderer
was coming.
 Ay, look at this, thou false fiend! Dost thou remem-
her how thou didst stir up Margery, and Richard Ringe
of Sternfield, her paramour, to murder John Beddingfield,
the farmer, near Sax-mundham? Thou couldst inflame
their hot young blood to mischief; but what dost thou
come here for? Off! off, I say! Look here! thou
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 91
hadst better go to the officers of justice. Ha! ha! he
is gone! and the old man smiled again, as if he had
defeated his foe, and was congratulating himself on the
victory.
These things were very unsatisfactory to the minds of
these plain-thinking countrymen. They again and again
put questions to him, but could get no other answers than
incoherences about the foul fiend.
"But what had Margaret Catchpole to do with it?
 Ask her yourself: the foul fiend always finds an easier
prey in a woman.
At this time Margaret came into the room; and ignorant
as she herself was of Robin's efficient aid, she could not
help asking him if he had seen the fight.
"Did you see it, young woman? I saw you long
before I saw the fight.
.Margaret did not ask any more questions; for in
another minute several asked her who had been fighting',
what it was for, and what she had to do with it. She
knew too well to speak would be to betray herself; and she
was glad to find they were in ignorance of the real perpe-
trator of the deed. She was called into the parlour just
then, and rejoiced to escape the inquisitive demands of her
fellow-servants.
 That's a clever girl, said old Robin, as she left the
kitchen,— that's a clever girl. Which of you boys would
like her for a wife ?
 Ask Will Simpson, said a sly fellow.
"Ask poor Jack Barry, said another; "'tis my belief
Jack got his blow from a rival in Margaret's love.
 What fiend told you that, young man ? T is seldom
any of 'em speak the truth ? But, perhaps, you know who
he is that rivals Jack ?
 No, not I—not I. I know who he would be, if he
was alive; and just the sort of fellow, too, to give Jack a
nab. But he's dead and gone long ago, and maybe his
bones are at the bottom of the sea, for he was killed on
Pelixtow beach.
 Who's he ? who's he ?
"Why, Will Laud, the smuggler. Don't you know
liim, Robin?
 Yes; but I never knew that he was dead.
 Oh, yes, he's dead enough. I saw a fellow who told
92 HISTORY- OF
me lie helped to bury him in the sands at ihe foot of the
cliff.
"Then the foul fiend has brought him back to life
again, for I have seen him many times; and I spoke to
him this very night, and he to me. Not only so, I know
him well; and I wish all the fiends had him before he had
given that brave lad his death-blow.
"What! Will Laud? you do hot mean to say Will
Laud was on the shore to-night?
 Ask Margaret Catchpole: she can tell you as much
as I.
Margaret returned just as this was said; and Will
Simpson, perhaps as much in spite (for Margaret had
upon some occasion of his rudeness given him such a
specimen of her dexterity with a frying-pan, as left a me-
morial on his head not easily to be forgotten or forgiven)
as for inquisitiveness, put this question—
 I say, Peggy, who met you upon the shore to-night,
eh?
 What's that to you ? A better man than you.
 Perhaps a better Will, too; eh, Peggy ? One who
will have his will of you, too, before you die, and tame
you, my dear.
 Perhaps he may; and should it be so, he will make a
' will o' wisp' of you, Simpson.
'' He '11 be hanged first, Peggy, take my word for that.
He '11 not be shot, nor drowned: he's born to be hanged.
 And what are you born for, you coward, that, at such
a time as this, you should be quarrelling with me?
"I'm born to be his informer; and, before long, I'll
have you both up before the Squire, for all this piece of
work.
Margaret did not like this banter; it looked as if they
already knew that Will Laud was the intruder. She was
somewhat less ready at her replies than usual, and felt too
great a fear that she might commit herself. She tried,
therefore, to turn the subject.
"My master, Robin, desires me to give you soma
cupper.
 Thank your master, but I have had mine; and, but
that I hoped to hear what the doctor said to the poor
young man up-stairs, I should long ago have been on board
my boat.
MARGARET CATCHPOLL.
93
The greatest cowards are not easily silenced when they
find themselves able to browbeat an adversary with 1m-
punity, and that adversary a woman.
 Well, Margaret, if you won't tell me, I '11 tell you
whom you met upon the shore. You met one whom
Robin says the foul fiend has raised to life again.
Margaret turned very pale, and staggered to a chair.
But Simpson still went on.
 0 Peggy, Peggy, you have a guilty face ! I don't
wonder at your feeling shame. You've managed to hide
the smuggler, have you ? If you don't take care, both
you and Will Laud will come to a bad end.
Margaret rushed into the parlour, and fell at her mas-
ter's feet, imploring him to interfere and stop the re-
proaches of his men, who were treating her in a way she
did not deserve. Her mistress made her sit down in the
keeping-room; and, speaking a few words to her husband,
he left them. He remonstrated with his men, and was in
the act of insisting upon their departure to their homes, as
Dr. Stebbing arrived. He was desired at once to go into
the parlour; and there he recognised that high-spirited
girl who, in the cause of humanity, had, in her childhood,
galloped the pony to Ipswich for his aid. She rose and
curtseyed; but her feet gave way under her, and she sank
to the floor. The memory of her dear sister, the doctor's
former patient, her own happiness at that time, and her
present misery, were too much for her to bear, and she
was quite overcome. The good doctor raised her up, and,
with his cheerful voice, tried, in his usual kind way, to
comfort her.
 Come, come, my girl, what's the matter ? what's the
matter ? Are you the patient I'm come all this way to
see ? I thought I was sent for to see a young man. But
what's the matter with you ? Ah ! is it so, my lassie ?
(for his sagacity gave him a glimpse of the truth.)
 Come, cheer up, cheer up; we 'il go and see the lad. I
dare say he '11 soon be better. Cheer up, cheer up.
 Come, my good sir, let us have a light, and go up-
stairs, said tire doctor to the master of the house. "Now,
my dear, go and fetch us a towel and some warm water.
Come, bestir yourself; I know it will do you good.
This was the best medicine for Margaret, with whom
to be told to do anything, and not to go and do it, was
94 HISTORY OF
almost an impossibility, so much had she been accustomed
to obey.
All that could be done for the youth was to lay him in
as easy a posture as possible; for he was in too much
agony even to have his clothes removed. One of his
companions sat and wiped the cold perspiration from his
brows, whilst another washed his hands and face. He
breathed quickly and heavily, with shuddering fits that
shook the bed violently, and he was evidently in great
pain.
 Come, my lads, come, lend me a hand—let us see-—
let us see! where is the hurt?—where is the wound?—
what's the lad's name ?
"John Barry, sir.
"John, my lad, let's look at you! but John took no
notice of the doctor.
 I think, sir, his arm is broke, for it dangled by his
side all the way we carried him.
 Let us see, my boy, let us see! 'T is broken! high up
too, too high up. But we must strip him. Gently there
—gently there, my ladand the groans of the poor
fellow told his agony. The work was done with great
care, and by slow degrees. But it was done, and then the
frightful nature of his wounds became conspicuous: a
gunshot wound from the middle of the arm to the shoul-
der. The ball had struck the humerus, and broken it,
glanced over the head of it, and passed between the
scapula and clavicle, and it might be easily felt lying in
the external portion of the trapezian muscle. It was so
near the skin that it was easily extracted; the difficulty
was to get away those parts of the clothing which had
been carried into the wound. Such was the effect of the
first shot.
The second was the most severe. It had pierced
through the long dorsal muscle, and the ball lay directly
against the lumbar vertebrae. This wound was the more
agonising because it had pierced the strongest muscles of
the human frame, and braised the stoutest part of the
back-bone.
After the doctor had examined his wounds and ascer-
tained that they were of the most serious nature, he
said—
 This will be a work of time. Get some stimulants—
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 95
put warm flannels on his feet—his extremities are icy
cold. He has had violent exertion—all his muscles are
hard and stiff. Put his hands in warm water. Wash his
temples with warm vinegar. There, there; come, my
poor fellow, come; consciousness will soon return.
He opened his eyes, looked at the doctor, then at his
master, then at his friends, and at last at Margaret, who
was putting warm flannels to his feet. He looked
earnestly at her, spoke not, but a tear stole down his face
as he closed his eyes again.
Hi3 wounds were now probed, cleaned, and dressed, as
-carefully as if he had been one of the wealthiest squires or
nobles of the land, and he was then left for the night,
attended by two of his fellow-servants, in case he should
need assistance or restraint.
"There, there, good-night, John, good-night. I think
you '11 do now. Come, come, he feels a little easier. He
breathes better; and patting his cheeks in his good-
humoured way, Dr. Stebbing left him, and went down
•into the parlour.
There is always a little chit-chat with the doctor after
the usual labour of his profession is over, and he is quietly
seated with the family. It is then he judges of what is
best for his patient, for at such times the secrets of most
families come forth; and if love or law, if loss of stock or
money, if cruelties, injuries, or any causes whatever have
been acting upon the patient's mind, the doctor is sure to
be made the confidant.
If the faculty could find out the means of supply-
ing all their invalids with such things as they really
wanted, they would soon get well, but in default of
such means, medicine and good advice—very necessary
articles in their way—are supplies in which the faculty
seldom fail.
 Doctor, will you take anything to-night? you have
had a cold ride, and will have another on your way home
—shall my mistress give you anything warm?
 I care not if she does. A little nutmeg in a little
warm brandy-and-water, and just one slice of your nice
harvest-cake, and I shall be comfortable.
The first question asked of the doctor was,  What he
thought of his patient ? 
Why, he has got an ugly wound that will take months
96
HISTORY OP
to heal. He will not be able to be moved for six or seven
weeks. Where do bis parents live?
 At Levington, was the reply.  His father is toler-
ably well to do in the world, though he has a large family.
I have not a steadier young man on my premises, nor a
quieter, soberer, or better behaved lad, or a better work-
man belonging to me.
 So much the better. But what does the old fisher-
man do in the kitchen ? I thought he never sat down in
any house, but always kept to his boat ? 
 He is only waiting to speak to you, doctor. At least,
he said he should stop to hear your report.
 I should like to have one word with him.
 I '11 go and tell him so; and off trotted the worthy
farmer for Robin, with whom he soon returned, and then,
beckoning to his wife, they left him and the doctor alone
together.
 Well, Robin, what an odd fish you are! I can never
persuade you to come into my kitchen, and here you are,
hail fellow well met, with the farmer's men at Harvest-
Home. How is this, Robin ? I shall tell my daughter of
you, and leave her to set some of your foul fiends to work
upon you.
 They've been at work pretty well to-night, doctor, or
else I'm wofully mistaken. One of 'em has done a pretty
job of mischief here; and it's well if he don't do more
before he's done.
The doctor understood his dialect, and knew how to get
out of him what he wanted.
 Who did the foul fiend work upon? who was his
victim?
 He left my boat, and went aboard Will Laud's.
"What! the smuggler? I thought he was shot long
ago.
 So others thought, but not I; for I saw him and a
sturdy villain of his pass my boat, with all their sails set;
and when my Infernal Broiler left me, and sat grinning
on his mast, I knew he was up to mischief.
•  What mischief, Robin ?
"Why, look ye, doctor; you must ha' seen the mis-
chief. Ha'en't you dressed the young man's wounds ?
 Yes, Robin; but how came your imp to be the cause
cfthia?
MARGARET CATCIirOLE. 97
u Nay, that you must ask the girl here; for seldom do
toy imps fail to make mischief among' the sex.
 Was it a love affair?
"Nay, it didn't appear much o' that. And here
Robin, in his quaint language, well understood by the
doctor, told his own tale as it happened.
"Well, Robin, all I can say is, that, but for you, one of
the finest young fellows in the land would have lost his
life; and there s a guinea for you.
"No, no, master; give me a guinea for my fish, but
don't give me a guinea for doing no more than I ought to
do. Give it to the poor boy for loss of time. I've got
some good fish, and you may have some to-morrow morn-
ing; but the fiends would torment me all night, if I went
to my hammock with a guinea for my reward. No,
doctor, no. I thank you, too; but tell me the boy will do
well, and I'm well paid for my pains.
 He will do well, I think, Robin, if his mind be not
disturbed.
The doctor felt, as perhaps the reader will, that the
honest old fisherman, bewitched and bewildered as he was,
had more good feeling about him than many a man of
clearer head and a less scrupulous conscience, who would
have crept along the mud to pick up a guinea for his dirty
pocket.
 Well, well, my boy, I shall not find such an odd fish
in your boat as your own self. You may bring up your
basket to my door, and my daughter will deal with you.
Instead of a guinea, I must give you any charm that you
can ask me for.
 Keep to that, doctor, and I '11 ask you soon to give
me one that I stand much in need of, and which you only
can furnish me with. You are surgeon to the g'aol, and I
want something out of that place. I '11 tell you, one of
these days, what it is. My boat is now high and dry upon
the shore. You might ask some of the landsmen here to
lend me a hand to get her off. I shall be in Ipswich as
soon as yourself.
No sooner was the request made than it was g'ranted;
and Robin and five or six g-ood stout fellows were on the
shore, and soon shoved the boat off, which, quicker than
the men could walk upon the sand, moved on her native
element co the well-timed stroke of the able fisherman.
7
9? HISTORY OF
The doctor's first introduction to the flying1 Margaret
is well known to the reader. His knowledge of her under
those circumstances made him feel for her; hut there
were some questions he wished to put to her, as his curi-
osity had been excited by what Robin had revealed. The
farmer had already given him some hint about her con-
fessions; but the doctor wanted to find out whether,
after what had taken place that night, the tide of her
affections might not have turned a little toward hi3
patient. It was a delicate question to ask, but he
thought he would find it out by another plan; so he
desired to see Margaret in the parlour before he left the
house.
"I did not half like your look, my girl, when I first
saw you to-night. Come hither; let me feel your pulse :
let me look at your tongue. Your pulse is quick, and
you've some fever hanging about you.
 I thank you, sir, I shall be better to-morrow. I'm
very sorry for what has happened.
 You could not help it, my girl—you could not help
it; it was not your fault.
"I don't know that, sir,—I don't know that. I blame
myself much; but—but—
 But you don't like to blame anybody else, Margaret;
I know you.
"Well,sir,that's the truth; but yet he was to blame.
"Who? Barry?
 No, sir, no; but he who shot him.
"Yes, he was a cowardly fellow. What induced him
to do it?
 Because Barry's brother shot Mm. I suspect he was
excited at the remembrance of his own sufferings, and
urged on to desperation by the fellow that was with him;
and, in a moment of madness, thought to revenge him-
self.
"This was not right, Margaret; it was still very
cowardly.
"Why, yes, it was; but—but, I do not defend him,
sir.
"What then, Margaret? what then?
 Why, I was to blame, sir!
"Why so?
 Because I told him Barry loved me, sir.
MARGARET CATC1IP0LE. 99
"Ho, ho! a little jealousy, was it? Was it so, Mar-
garet? Well, well, he will be more jealous now.
 I'm sorry for it, sir. Had I not thought he would
have known my preference for him, I should not have told
him this. It is this I blame myself for, as much as I do
him. I hope Barry will do well, sir.
 Your hopes may be disappointed, Margaret. His is
a very bad casej and, if he dies, Will Laud will be
hanged.
 Then you know all, sir ? Oh, pray save him if you
can, sir!
"Who?
 John Barry, sir,—John Barry.
"Margaret, do you love him?
"No, sir; yes—yes, sir. I think he is a very good
young man, and he would be a great loss to his parents.
"More so than to you, my girl?
 Oh, yes, sir, yes. I'm sure I wish him well, and shall
always feel grateful to him for his kindness to me. I do
hope he will recover, sir, for Laud's sake.
This was enough; the doctor now knew all. He saw
that his patient was in love with Margaret, but that Mar-
garet loved another. He was in possession of the whole
secret. He promised to do all he could; he dismissed
the girl; and, after a few minutes' further chat with the
master and mistress of the house, and strongly advising
them to send for Barry's parents in the morning, he
took his leave. His little hay pony soon rattled up
Gainsborough's Lane, through the open fields toward the
Racecourse, and over Bishop's Hill, to the town of Ips-
wich.
Barry's parents were not long in coming to their son,
nor long in learning the real state both of his mind and
body. It is the happiest time to die when a parent's ten-
der care is round you. Then the agony of suffering is
greatly relieved, and the heart can open its most inward
thoughts. It turns, with such filial respect and thank-
fulness, towards those whom it does not like to grieve, hut
who are always the most quicksighted to see our wants
and to relieve our distresses. So gentle Is a mother's love
—so delicate, so soothing, so healing to the youthful mind,
that nature almost decays with pleasure before her soft
attentions. Nor is a father's manliness and fpeling less
100 HISTORY OF
sensibly experienced at such a time. 7- He may not have a
woman's gentleness, but he has a firmness and a quietness
of action which are seldom seen at other times, and which
make a sick room seem more calm and sufferable. He
has quite as deep feeling-, though it is more subdued.
Who that ever has been ill in his youth, and has seen the
kindness of parental love, but has thought that he never
could die happier than when his fond parents were near
him?
So thought young Barry when his parents were by his
side; and not only thought so, but plainly told them that
he wished to die.
"I hope not yet, my boy, said his father. "The
young sapling may get a blight, but it soon recovers, and
springs up vigorously; but the old trees naturally decay.
I hope to go first, my boy.
 Yes, father, such may be your hope and natural ex-
pectation; but Heaven avert it! You have others to live
for; may I never live to see your death!
 Come, John, do not give way to such feelings. You
know not yet what the good God may have in store for
you.
 He has, indeed, been good to me, father, and has left
me nothing more to wish for in this world.
 Perhaps not for your own benefit, John; but we are
not always to die just when we wish it. Neither are we
to live merely for ourselves. We are called upon to live
for others; and more may be expected of us on this ac-
count than upon our own. We are not to be such selfish
beings as to think, 'The wind blows only for our own
mill.'
 I meant not to find fault, father; but I am disap-
pointed, and feel therefore useless.
 I know your disappointment, boy; but I would not
have you take it so to heart as to let it prey upon your
spirits. There are others far better and more worthy of
you, who may esteem you, John, for your good conduct
and character; and one of such may make you an excel-
lent companion for life.
 Father, I know I am not so wise as you are. I have
not your experience; yet this I feel and say, that I hope
you will never find fault with that poor girl.
 I will not, John, in your presence; but how can a
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 101
father help feeling hurt and angry with a girl who prefers
a smuggler to an honest man ? 
 That may or may not he a fault; but you just now
told me we should live for others, and not be so selfish as
to think only of ourselves. Now, I do believe that Mar-
garet lives only in the hope that Will Laud will become
an altered man.
 He never will! A lawless villain, who will revenge
a blow upon the innocent hand that never gave it, has a
heart too reprobate and stony ever to change.
 You will not say it is impossible?
 I did not mean to say it is a thing impossible with
God; but you seemed to think that, by Margaret's influ-
ence, such a change might be effected. This, I say, will
never be. Laud may influence her, and may corrupt her
mind; but, take my word for it, the man whose love is
swallowed up in the violence of passion, as his is, will
never produce anything good. He will be a selfish villain
even toward the poor unfortunate victim of his choice.
 Oh, father, would that you could persuade Margaret
of this! She is indeed a good girl, and a warm-hearted
one j and, had she received any education, would have
been as good and respectable as my own dear mother.
 All this may be, John; but, if I could persuade you
out of this fit of fancy, I then might have hope that I
should have some power of persuasion with Margaret.
Till then I shall stand no chance. For, if I cannot root
the weeds out of my own ground, how shall I be fit to
work for others?
The young man sighed deeply, and could answer no
more. He felt the force of the superior wisdom of his
father; and, owning to himself that there was much truth
in the remark, felt how difficult it would indeed be to con-
quer in his own heart his hopeless attachment.
In due time, Barry's wounds^ progressed towards re-
covery, and it was agreed among'his fellow-labourers that,
before the cold weather should set in, they would form a
corps for carrying him home to Levington. Twelve under-
took the task; and, one fine October day, they managed
to place him and his bed upon a frame, made for the occa*
sion, to which were attached shoulder-pieces, and so con-
veyed him to his father's residence, where all things wera
made ready by his mother's hand for his reception.
HISTORY 01?
CHAPTER IX.
evil ways.
Onward went the boat to the haven at the mouth of the
river, and the two guilty souls in her felt that they had
narrowly escaped capture, and that, if the law of the land
should ever lay hold upon them, they would both have to
rue the foul deed they had committed. But the law of
the land had long been set at defiance by them; and they
owned none but those of the wind and weather, which
compelled them to run for foreign ports, and to slink into
those of their own country at the dead of night.
After various congratulations upon their luck in getting
off, and making many remarks upon the late encounter,
they turned to their duties as sailors, kept their boat
trim, and scudded along-, with all sails set, toward the
 Aide, which now lay in the shade of Felixtow Cliff,
moored, as if waiting wind and tide to carry her up the
river. They were well acquainted with the spot, and bore
away through the bright moonlight, reached the mouth
of the river, and were at length lifted up by the rolling
waves of old Ocean, which came tumbling in from the
harbour's mouth.
 The light burns low by the water's edge, and is hidden
from the sentinel on Landguard Fort. All's right; we
shall be on board presently.
Soon did they run along the side of the dark cutter;
and giving the signal,  Aldeburgliwere well understood
by the dark-looking- sailor who kept watch upon the fore-
castle of the ship. All was right; and when the captain
came on board, all hands were had up, the sails quickly
set, and the anchor weighed. Luff took the helm, the
captain retired to his cabin, and in a short time the boat
was hoisted in, and away they dashed to sea.
The dark dreams of the captain were mingled with the
visions of his past failure, and disturbed with the jealousy
and hatred of all the Barrys. The phosphoric lights upon
the sea, as the vessel glided through the waves, made it
look like a boiling- ocean of flame, like burning waters J
and the spray which the waves gave off resembled smoke.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 1Q3
They were fiery spirits who lived on board that vessel, as
ardent as the liquid flame they bore in their tubs, and
about as productive of good. Could the history of every
one on board the Aide be told, it would make the blood
curdle in the veins of many a stout landsman. They were
pirates as well as smugglers. Secrecy and crime went
hand-in-hand with them. Daylight and honesty were
things scarcely known amongst them.
The chief employer of these men lived, as the reader
knows, in tolerable repute, sometimes at one place, some-
times at another. He had many vessels at sea, and
Captain Bargood was as well known on the opposite side
of the German Ocean as on this. Pie accumulated riches,
but he never enjoyed them. He lived in a kind of terror
which those only who have felt it can describe. He out-
lived, however, all his ships and all his ships' companies j
and looked, to the day of his death, an old weather-beaten
log, which had outstood storms and tempests, and come
ashore at last to be consumed. He prided himself, in his
old days, upon the many daring captains he had made,
and tne manner in which he had secretly commanded
them. He had a regular register of their appointments
and their course, how many trips each ship had taken,
how she paid, how she was lost or taken, and what became
of her and her crew. That fearful log-book could tell of
many a horrid tale. It would also serve to shew the
enormous extent of illicit traffic carried on at that period
by one man alone.
We must now return to the Aide. While dashing
through the sea, past the sand-bank, or bar, at the mouth
of the Deben, those on board saw a solitary light burning
in Ramsholt Church, a sign that she might send a boat on
shore in safety. Luff undertook to go. He did so, and
found a messenger from Captain Bargood to land the
cargo at the Eastern Cliff, as the coast-guard had received
information that a run was going to take place at Sizewell
Gap, and they had therefore drawn away their men, that
their force .at that point might be strong enough.
Th& work was soon done, and the desperate crew
betook themselves to their cave, to spend a night of
revel and carouse, such as spirits like theirs only could
delight in.
To the surprise of many, Will Laud remained on board,
104 HISTORY OB
and preferred taking a cruise, and coming in again the fol-
lowing niglit for the ship's company. The fact, however,
was, that he was afraid of the land. The consciousness
of his guilt, and the fear of the revenge of Barry, should
the coast-guard hear of his attack upon young Barry, the
brother, acted upon his nerves, and made him think him-
self safe only on the broad sea.
A certain number of men always remained on board to
take the vessel out of sight of the land until the night, and
then only were these free-traders able to near the shore.
The lives of these men were always in jeopardy, and none
of them ever turned out good husbands or friends. When
they were compelled to. leave off the contraband traffic,
they generally took to poaching, and led fearful and mi-
serable lives; which, if traced to their close, would
generally be found to end in sorrow, if not in the ex-
tremity of horror.
John Luff had an interview with Captain Bargood, and
then told him of Will Laud's awkward situation upon the
banks of the Orwell.
"A lucky fellow to escape as he did ! exclaimed Bar-
good.  He might have been at this moment in Ipswich
gaol, and from thence he would only have escaped through
the hangman's hands.
 We must keep him out of the way, sir. We must
again report him killed, and change his name from Hud •
son. He is already known as Will Laud, and his fame
will spread along the shore.
 Well, he is a lucky fellow. He should go round the
world, i '11 send him, ship and crew, a good long voyage.
Something may be done in the fur-trade this winter. I
have received a notice that I might send a ship, and cheat
the Hudson's Bay Company of a good cargo of skins.
What shall we dub the captain?
 Let's call him Captain Cook; I '11 tell the crew it's
your desire to have the captain honoured for his success
by giving him the title of the great navigator.
 That will do, John—that will do. Take these orders
to Captain Cook. Give these presents to the men. Tell
them to disperse themselves upon a visit to their friends,
and meet again at the Cliff on the 12th of next month,
for the purpose of making a long voyage. In the mean
time do you and the captain contrive to get the ship into
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 105
friendly quarters abroad, and if you like to run ashore
yourselves, there is my cottage at Butley Moor, and you
can take possession of it. But keep yourselves quiet.
Five of the crew belong to Butley, and I know what they
will be up to. Do not let Captain Cook go up the Orwell
again, if you can help it, and steer clear of the coast-
guard.
 Ay, ay, master, I'll manage; and, leaving the old
commodore, he returned to the cave, and reached it at the
precise moment when the hardy fellows were drinking
"Long life to Jack Luff!
 I'm just come in time, boys, to make you all return
thanks instead of me. I wish you all long life and good
luck. I've got you all near three weeks' run ashore. So
here's your healths! But I say, boys, the commodore
approves our young captain, and has appointed him a
good voyage next turn; and as he is to sail across the
Atlantic, he wills that you all should join in calling him
Captain Cook.
"With all our hearts! With all our hearts! ex-
claimed several of the crew.  But what were you saying
about the three weeks' run?
"Why, that you must all be here by the 12th of
October. In the mean time, if you want to see me or
the captain, you will find us after next week at the green-
windowed cottage at Butley. Till then, my boys, follow
your own fun. Here's your pay, and a present besides for
each.
A noisy shout issued through that dark and dreary
cavern. They were not long in obeying- their employer's
orders. By twos and threes they dispersed, some to
Boyton, some to Butley, some to Shottisham, Kamsholt,
Bawdsey, Hollesley, Felixtow, one or two as far as
Trimley, Nacton, and Ipswich.
The country was too hot for some of them, who, being
suspected of being concerned in the attack made upon
young Barry, were looked after in order to be prosecuted
for attempt at murder. All pains had been taken j
rewards offered, their persons described; and so nearly
did some of the crew resemble the description of their
companions, that they had to cut their cables, and run for
the furthest port in safety. John Luff and the captain
took up their quarters again by Butley Moor, and em-
106
HISTORY OF
ployed themselves, as before, in the dangers, and to them
familiar sports, of poaching.
The 12th of October came, and the,smugglers returned
to their place of meeting, and the captain and his mate
met them at the cave. Two only did not come to the mus-
ter, and these two were always suspected of being rather
 shy cocks.
 I say, captain, said one of the men,  I had like to
have suffered, for you, and Tim Lester for Jack Luff.
Two fellows laid an information against us, and swore
that we were the men who attempted to murder young
Barry. The hundred pounds' reward would have made
them stick to it as close as a nor'-wester to the skin. We
cut our cables, and ran off and escaped. The country
around is hot enough after you both, so the sooner we are
on board the better.
Accordingly, stores were soon shipped, anchors, cables,
spars, and rigging carried on board, orders given, and
<( far, far at sea they steered their course.
CHAPTER X.
the parting.
Unaffected was the joy with which the parents and
family of young Barry received their brave son into their
peaceful cot. The good miller and his wife welcomed the
pale and dejected youth with that quiet, composed, and
affectionate interest which at once soothes and comforts p.
sick soul.
The young man had more upon his mind than he chose
to speak of, and a heavy weight upon his spirits, which
not all the cheerfulness of his brothers and sisters and
parents could allay. His wounds gradually healed; but
his weakness continued, and he appeared to be suffering
some internal torture which prevented his sleeping at
night. He read, and-tried to improve his mind j but it
availed nothing. His sisters, too, sought every oppor-
tunity to afford him diversion; but the languid smile and
MARGARET CATCIirOLE. 107
forced expression of thankfulness told,, that, although he
felt grateful, he did not relish their mirth. He looked
intently into the newspaper, especially into all matters
connected with the coast and coast-guard; and when he
read of any skirmish with the smugglers, he was feverishly
anxious to know who they were. He also expressed a
particular wish to see his brother Edward.
Though the miller could not say exactly when Edward
might be expected home, he resolved to send to the sta-
tions where he might be found, and urge him to obtain
leave of absence.
It was not long before that leave was given, and he
returned to visit his parents and his invalid brother. The
young men mutually rejoiced to see each other, and were
not long in comparing notes upon their separate adven-
tures.
 I prophesy I shall catch him one of these days,
said Ned;  and if I do, he shall never remember his last
escape. We know him well when we see him, but the
fellow changes his name as often as he does his place, so
that our information is frequently contradictory. If once
I have a chance of changing shots with him again, Jack,
he shall pay me for those cowardly wounds in your side.
1 Nay, Ned, I had rather that the sea swallowed him
up, than that you should shoot him.
 How then would you know he was dead, Jack? His
ship might be lost, and the wreck driven on shore; but
we should not know it, and he might or might not escape.
There's nothing like a bullet for certainty.
 But you would know him, if you saw his body cast
ashore?
 Yes, that I should; and I would soon let you know
2t, tOO.
"Well, if I must hope for his destruction, I would
rather it were in this way than by your hand.
 For your sake, Jack, I should be satisfied with it so;
but, for my own part, I have no compunction in shooting
a desperado like him, who lives upon the vitals of others,
and fights against his king and country, and sets at de-
fiance all laws, human and divine. He would kill any
man that opposed his nefarious traffic; and, as I am one
that he has sworn to attack by land or by sea, whether in
war or peace, I see no reason why I should not defend
108 HISTORY OF
your life and my own, even though it may cost the taking
away of his.
The sufferer did not argue the point any further; and
especially as there were reasons of a private nature which
had a powerful influence upon his mind. He revived
very much during his brother's stay, and seemed to be
more cheerful than at any former period of his illness.
He even assisted in the labours of the mill, and by little
and little began to pick up strength. His brother's leave
of absence, however, expired; and the two were seen to
walk away together over the hill, arm-in-arm, in the most
earnest and deep conversation.
 Never fear, Jack; I will keep your secret honestly,
and render you all the help in my power. . I will let you
know our movements.
 And take care of yourself, Ned, and do not risk
your life for my sake. If you should fall, what should I
feel?
 I hope you would feel that I fell in a good cause,
brother. At least, I do feel it so myself, or I should not
be a happy man. No man can be happy, John, who even
thinks that he is doing wrong.
 God preserve you, dear brother! Farewell!
The two brothers parted, one to his duties at Dunwich,
where his station then was, the other to his home and
thoughts.
Anticipation is the greatest quickener of mortal spirits.
There is something so lively in the expectation of things
upon which the heart is fixed, that even time passes
quickly by during the period in which hope is so vivid.
But there is a point at which the tide turns, and as
gradually operates in a reverse manner, when the heart
sickens, desponds, and grows gloomy.
Young Barry returned from his parting walk with his
brother in high spirits, elated with hope, and better both
in mind and body. He assisted his father in his work,
and was at times playful with his sisters. So much did
his health improve at this time, that his parents began to
hope that the ensuing spring would see him perfectly
restored.
And where, all this time, was she, the unfortunate
cause of all his misery, and the most unintentional maiv
plot in this history ? She was as great a sufferer as he
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
109
could possibly be. Nothing could equal her distress of
mind at the turn affairs had taken. A bodily affliction
might have proved a comfort to her. She felt, after all
that had taken place, that the indulgence of her kind
master and mistress should be rewarded with more than
usual exertions on her part. She had stirring employ-
ment for her hands, as well as much exertion for her
mind.
It would have been a pleasant thing for her could she
have been absent when the sharp gibes of her fellow-
servants would torment her with insinuations. There is
dreadful cruelty in that man's heart who delights to tor-
ment a creature which cannot defend itself. Poor Mar-
garet felt that she had no defence to set up, and no friend
to defend her. To hear the hopes expressed that Laud
might be soon taken, and the reward talked of for his
apprehension, and the wishes expressed by some that they
might have the opportunity of handling the cash: these
things, coming from those whom she met every day,
made her present position very uncomfortable.
More than once, one would announce at dinner-time
that the smuggler had been seen on shore and captured.
Again, it was stated that he was taken in an open boat at
sea. And if a sailor chanced to call at the house, Mar-
garet's heart was in a flutter lest he should be seen by
some of the men, and she should be ridiculed. These
things kept the poor girl's heart in a constant state of
apprehension, and evidently affected her health; whilst
the accounts brought to the farm, from time to time, of
young Barry's protracted sufferings, were anything but
satisfactory to her. Her master and mistress were uni-
formly kind to her, or she could not have borne her suf-
ferings. As it was, she found herself so uncomfortable,
that she resolved to give her mistress warning, and to
leave her as soon as she could suit herself with another
servant. She begged her mistress not to think that she
was dissatisfied with her or with her work: she told her
plainly that she suffered so much from the taunts, and
even the looks, of the men upon the farm, that she could
Hot live ther,e, and she was resolved to go home to her
parents.
About the latter end of the ensuing November, Mar-
garet returned to her parents; and if she did not live
110 mSTOKY OF
quite so well as she had done, she lived, at all events, in
peace.
It was at this moment of her utmost poverty that Mar-
garet's love and fortitude were put to the severest trial.
In the depth of the winter, she received an unexpected
visit from young Barry, who, claiming as he did a more
than common interest in her fate, and a more than passing
share of her acquaintance, well knew that he should not
he denied admission into her father's cottage. He entered,
looking extremely pale and thin; but Margaret was glad
to see him; and more especially as he declared that he had
walked all the way from Levington. She dusted a seat
for him; and placed it by the crackling fagot-fire, request-
ing him to rest himself after bis walk. It was about
half-past two o'clock in the afternoon; her father was
cutting fagots on the heath; her mother, who had been
unwell, had gone up stairs to lie down; her youngest
brother was attending the sheep; and she was alone at
the time young Barry entered. He seated himself, and
answered her kind inquiries after his health, and received
her grateful expressions of thankfulness for his kindness to
her upon former occasions, and especially upon that day
when he had received his wound.
Barry heard this with that true modesty which a good
man always feels. He said it was only his duty; he
regretted the conduct of his former friends and fellow-
labourers, which had driven Margaret from her place, and
he asked her if she intended to go to service again. She
replied,  Not in this part of the country. I hope soon to
go and stay with my Uncle Leader at Brandiston, who,
though he has a large family of his own, has yet kindly
consented to take me in, if I should want a home.
 Margaret, said the young man, fixing his eyes upon
her intently,  are you in want of a home, and are there
any circumstances -in the world that will ever induce you
to share mine with me ? I am come over for no other
purpose than to ask you this question. Give me a hope-
ful answer.
It is impossible for any woman, with a woman's heart,
not to feel grateful to an honourable man, who, regarding
not the poverty and reverse of circumstances which she
may have experienced, renews those earnest vows which
once, in happier davs, he had before offered. Marararet
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. Ill
felt young Barry's kindness, and owned it with the
deepest thankfulness, if not in words of eloquence, yet in
words of such simplicity and earnestness, as spoke the
noble resolution of a good and honest, though, alas, mis-
taken mind 1
 I do not say, John, that there are no circumstances
under which I might not be induced to accept your kind-
ness, and for which I might not endeavour to render you
the service and obedience of my whole life; but there is
one circumstance which would utterly preclude my accep-
tance of your offer; yet forgive me if I say, I hope that
one circumstance will for ever exist.
 What is that one, Margaret? Name it.
 Nay, John, you know it well. I have told you before,
that as long as I know that Will Laud is living, or at least
until I know that he is dead, I will never marry any other
man.
 But you must know, Margaret, the dangerous life- he
leads, and the precarious tenure by which that life is held,
subject as it is to all the perils of the sea.
 Alas ! I know it well; but there is a God who governs
and directs all things for good, and I hope still that the
day of grace and penitence may arrive, in which, though
fickle as he now is, he may be altered and improved.
Nothing is impossible; and as long as life lasts, so long
will I have hope.
"But your hopes, Margaret, may be blighted—it may
be that the sea itself may devour him.
 It may be so. It will require something more than
the bare report of such a calamity to convince me of the
fact, even though years should bring no tidings of him.
"But if you should have the truth asserted by one
who should chance to see him perish, would that be suf-
ficient proof?
 No, sir, no! Except I know from my own sight, or
from the most positive evidence of more than one, I could
not trust to it.
 But if you were at last convinced of his death, might
I then hope?
 It will be time to speak to me of that if God should
grant me life beyond that dreadful time; but, now that I
think of your kindheartedness, and know how unwilling
you are to give unnecessary pain, I begi *9 fear that you
112
HISTORY OF
have some melancholy tidings to communicate. Speak,
John, speak!—your manner is unusual, and your con-
versation is too ominous. Have you heard anything* of
Laud ? Pray speak, and tell me at once.
This was more than the youth could at once perform.
He had been so carried away by his own passion, that he
had not foreseen the effect which his unwelcome tidings
might occasion. He now heartily wished that he had
left it for others to communicate. He hesitated, looked
painfully distressed, and was disconcerted at his own
precipitancy.
 I know, John, by your manner, that you have some-
thing to tell me, though you seem afraid to utter it.
Tell me the worst, tell me the worst!
 Margaret, I own that I have been too abrupt. My
own hopes have made me overlook the shock I know you
will experience; but I had really no intention of giving
you pain. The worst is, that which I have often thought
would come to pass—Will Laud is dead!
 How do you know that ? 
 I saw him myself this very morning.
 Where ? where ?
 At Bawdsey Ferry.
 How knew you it was Laud ?
 My brother saw his boat coming ashore in the gale
last night, saw it driven upon the rocks inside the bar, and
smashed to pieces. Laud, with three others, was cast on
the shore quite dead. My brother sent me word with the
morning's light. I would not even trust to his report, so
I went to Bawdsey and saw him. I then hastened to be
the first to convey the intelligence to you. Forgive me,
Margaret, that my selfish thoughts should have made me
forget your feelings.
 I can forgive you; but I never should forgive myself,
if I did not go directly and judge from my own sight if it
be really so. I have long made up my mind to hear
unpleasant tidings; but I have never been without hope
that something would alter him.
 I fear that he was too desperate ever to reform.
 I did not think he could reform himself. I lived m
hopes that some severe blow might bring' him to his
senses; but I must go and see. In the mean time let me
request you not to mention those matters to me again; at
MARGAKKT CATCHPOLE. 113
least, let me have time to think of the past, and consider
of the future.
 You will pardon me, Margaret, and attribute to my
regard for you the precipitate step I have taken upon this
occasion.
 Where lies the body of poor Laud? said Margaret,
without seeming to near what Barry last said.
 It is in the boat-house at Bawdsey Ferry, together
with the three others.
 I will go there to-day. And she immediately pre-
pared to fulfil her resolution.
 How will you go ? Will you let me drive you there ?
I can obtain a horse and cart; and I think you know me
well enough to be persuaded of my care ?
 I do not doubt it, sir, but I had rather not go with
you. I have no objection to be your debtor for the horse
and cart, but my youngest brother will drive me.
 It shall be here in half an hour. May I offer you
any other aid ?
 None, sir, whatever. You have my thanks; and I so
' far consider your honesty and truth deserves my esteem,
that, by to-morrow at this time, if you will pay us another
visit, I shall be glad to see you.
 It is all that I could wish or hope. Till then, Mar-
garet, good-by.
Young Barry left with a heart somewhat easier, though
touched with pain for the poor girl. He had, however,
seen the only being who stood between him and his affec-
tions laid a helpless corpse upon the boat. Hope took the
place of despair—he soon obtained the horse and cart, and
sent them to their destination.
Barry's anxiety was greatly increased as the day wore
away, and a night of feverish suspense succeeded. Sleep
was quite out of the question—every hour he heard the
clock strike in the room beneath him. He saw the grey
dawn approach, and beheld the gradually increasing light
clearer and clearer shining, and throughout the whole live-
long night he dwelt but upon one theme—that theme was
Margaret!
He rose next morning, looking, as his friends declared,
|ilea a ghost. He ate no breakfast—he could not talk—
he could not work; hut could only walk about, lost in
abstracted meditation. The dinner-hour came with noon,
8
114: HISTORY OF
but he could eat nothing—he had neither appetite,
speech, nor animation. No efforts of his parents could
call forth any of his energies—they knew he had been to
see his brother; but they could not get him to declare the
purport of his visit. He said that his brother was well;
that nothing had happened to him; that lie had seen him
quite well; and that he was promoted a step in the ser-
vice; and that he was constantly employed. It was evi-
dent to them that something was preying upon the young
man's mind which he would not disclose. They did not,
however, distress him with questions; and after dinner,
he departed from the house, and was observed to walk to-
ward Nacton.
He found Margaret returned, and seated by the fireside,
as she was the day before when he visited her. She look-
ed very pale and thoughtful. The young man took this
as a necessary consequence of the shock she had received
at the sight of her lover's corpse, little dreaming that at
that very moment she was actually feeling for the distress
of him who then stood before her.
- "Well, Margaret, I am come, according to your ap-
pointment.
"I am very grateful to you for your assistance. I
should never have forgiven myself had I not gone. I saw
your brother, sir, and he was very kind to me. Through
his permission I obtained a sight of the bodies in the boat-
house, and he told me concerning the melancholy wreck
of the schooner; but—but both you and your brother, sir,
are mistaken.
The heart of the youth was so stricken, he could not
for a time utter one single word—he sat all astonishment,
all dismay, all agony, all despair. There was no joyful
congratulation for Margaret, there was no apology for his
mistake—feelings too deep for utterance overpowered him.
Margaret saw and felt, in the midst of her own hope,
the painful disappointment of his, nor could she summon
courage to utter more. After the most afflicting silence,
John Barry, as if he could not doubt his own and his
brother's eyes, said—
 Are you sure I was mistaken ? 
"Quite, said Margaret; "quite.
"And my brother, how could he be so deceived? he
knew Laud so well.
MARGARET CATCIIPOLE.
115
 Few knew him better, but I convinced him that he
was mistaken. I asked him where the wound was upon
the forehead, which he had given him, and which I had
such difficulty in healing. It certainly was very like Laud,
and, had I not well considered him, I also might have been
deceived; but I am glad I went. Your brother is quite
satisfied upon the point, but very much hurt to think of
the grief he has occasioned you. He felt very sorry, also
for the pain which he kindly imagined I must have felt,
which, however, was greatly relieved by the joy I ex-
perienced in proving to his satisfaction that he was mis-
taken. He declared that, for my sake, he would never
injure Will Laud if he could help it. Oh, how I wish
that Will could have heard that declaration! I am per-
suaded they would have been good friends from that time.
I think you will find brother at Levington upon your
return, for I know he asked permission of Lieutenant
Brand to let him visit his father for a day upon very
urgent business. I suspect this is but to see you, and
explain to you his mistake.
 Margaret, I ought to have felt more for you than for
myself. I wish you well—I scarcely now can hope. I am
indeed wretched, but it is my duty to strive against these
feelings—I know it is. But here in this country I cannot
remain—I must go abroad. I must see if I can get a
grant of land in Canada—I cannot live here; but I shall
never forget you, Margaret, never!—and may I hope that
you will sometimes think of me?
 I can never forget you; and, depend upon it, where-
ever you may be, I shall never cease to be grateful for
your past kindness to a poor unfortunate girl like myself.
God will prosper you, sir—I am sure he will. I am far
too unworthy your notice. At all times I will pray for
your happiness.
 I know not where I shall go, Margaret. I will see
you but once more before I go; but now good-by.
They shook hands and parted—each felt a sincere wish
for the other's welfare. One felt that the hopes of his
life were blighted j the other, that her vows of attachment
were unalterable.
Young Barry returned home, and found, as Margaret
had supposed, his brother Edward, who had been there
some time before his return. It needed but a look to tell
116
HISTORY OF
what each felt. They took a turn round the fields, and
were seen arm-in-arm together. They were mutually
satisfied with each other.
Edward Barry saw and admired his brother's choice,
for until then he had never been prepossessed in her
favour. The warmth of feeling' which she betrayed when
looking at the countenance of her supposed lover, as he
lay in the boat-house, and the pure and simple joy at
discovering the mistake; the very sensible manner in
which she proved that she could not be mistaken; the
gratitude she felt, and the exemplary manner in which
she conducted herself, all conspired to give him a high
opinion of the character of this young woman, and made
him feel that, notwithstanding the strong wish he had
entertained for Laud's death, for he had even counted
upon being opposed in deadly skirmish with him, he never
could take his life without giving a deep wound to one
innocent and deserving heart.
Young Barry became another being—his health im-
proved rapidly; he began to work, and to talk of future
days with cheerfulness.
CHAPTER XI.
the last interview.
About this time a new settlement was projected at
New South Wales, and government had already sent se-
veral convict ships to Botany Bay and Port Jackson; but
the unruly state of the people, and the necessary military
government of the colony, made it very desirable that
some respectable settlers should be induced to go out.
Accordingly, whenever storeships were sent,.a premium
was offered for farmers' sons or farming men to emigrate.
One hundred acres of land for as many dollars were
granted : still very few could be induced to go. It was
not for some years that any regular settlers' ship went out
with free passenew's.
MARGARET CATCHROLE.
117
Young Barry conversed with his father upon this sub-
ject, and found him quite disposed to let him have double
the above-named sum, and even encouraged the idea in the
youth's mind.
It so happened that Captain Johnson, who commanded
one of the earliest store-ships which was sent to that co-
lony, was acquainted with Lieutenant Brand, and had
written to ask him if there was any young farmer who
would like to go out with him from Suffolk. It was through
him that young Barry got an introduction to Captain
Johnson, who promised him a good berth, and every
convenient accommodation. It was soon resolved that
John Barry should forthwith get a grant ot land; and,
being furnished with all requisite particulars, he went to
London to see his ship, and make arrangements with his
captain.
All his family now felt a double interest in him be-
cause he was going away, to leave them, perhaps, for
ever—at all events for a very long period. His sisters
worked hard to make him such changes of linen as should
last him for years; and every hand they could muster in
the village, capable of doing needlework, was fully em-
ployed. Presents of various kinds flowed in; and, upon
his return home from town, he found himself master of
more stock than he could possibly have got together for
his own use in England, though he had laboured for it
for many years. He was very cheerful, and even told his
sisters that, as he might, perhaps, marry soon in the new
settlement, they might make him some sets of female
apparel! They laughed with astonishment at this re-
quest; but, as they found him earnest, they each spared
something from their own wardrobe for this most eccentric
request. Little, however, did they surmise the real motive
of his heart.
The day was fixed for the vessel to sail, and John must
be, with all his goods and chattels, at London in a fort-
night. The last Sabbath-day that he spent with his
father, mother, brothers, and sisters, was memorable for
the deep-rooted power it ever after retained over his mind.
The clergyman's sermon was upon the universal providence
of God, and, as if he preached it on purpose (but which
was not the case, for he was ignorant of the intended move-
ment of the young man), he discoursed upon the unity of
118
HISTORY OF
the church of Christ in eyery place—the communion we
had even with our antipodes in the worship of the same
God. He instanced the especial interest which the church
had with all the colonies of the mother country, and
spoke of the joy to be felt when that reunion should take
place at the resurrection of the just. The preacher spoke
as if even the poor benighted aborigines of Van Diemen's
Land were his brethren, and showed how necessary it was
for us to extend to them our helping hand to bring them
to Christianity.
After service, the worthy miller told his pastor that his
son was going to that very country, and that the young
man had said he never should forget that discourse. The
clergyman went home with the family, and spent that
Sabbath evening with them. . He fully entered into the
prospect before the young man, and pointed out to him
the sure path to heaven, through the strait gate, and
inspired him with many hopes of doing good. He joined
with them in prayer, and gave them his blessing. He
promised to send him a valuable present of books, which
he performed the next day. Bibles, testaments, prayer-
books, homilies, tracts,  The Whole Duty of Man, to-
gether with a work on planting, farming, horticulture, and
seeds, and one on natural history and botany, all which
proved of the greatest utility to the worthy and honourable
young man upon whom they were bestowed.
The day of parting at length came—the last sad day—
and the young man remembered his promise to Margaret,
that he would see her once more before he departed. He
found her at home on the Monday, that very day upon the
eve of which he was to take the mail from Ipswich for
London. He came to take a long and a last farewell. And
why did he torment himself and the poor girl with this
last interview? Was it with a lurking hope that he
might persuade her to accompany him ? He had really
and truly prepared for such an event, could he have
brought it about. In his chests were presents which his
sisters had made at his request, in case he should marry
in the new settlement. He had suggested this; but
his heart had to the very last a lingering thought that
perhaps Margaret might be induced to embark with
him. upon what small last links will not true love depend!
 I am come, Margaret, to take my leave of you, said
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 119
he, oil meeting her.  I am going to a colony the farthest
off our own dear country of any known island in the world.
"Indeed, sir! if so I wish you well, and pray God to
bless you!
"Before I go, Margaret, resumed he, "I must tell
ou that as long as life holds in this poor heart of mine,
shall never love any one else. I may prosper—I may
he rich—I may be blessed with abundance—but I shall
never be blessed with a wife.
 Oh, sir, say not so! you grieve me very much to hear
you talk in that way. You are a young man, and the
path of life, though it may not be without thorns, has yet
many blessed plants for your happiness. Why should you
speak so despondingly ? Chang's of place and occupation
will make you feel very differently.
 You may think it may be so with me, Margaret; but
if there be any truth in this last doctrine which you have
yourself divulged, it will hold good in yourself as well as
in me. If you change your place of abode, and go with
me, Margaret, will not you think very differently to what
you now do ? Oh, that I could persuade you ! Oh, that
I could induce you to join your lot with mine ! Shake
off that wild attachment to the smuggler, and go with
me. I will marry you to-morrow morning before we sail.
I have even hinted the matter to my captain. He has
promised to be bridesman, and has even taken out the
license, and will be ready to-morrow at ten o'clock. No
preparation will be necessary for you: I have prepared
everything. Your bridal dress is even ready; and our
honeymoon will be kept on board the Kitty, which is to
sail to-morrow from London. Margaret, hear me! I
am sure that your present connexion will end in ruin.
What is Will Laud but a desperate fellow who cannot,
and, believe me, will not protect you? What sacrifice
can it be to leave a man who would have taken you
away without your consent, for one who, with your
consent, will unite all his interests with yours as long as
he lives?
There was a pause—an awful pause—after this declara-
tion, such as beings feel who are held in the most agitating
suspense, between life and death. Painful—very painful
—was the situation in which Margaret was placed. There
was a flood of overwhelming agitation. The tears stole
320
HISTORY OF
down her cheeks. Her dark eye shone like the sun
through the midst of a watery cloud, and told that it
longed to burst through the mists of darkness, but could
not find an opening for its beams. Faster and faster fell
the big drops—heavier and heavier dropped the clouds of
the eyelids, till, like a fiash of lightning, burst the words
from her lips—
 Oh, leave me! leave me, sir! I never can alter the
pledge I have given! I never can be unfaithful! Though
I may be unhappy in my choice, yet it is a choice to
which I feel so bound, that nothing but death can part
us. Oh, that Laud were as good as yourself! I feel, I
own the contrast; but I hope he may be better. Oh, do
not urge me, sir—do not urge me to desert the only
chance left for the restoration of a young man to honesty
and life!
 Margaret, hear then my last words, and if they fail I
will leave you. I do not believe that Laud loves you as
he ought to love. Did I think there was one chance for
your happiness with him, I would not urge my present
suit a moment longer. Believe me, he is not worthy of
you. You compel me to say he is a villain. He will
betray you. He will desert you. He will bring you to
want, misery, and ruin. I know you love him. Your
early feelings have all been engaged in his favour; but
which of those has he not disappointed? which of those
feelings has he not wounded ? Yet you cling to him, as
if he were a safe-ground of anchorage. Believe me—
believe me, Margaret, the anchor you cast there will not
hold; it will suffer you to drift upon the rocks, upon which
you will perish. Say in one word, will you, or will you
not, consent to my oner?
"John Barry, on my knees (and she suited the action
to the word) I thank you, and bless you; but I do not—I
cannot—accept your offer!
 Margaret, farewell! exclaimed he, as he raised her
from the ground, "a long, a last farewell. Nevertheless,
take this; it is a gift, which may some future day be of
service to you. You will not refuse it, as it is the last
gift of one who will never see you again. I know you
cannot even read it now; but the time may come when
you may be enabled so to do, and I had counted m my
long voyage of teaching you so to do. It was a present
MARGARET CATCIirOLE. 121
to me from my mother; but I have many more like it,
given me by our clergyman. Take it—take it—it can
never do you hurt; and, with God's blessing, it may b8
the means of our meeting in another world, though we
never meet again in this. God bless you, Margaret!
farewell!
He placed a small clasped bible in her hands, in the
opening and the closing leaf of which were two five-
pound notes; small sums perhaps apparently to us in this
day, but magnificent compared with the means of an early
settler in a strange land. This ten pounds paid poor
Margaret's rent, and all her parents' debts, at a subse-
quent time, when the deepest distress might have over-
whelmed her. But Barry returned to his parents with
a noble consciousness of an upright mind. His parting
with them was not, comparatively speaking-, of so pas-
sionate or stirring a nature as that which he had so
recently undergone, but it was as purely affectionate and
loving.
The hour of parting is over; and John Barry, as honest
and worthy a young man as ever left the shores of Old
England, was soon on board the Kitty, 440 tons; and with
some few others, who like himself had a mind to try their
fortunes in a foreign land, he sailed for that colony, once
the most distant and unpromising, now becoming re-
nowned, and which probably will be the most glorious
island of the Eastern world.
CHAPTER XII.
the welcome visit.
There is no greater misery upon earth than to be left
alone; to feel that nobody cares for you—nobody is
interested in you; and that you are destitute as well as
desolate! Poor Margaret at this time felt something
akin to this sensation. She had a regard for the youth
who had driven himself into voluntary exile on her
account. She wsa net, h?wftv«r. ta blame for this, though
122 HISTORY OF
many a one accused her of being the cause of it. She
was shunned by those of her own sex, on account of the
disreputable character of her lover, with whom it was
believed that she still held secret correspondence, although
for a long time she had heard nothing of him. The men
cared little about her, because she cared nothing about
them; but kept herself quietly at home, attending to the
sick-bed of a rapidly declining mother. Occasionally she
ventured to the Priory Farm, to ask for some few neces-
saries required by her aged parent. Her former mistress
was uniformly kind to her; and not contented with afford-
ing the assistance which was asked for, this good woman
visited the sick-bed of poverty, and ministered to the
wants of the aged and infirm.
Gratitude is very eloquent, if not in the multitude of
words, yet in the choice of them, because it speaks from
the heart. Margaret's gratitude was always sincere. She
was a creature of feeling without cultivation, and imbibed
at once the very perfection of that spirit which all bene-
volent minds wish to see; but which if they do not see,
they are so accustomed to the world that they are not
very greatly disappointed. Their surprise is rather ex-
pressed in that pleasure which they imbibe in seeing the
feeling of a truly grateful heart. An aged female, on a
bed of poverty and sickness, is but too frequently left to
negligence and want. When their infirmities are the
greatest, and their cares always the most anxious, then is
it that the really charitable aid of the benevolent is most
needed.
Margaret felt her own inability to assist her aged
mother, beyond the doing for her to the best of her
powers in all attendances as nurse and housewife. She
herself earned no money; but she made the best possible
use of all the earnings of the family, as at that time she
had not discovered the munificent present of poor John
Barry; for, not being able to read, she had carefully laid
up the treasured book, unconscious of the generosity and
self-denial of the donor.
At this time Margaret appears to have suffered much
rivation. She felt that she was dependent upon the
indness of richer friends for those little delicacies which
she required to support her mother's sinking frame; and
never was heart more sensitivelv grateful than this poor
MARGARET CATCHPOLE 123
girl's wlien she received some unexpected trifle of bounty
from the table of her indulgent mistress. She wept with
joy as she bore the present home to her affectionate but
fast-sinking parent.
She had not very long to continue her nursings. Early
in the year she lost her mother. Nature could not he
suspended; and she sank to rest, with her head supported
by the arms of an affectionate daughter and a good
husband.
The -death of her mother was felt by Margaret very
keenly. It reminded her of her own early affliction; and
a singular occurrence took place at the funeral, which
more forcibly reminded her of her sister's death. Singular
was that occurrence, and perfectly accidental. A stranger
entered the churchyard at the time of the ceremony, and
stood at the foot of the grave, and actually wept with the
mourners. No one knew who he was, or where he came
from; nor did he speak to any one, but he seemed to be
much afflicted at the scene of sorrow. He remained some
time after the mourners had departed, and saw the grave
filled up again; and when the old clerk had neatly patted
round the mound with his spade, and was about to leave
it, the stranger asked him if he did not mean to turf it.
 Why, I don't know; I don't think they can afford to
have it done properly; but, at all events, I must let the
earth settle a bit first.
 How long will it take to do that?
 That depends upon the weather. Come rain, and that
will soon settle; but if frost, and dry weather continue, it
will be some time first. They cannot afiord to have it
flagged and binded.
 What will that cost ?
 I charge one shilling and sixpence extra for that, as 1
have to get the turf from the heath; but I shall have some
time to wait before I am paid for what I have done. Time
was when that family was well off; but no good comes of
bad doings.
a What do you mean, my man ? what bad doings have
these poor people been guilty of ? 
 I see, sir, you are a stranger in these parts, or else the
Catchpoles, especially one of them, would be known to you
by common report.
 Which one is that?
124
HISTORY OF
 Margaret, sir.
"Well, wliat of her ? has she been unfortunate ?
 If she has it has been her own seeking, no one's else.
. She might have done well, but she would not.
 What might she have done ? and what has she
done?
 Why, sir, she might have married an industrious
young man, who would have done well by her; but she
chose to encourage a vagabond smuggler, who first set
her up with high notions, and then ruined and left her to
poverty and shame.
 You do not mean to say that the young woman is a
depraved and abandoned character ?
 No, no; I mean she don't like any honester man, and
so no one seems to care anything about her.
A tear stole down the stranger's cheeks; and, whoever
he was, he seemed to feel a little relief at this in-
formation.
 Is the young woman living at home with her
family ? 
 Yes; because nobody will hire her. She is laughed
at by the females, and the men don't care anything about
her. If they could catch her lover, and pocket a hundred
pounds reward for his capture, they would like the
chance.
 How are the family supported ?
 Why, I suppose the father earns eight shillings
a week, the youngest son one-and-sixpence; but they
must have been hard run this winter, and it will take
them some time to get up their back-rent and present
expenses.
"What is the amount of their present expense ?
 Why, I must get, if I can, sixteen shillings, somehow
or another. I dare say I shall have it; but it will take
them some time to pay it. There is ten shillings for the
coffin (for I am carpenter, clerk, and sexton), three shillings
and sixpence digging the grave, one shilling for tolling the
bell, and one shilling and sixpence for the clergyman; that
will exactly make the sum.
"You say it will take one shilling and sixpence extra
for turfing and binding: that will be seventeen shillings
and sixpence, How much do you think they owe at the
MARGARET CATCUPOLE. 125
 I know that it cost them three shilling's and sixpence
for flannel; but I know it is not paid for yet.
 There's a guinea; that will exactly pay you all, will it
not? and the stranger pitched a guinea against the sex-
ton's spade.
What a wonderful thing is a golden guinea in the eye
of a poor parish clerk! how reverential it makes a man
feel, especially when a stranger pays it for a poor man !
He might have got it; but he must have waited the
chance till after the next harvest.
 That it will, sir—that it will. I '11 call and pay the
bill at the shop. Are you coming to live in these
parts? *
"Not for long—not long! sighed the stranger.
"WThy, you look very healthy, sir? You are not
"No, no, my man; I do not mean to give you a chance
of getting another guinea by me, at least for the present.
I only meant to say my stay in this village would not be
for long*. But vdiere do these poor people live ?
 Not in the same place they used to do in the days of
their prosperity and respectability. Their house now
stands at the corner of the heath, sir: shall I go with you
and shew it you ?
 I can find it; there are not Many cottages there. Do
you go and pay the bill at the shop; and then if you have
a mind to bring the receipt, instead of giving me the
trouble to call at your house for it, you will find me at
the cottage of these poor people ; and hear me, old man,
do not talk to any one about this matter. You may as
well bring a receipt, also, for your own work at the same
time.
"You are cpnte a man of business, I see, sir. I will
not fail to be at the cottage this very evening with a
receipt in full.
The old sexton placed the guinea carefully at the hot-
torn of his pocket, and, shouldering his spade and mattock,
marched off towards the village shop. The stranger
walked round Nacton churchyard. He stood some time
attentively reading the inscription upon Admiral Vernon's
mausoleum; and, taking another look at the humble,
new-made grave of Margaret Catchpole's mother, he took
the highroad to the heath, and saw the cottage, known by
120 HISTORY OF
the name of the Shepherd's Cot, at the verge of that wild
waste.
Mean time the following conversation was going on in
that cottage:—
 I wonder, said Margaret to her father, as the old
man sat by the log-fire in the chimney-corner,  whether
our brother Charles is alive or dead?
 I can just remember him, said the boy j  he used
to be very fond of me, and said I should make a good
soldier.
 I have never heard of him, said the father,  since
lie went to Ipswich, and enlisted in another name, at the
Black Horse, in St. Mary Elms. I understood that his
regiment went off to India almost immediately after he
enlisted.
 I wonder if he is alive ?
 I cannot tell, my dear; the chances are very much
against it. He was a quick, intelligent, lively boy; and,
when he was at work in the fields, used often to say he
should like to be a soldier. The old clerk taught him to
read and write, and used to say, 'If Charles had a
chance he would be scholar enough to succeed him as
parish clerk.' He left us at the commencement of our
misfortunes; God grant he may meet us again in hap-
pier days!
Poor Margaret sighed; for she too well remembered the
origin of all their sorrows not to feel for her dear parent.
That sigh was answered by a sudden knock at the door,
which occasioned a start. The latch was lifted up, and in
walked the stranger who had attended the funeral. His
entrance gave a change to their conversation; and Mar-
garet placed a chair for him, in which he quietly sat
down opposite to the old labourer. Care had worn the
countenance of the venerable man more than years and
work. The only mourning of an outward kind which met
the eye, was an old piece of crape round the equally old
hat which hung upon a peg in the wall. Nothing else
could be afforded; but their countenances betokened the
state of their hearts. They were really melancholy. It
is not in the outward pageantry of a funeral that real sor-
row is to be seen; and the real grief of the Shepherd's
Cottage surpassed all the pageantry of the palace, and was
viewed with calm and respectful silence by the stranger.
MARGARET CATCliroUl, 127
He was a tall, pale, thin young man, with a scar upon
the side of his face: he looked as if he had undergone
much sickness or misfortune. He was dressed in a plain
suit of black, which hung rather loosely around him. He
asked Margaret if the youth beside her was her youngest
brother, and whether she had any other brothers living.
She replied that it was, to the best of her knowledge, her
only brother living. He then made inquiries concerning
the illness of her late mother; and after various other do-
mestic matters, he looked very earnestly at Margaret, and
in a seemingly abstracted manner said,  Where is Will
Laud? It was as if an electric shock had been given
to all in the room; for all started at the question, and
even the stranger was greatly moved at his own ques-
tion, when he saw Margaret hide her face in her hands,
weeping.
 I did not mean to occasion you any grief. I only
asked after a man whom I once knew as a boy, and whom
the old clerk informed me you could tell me more about
than any one else.
"And do not you know more of him than we do, sir?
said the old man.
 I know nothing of him, and have heard nothing of
him since I was a youth; my question was purely acci-
dental. I am sorry to see your daughter so afflicted by
it. Has the man been unkind to her ?
"No, sir! no! said Margaret. "If you are here as
a spy, sir, indeed we know not where he is.
"A spy ! said the stranger; and the stranger started
and muttered something to himself. Margaret herself
now began to feel alarmed; for the stranger seemed to be
deep in thought; and, as the flame from the log of wood
cast its light upon his face, she thought he looked ghastly
pale.
"A spy! said the stranger; "what made you think
me a spy ?—and what should I be a spy for ?
 I did not mean to aflront you, sir; but the question
you asked concerning one for whose apprehension a hun-
dred pounds is offered, made me think of it. Pray pardon
me, sir.
"I am sorry that he has done anything to occasion
such an offer from the Government. Has he murdered
any one?
128 niSTOKY Oi!'
 No, sir; but Will is a wild young man, and be at*
tempted to kill young Barry of Levington, and wounded
him so severely, that a reward was offered for his appre-
hension.
 Has Barry recovered?
 Yes, sir j and he is gone out of the country to Canada,
or some more distant land.
"Then never mind if Laud be caught. Government
will never pay a hundred pounds- for his conviction when
the principal evidence cannot be obtained. Never mind!
never mind !—that will soon be forgotten.
Such words of consolation had never been uttered in
Peggy's ear before. She began to feel very differently
toward the stranger, as the tone of his voice and his
manner, together with his words, became so soothing.
 Thank you, sir, for your good wishes; you make my
heart joyful in the midst of my mourning.
 I only wish I could make it more joyful by telling
you any good news of your lover, Margaret; but though
I know nothing of him, and only wish he were more
worthy of you than he is, yet I bear you tidings of some
one else of whom you will all be glad to hear.
 Our brother Charles ! both she and the boy at once
exclaimed, whilst the old man remained in mute astonish-
ment.
 It is of your brother Charles; and first, let me tell
you that he is alive and well.
 Thank God for that! said the father.
 Next, that he is in England, and it will not be long
before you will have the pleasure of seeing him.
At this moment the door opened, and in walked the old
clerk, who, seeing the stranger, made his bow, and gave
him a piece of paper containing a receipt for the guinea
which he had received. To the surprise of all, the stranger
rose, and taking a little red box made in the shape of a
barrel, which stood on the wooden shelf over the fire-place,
he unscrewed it, and put the paper in it; and, replacing
it, seated himself again.
 You were just telling us of our brother Charles, said
Margaret.
"What! exclaimed the sexton, "is Charles alive?
My old scholar! Where is the boy? I have often
thought of him. Oh! what a pity he took to drinking
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 129
He was as good a reader as our clergyman, and beat me
out and out.
 He is not addicted to drink now, and is as sober as a
man can be.
 I am glad of tbat. Tben he will succeed in anything
he undertakes. But where has he been these manv
?55 *
 You shall hear if you will sit down; for, as I knew
him well, and was his most intimate friend, he made me
his confidant in everything. He was always of a restless
spirit; and when he left his father and fiuends, he had no
settled plan in his mind. He enlisted in the 33d regiment
of Foot, which was then going out to India; and that his
relatives and friends might not grieve about him, he gave
his name to the parochial authorities of St. Mary Elms,
at Ipswich, as Jacob Dedham, the name of a boy who, he
knew, was not alive. The parish-officer gave him a
shilling, and he took another shilling of the recruiting-
officer.
 He was sworn in, and took his departure with many
others for Portsmouth, at which place he embarked for
India, and joined the 33d regiment at Bombay. He was
always of an aspiring and inquisitive turn of mmd. He
became an active and orderly soldier, and .assisted the
sergeant-major in all his writings and accounts. He soon
became an adept in all the cunning and customs of the
various castes of natives in India; was remarkable for the
quickness with which he mastered the different idioms of
the different territories of the East; and at length became
so noticed by Sir William Forbes, that he introduced him
to Lord Cornwallis, who employed him upon the frontier
of Persia.
 Here he became a spy, and was actively engaged for
that highly honourable and intelligent Governor-General.
He readily entered into his lordship's views; and, receiv-
ing from him a purse well stored, to provide himself with
disguises, he assumed the garb of a Moorish priest, and
with wonderful tact made himself master of all the
requisites of his office. I have here a sketch of him,
in the very dress in which he travelled through the
country.
Taking out a roll from his coat-pocket, he unfolded
the canvass wrapper in which it was enclosed, and pre-
130
HISTORY OF
sented it to Margaret, asking her if she recognised her
brother.
With eager and interested glance she looked at the
sketch, but not a feature could she challenge. She then
looked up at the stranger, and, as she did so, said—
"It is much more like you, sir, than it is like my
brother.
 I think it is full as like me as it is like him. But,
such as it is, you have it; for he commissioned me to give
it to you, together with a sketch of a fortress in which he
resided a long time as the priest of the family. This
is Tabgur, on the frontiers of Persia. His master and
family are walking on the rampart-garden of the fort.
Here the old clerk could not help bursting out with an
exclamation of astonishment at the wonderful talent of his
former pupil.
 I always said he would be a wonderful man, did I
not, Master Catchpole,—did I not ? Did he teach him-
self this art, sir?
 Indeed he did; and many others he learned, which
did him equal credit. He was a very quiet man in
appearance, though he was alive to everything around
him. Many were the hairbreadth escapes he had; but
his self-possession carried him through all. He had to
conceal all his drawings of the different fortresses, all
his calculations of the inhabitants, of their forces, and
their condition; but he contrived to wrap them about his
person, so that they could not be discovered.
 Once, indeed, one of his papers, written as close as
pencil could write, was picked up in the fort-garden at
Tabgur, and he was suspected for a spy; but he quickly
changed their suspicions; for, observing that his master
had a bad toothach, he told him it was a charm to
prevent it. Every person, he said, for whom he wrote
that charm, would be free from the toothach as long as
he kept it secreted in his turban; but it must be one
expressly written for the purpose, and for the person; and
that, during the time of its being written, the person must
have a piece of rock-salt upon that very tooth which was
aching at the time. The charm was only of use for the
person for whom it was written; and, as that one was
written for himself, it could do the Persian warrior no
good. This answered well; for he got back his valuable
MARGARET CATC 11 POLE. 1 .'11
paper, and wrote one immediately, in the presence of his
master, who, placing* a piece of rock-salt upon the tooth,
found that, as he wrote, the pain was diminished; and
when he concluded, it was completely gone.
 But the next day, your brother, the Moorish priest,
was gone also. He passed over into Hindostan, changed
his Moorish dress, and soon made his way to head-quar-
ters, where he delivered such an accurate account of all
that befell him, and of all that was required of him, that
he received a most ample reward. He called himself
Caulins Jaun, the Moorish priest.
 He has been sent to England by Lord Cornwallis, to
deliver some despatches to the government, relating to
the Mysore territory and Tippoo Saib's conduct; and,
having accomplished his mission, he has asked permission
to visit his poor friends at Nacton, in Suffolk. His leave
is very short, as his services are again required.
"And when may we expect him here? exclaimed
Margaret.  Oh, how I long to see him!
 I expect him here this night; for, as I was his com-
panion, and am to go back again with him, so I am his
forerunner upon this occasion.
 I could almost set the village-bells ringing for joy,
said the old clerk.  I wonder whether he would know
me.
 That I am sure he would.
"Pray, sir, how do you know that?
 Because the description he gave me of you is so accu-
rate that I could tell you from a thousand. Do you
remember the sketch he made of an old woman throwing
a cat at her husband?
"That I do. Did he tell you of that?
 That he did; and of the scratch he got from the cat's
claws, as you bopped your head, and puss lit directly on
his face.
Here the old man could not help laughing.
 But did he tell you nothing else about the sketch ?
"That he did, and with such feeling, that I almost
fancy I see now the scrub-brush belabouring his head for
his pains.
 Oh, dear! oh, dear! I thought he had forgotten all
that.
"Noj he thought of it at the very time he was
132 msTORV of
sketching the forts of his enemies' country. Had he
been caught in such freaks as those, he would have had
a severer punishment than what your good dame gave
him.
"But, if my old dame could see him now, how rejoiced
she would he; for, notwithstanding his roguery, he was a
great favourite of hers!
 She will see him to-morrow.
 That will he news for the old woman. But shall I
see him this night ? I would not mind waiting till mid-
night for such a purpose.
 That you may. But I do not think that even you
would know him, were you to see him.
 Why not? Would he know me ?
 He would: but youth alters more in countenance
than age, especially where a foreign climate has acted
upon the constitution.
 I should know him from two things, said Margaret.
 He once so nearly cut off the end of his little finger with
a sharp tool, that it hung only by a piece of skin: it was
bound up, so that it adhered and grew together; but
somehow, the tip got a twist, so that the nail of the finger
grew under the hand: it was the left hand.
 And what was the other mark?
 It was a deep scar on the back of the same hand,
caused by imprudently cutting off a large wart.
 Now tell me, said the stranger, drawing the glove off
his left hand,  were the scars you mention anything like
those?
 Exactly, said the clerk, who looked at him again and
again with amazement.
"Why, you can't be he? Are you Master Charles? '
 Can you doubt it?
 The hand is his.
"And the hand is mine. Therefore the hand is the
hand of Charles.
The old man rose, and qoming forward said, "I da
believe you are my son; I have been thinking so for some
time, and I am now satisfied that it is so. God bless you,
my boy! You are come at a seasonable hour, for the
Lord gives and takes away as He sees best.
A hearty embrace ana affectionate recognition took
place. The stranger (now no longer such) soon convinced
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 133
tliem of his identity; and though no one could really have
known a single feature of his countenance, yet he gave
them such internal and external evidences of his relation-
ship, calling to mind so many circumstances of such deep
interest to them all, that he was soon acknowledged to be
their relative.
Happiness comes unexpectedly in the days of mourn-
ing. The wild recruit had returned, after many days, tc
cheer an aged parent and a forlorn sister, who needed the
hand of some one to help them in their troubles. The old
man's heart revived again; and it was a pleasure to wit-
ness the joys of the few days which then visited the
Catchpoles, and the congratulations which they received
from the old clerk and his wife upon the bright prospects
of a hopeful son. Reports spread like wildfire that Charles
Catchpole had come home, and that he had returned from
India as rich as a Nabob. Reports are generally ex-
aggerated, and they were not a little so in the present
case; for although Charles might be comparatively rich,
his fortune, as the world terms it, was anything but
made. He had a few guineas to spare; but he had to
return to India, and to pursue a very hazardous course of
life, before he could even hope to gain that independence
which had been promised to him. A few guineas, how-
ever, make a great show in a cottage. He paid his
father's debts; made a present to the old clerk's wife;
bought his sister a new gown; his younger brother,
Edward, a new suit of clothes; paid one year's rent in
advance for the cottage; left a present with the sexton to
keep his mother's grave ever green; and announced his
departure to his family after staying one short week after
five years' absence.
u I shall see you no more, Charles! exclaimed Mar-
garet, at parting.  I fear that I shall see you no more!
You are going through a dangerous country, and the
perils you have already escaped you must not always
expect to avoid.
u Fear not, Peggy, fear not. God sent me in a proper
season to comfort you, and if you trust in Him, He will
send you some other friend in need, if it be not such a one
as myself.
 Oh, let me go with you, dear brother! I should like
to accompany you, said Edward, his brother.
13J
HISTORY OF
"That cannot be, Edward. You must remain at home
to help your father and sister; you are not able to under-
take a march of many thousand miles, under a sun burn-
ing your face, and a sand scorching your feet. I have a
good friend, however, in Lord Cornwallis, and I have no
doubt that some time hence I shall be enabled to do you
some service. I do not recommend you to be a soldier j
but if you wish it, when I see his lordship I will ask him
to help you. You shall hear from me in the course of a
year or so; in the mean time make all the progress you
can in reading and writing with the old clerk, and be
industrious. I must be in London to-morrow, and shall
soon sail for India. I shall never forget any of you.
 God bless you all!—good-by, were the parting
words of Charles Catchpole. There is in that short sen-
tence,  Good-by, a melancholy sense of departure which
the full heart cannot express.
 Good-by!—good-by! and Margaret gave vent to
her grief in tears, whilst the old man clasped his hands in
silent prayer.
The fond brother and affectionate son is gone; and
never did Margaret see that brother again. She was
shortly to change her place of abode. Her uncle Leader,
who lived at Brandiston, and who had a young family, and
was left a widower, sought the assistance of his niece; and
though her father could but ill spare her, yet as there
were so many children, and Margaret was so good a
nurse, he could not refuse his consent. There was another
feeling, too, which prompted the good old man to spare
ner. Though he loved his daughter's company, he knew
that she deserved to be thought better of by many who
disregarded her in her own neighbourhood, and he
thought a change would be good for her. It might pro-
duce in her a change of mind towards Will Laud—a thing
ne most earnestly wished for, though he would not grieve
her by saying so. It would at all events remove her from
many little persecutions which, though she professed not
to feel them, he knew weighed heavily on her spirits; and
come what might, even should Laud return, he was not
known there, and he might be a happier man. Under all
these circumstances, he not only gave his consent, but:
urged her going. She left her father's roof on the Mon-
day with her uncle.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
135
CHAPTER XIII.
POVERTY AND PRIDE.
On the evening of the very day on which Margaret
quitted her father's roof for that of her uncle, as the old
man was sitting pensively at his cottage fire, a knock at
the door announced a visitor. The door opened, and in
walked Will Laud, together with his friend, John Luff.
"Good-evening, father, said Will. "We are come
now from the shore. Our boat is once more moored to
the rails at the landing-place, by Orwell Park, and we are
come across the lands to see you. We had some difficulty
in finding out your berth. You have changed your place
of abode.
 Say that you have changed it for us, and you will be
nearer the mark. For ever since we knew you and your
companion, we have known nothing but changes, and few
of them for the better.
 Things cannot always change for the worse, surely.
 I wonder you are not afraid to be seen in this part
of the country. There are many here, Will, that would
be glad of a hundred pounds, the price set upon your
head.
 And yourself foremost of that number, I dare say,
said the gruff smuggler who accompanied Will Laud.
The old man looked at him with a placid but firm
countenance, and said,  That is the language of a villain!
Do you think I am so fond of money as yourself; or that
I would sell my daughter's lover for a hundred pounds ?
The door you have just opened is not yet closed, and if
such be your opinion, the sooner you take your departure
hence the better.
 Humph! humph! said Luff.  You need not he so
crusty, Mr. Catchpole—you need not be so boisterous.
We have not seen the inside of a house for many a long
month, and if this be the first welcome we are to have, it
is rather ominous.
 What welcome do those men deserve who cause the
ruin of others?
"We have not intentionally caused your ruin, father,
136 HISTORY OF
said Laud; "but we come in peace; we wish to abide in
peace, and to depart in peace.
 Then you should teach your friend to keep his foul
tongue still, or it will cause you more trouble than you
are aware of.
 I miss the principal ornament of your house, Master
Catchpole, said Will. "Where are all the females
gone ?
"Some are gone where I hope soon to join them; the
one you feel most interest about is gone to service.
 I was told, not an hour ago, that Margaret lived at
home with you.
At this instant the door was opened, and young
Edward Catchpole entered. He had been to put his sheep
safe into fold, and came whistling home, with little
thought of seeing any strangers in his father's cottage.
"Boy, do you know me? was the inquiry made by
Will Laud.
 Not yet, said the younger; "butI can give a shrewd
guess; and I can tell you something which will soon prove
whether I guess right or not. As I came over the heath,
I met two sailors, who appeared to me to belong to the
preventive service. They were on horseback. They
stopped and asked me if I had seen a cart, and whether it
was going fast, and which road it took; whether it went
across the heath, or along the road. I told them plainly
it was before them, and that it had turned down the road
towards the decoy-ponds. They then asked me if I had
met two sailor-looking men walking. To this, of course, I
said No. But I suspect they must have meant you.
"How could that be? said Laud. "We came not
along the road.
"No; but you might have seen some one who was
going to Nacton Street, and they might have been in-
quired of.
"^That's true, indeed. We had to ask where your
father lived, and our curiosity concerning your family has
led to this pursuit of us.
 One of the men I think I have seen before, and, if I
mistake not, it is the same Edward Barry that my sister
and I went to see at Bawdsey boat-house.
"Your sister went to see Edward Barry! What on
earth for my lad?
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 137
u Nay, don't be jealous, Laud. There was a report that
you were drowned, and that your body was cast on shore.
The bearer of that report was your rival, John Barry.
Margaret would not believe that report, unless she should
see your body. So I drove her there, and Edward Barry,
who had the key of the boat-house, permitted her to see
the bodies, which satisfied her that the report was un-
founded.
The two men looked significantly at each other, as much
as to say,  It is time for us to be off.
 I have one question more to ask, said Laud.  Where
is Margaret?
 She is gone to service at her Uncle Leader's, of
Brandiston. It is no great place for her, hut she will be
out of the way of reproaches she has suffered, Laud, on
your account. Moreover, she has refused the hand of a
most respectable young man, whom I should have been
glad that she would have accepted. But he is gone to a
distant land, and neither you nor I, Will, shall see him
again. John Barry has sailed, as a free settler, either to
Van Diemen's Land, or to Canada, I know not which.
These words were most welcome to the listener's heart.
He had not heard any which sounded so joyful to him for
a long time. He made no reply, however, but tendered a
purse to the old man.
 No; keep your money to yourself, Laud, and make an
honest use of it. I would not touch it, if I was starving.
But you may rest here if you please, and such cheer as my
poor cot can afford you shall be welcome to, for my dear
daughter's sake!
"No, no, I thank you. We must be on board our ship
again to-night. Our bark is in the river, and if the
enemy catch us, he will shew us no quarter. So good-
night, father, good-night!
 I do not wish to detain you, but hear me, Laud. If
you have a mind to make my poor girl happy, leave off
your present life, and this acquaintance too, this man's
company.
"Come on! said Luff, impatiently—"Come on!
We've got no time to lose. Our boat will be fast upon
the mud. Good-night, old man, and when you and I
meet again, let us be a little more friendly to each other.
It was well for both of them that thev denarW as thejf
138
HISTORY OF
did; for, shortly after they were gone, the tramp of horses
along the road told of the return of the coast-guard.
They stopped at Catchpole's cottage, and calling aloud,
young Edward went out to them.
 Hold our horses, young man, will you ? we want to
light our pipes.
 By all means, said Edward, coming to the little
garden-gate. Both men alighted, and he could see that
they were well armed. They walked directly to the door;
and seeing the old man seated by the fire, one of them
said—
"We want to light.our pipes, Master Catchpole. It
is a blustering' night. Have you a tobacco-pipe, for I
have broken mine rather short?
The old man took one from his corner and gave it to
young Barry, whom, from his likeness to his brother, he
could distinguish, and simply said,  You are welcome to
it, sir.
 Your son sent us on a wrong scent to-night.
 I do not think he did so knowingly. I heard him say
he met you; and he told me he directed you arig-ht.
"We saw nothing of the cart. We have reason to
believe that a rich cargo of goods has been landed at
Felixtow, and that the last cart-load went along this road
to Ipswich. Have you had any of your old seafaring
friends here ? Are there any here now ? You know who
I mean.
 You may search and see for yourself. Every door of
this house will open at your trial. If that is sufficient
answer to your question, you are welcome to take it.
Nay, I wish most heartily that you and your brother had
been my friends long before the one to whom you allude
had ever darkened my door.
When the young man remembered his brother's attach-
ment, and the really worthy object of it, there was a
grateful feeling which came over his mind, notwithstand-
ing the disappointment which his brother, himself, and his
family had experienced, which made him feel respect for
the old man.
 I thank you, Master Catchpole—I thank you. Had
such been the case, you might have had a good son, and
I should not have lost a good brother; and in my con-
science I believe I should have gained a s-ood sister. But
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
139
there is no accounting for a woman's taste. I tell you
honestly, Master Catchpole, that for your daughter's sake
I wish her lover, or the man she loves, were a worthier
character.
 I know that both she and I wish it so—she with hope
■—I, alas! confess that I have no hope of that. As long
as he lives he will never alter, except for the worse.
 I wish it may be otherwise. But come, my mate, it
is no use our waiting here, we must go on to Felixtow.
If at any time, Master Catchpole, I can be of service to
you, you have nothing to do but to send a messenger to
Bawdsey Ferry, and the brother of him who is now far
away will do what he caii to help you. Good-night,
Master Catchpole!
They returned to their horses, mounted them again, and
telling Ned that he might drink their healths whenever he
pleased, gave him sixpence, and rode off.
 Father, said Edward, when he was again seated by
the fire,  I do not—I cannot like that fellow Laud; and
how Margaret can endure him is to me strange.
"She knew him, my boy, before he became the
character he now is.
 I am sorry to lose my sister; but she will at least be
better off where she is, and far away from reproaches.
We must make out without her as well as we can. Our
old sexton's sister has promised to come and do for us; so
we shall have some help.
So father and son consoled themselves; and after their
frugal meal returned to their straw-stufled beds; and slept
upon their cares.
Meantime it was no small task that Margaret had
undertaken. She was to be as a mother to seven young
children, and to keep her uncle's house in order, and to
provide everything to the best of her power. But her
spirit was equal to the undertaking; and the new life which
came to her through change of place and people soon ani-
mated her to those exertions necessary to her position—a
situation so difficult and arduous.
Place a woman in a domestic station, where the power
of a mistress and the work of a servant are to be performed,
and see if she cannot shew what a quantity of work may
be done with one pair of hands. A good head, and a kind
heart, and a willing hand, are virtues which, as long as
140
HISTORY OP
industry and honesty are praiseworthy, will be sure to
succeed.
Her uncle was but a labourer, earning' twelve shillings
a week at the utmost, and that by working over-hours.
At that time of day such wages were considered very
large; and where the housewife was active with her loom,
or the aged with her spinning-wheel, labourers used some-
times to lay by something considerable, and not un-
frequently rose to be themselves masters. The wages
which Mr. Leader earned were sufficient, in the hands of
this active girl, to provide every necessary for the week,
and to lay by something for rent.
She soon made the eldest girl a good nurse; and gave
her such a method of management as saved herself much
trouble. In the first place, she began her rule with a most
valuable maxim of her own inculcation:  A place for
everything-, and everything in its place. Another of her
maxims was :  Clean everything when done with, and put
it up properly and promptly. Also,  Whenever you see
anything wrong-, put it right.  Everything that is bro-
ken should be either mended or thrown away. She would
not admit of waste in anything. Among her good old
saws was also:
 Early to bed, and early to rise,
Makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.
She would never suffer a bill to stand beyond the week
at any shop. The Saturday night, at nine o'clock, saw her
and her uncle's family out of debt, and the children all
clean washed, with their white linen laid out for the
Sabbath-day. And to see, on that holy day, with what
quiet, hushed little feet they entered, four of them at least,
the village church of Brandiston, with their foster-mother,
was a sight which caught the attention of every well-
disposed person in the parish. Master Leader's luck in a
housekeeper was soon spoken of; «nd many a parent
pointed out Margaret as a good chance for a poor man.
Up to this time Margaret could not read a single word:
but she was very glad when the vicar's lady undertook to
send two of the children to the village-school. She en-
couraged them to learn their daily tasks, and made them
teach her in the evening what they had learned at the
school in the day; and in this manner she acauired her
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 141
first knowledge of letters. The children took such pleasure
in teaching her, that they always paid the greatest
attention to their lessons.
Margaret was now comparatively happy m the per-
formance of her duties; and felt relieved from the restraint
and reproach which at Nacton, where her father lived, had
been attached to her character, on account of William
Laud. How long she might have continued in this en-
viable state of things it would be difficult to surmise; hut
Bhe seemed fated to encounter untoward circumstances
over which she could exercise no control. She conducted
herself with the greatest propriety. The children loved
her'as they would a kind parent; and all who knew her in
the village of Brandiston esteemed her for her able conduct
of her uncle's family. Had that uncle himself been a wise
man, he would never have given occasion for Margaret to
leave him: but no man is wise at all hours; and Mr.
Leader, though a very honest, good labourer, and a steady
man in his way, in an hour of too little thought, perhaps,
or of too superficial promise of happiness, chose to take
unto himself a new wife; a fat buxom widow of forty,
owner of two cottages, and two pieces of land in Brandis-
ton Street, and a little ready money besides, with only one
little daughter, engaged his attention. He, poor simple
man, thinking he might better his condition, save his rent,
and add to his domestic comfort, consented, or rather en-
treated, that the banns might be published for his second
marriage.
Had the woman herself been a wise one, she would
have seen how requisite Margaret's care was to the family.
But she became mistress, and must command every one in
the house—her house too ! and she was not to be inter-
fered with by any one. She would not be dictated to in
her own house. No ! though her husband had a niece
who might have been all very well, yet he had now a wife,
and a wife ought to be a man's first consideration—a wife
with a house over her head, her own property.
Men may have notions of the greatness of their pos-
sessions; but a weak woman, when once she has an all*
absorbing and over-weening idea of her own great wealth,
becomes so infatuated with the possession of power which
that property gives her, that there are scarcely any bounds
to her folly. Money may make some men, perhaps many,
142
HISTORY OF
tyrants; but when a woman exercises tbe power of mo eey
alone, she becomes tbe far greater tyrant. Her fondness
for wealth makes her more cruel and unnatural in her con-
duct; she forgets her sex—her nature—her children—her
friends—her dependants—and, alas! her God!
And soon did the new Mrs. Leader make a chaos of that
family which had recently been all order and regularity.
The management of household affairs was taken out of
Margaret's hands. Bills were left to be paid when the
new mistress received the rents of her cottages and land.
The children were foolishly indulged; turned out to play
in the street; taught to disregard Margaret, and to look
upon her as a servant; her daughter was never to be con-
tradicted; in short, every one in the house was to bend to
the will of its new mistress.
Such a change had taken place in the comforts and
conduct of the house, that Margaret, with all her care,
could manage nothing. She was thwarted in all she did—
eyed with jealousy on account of the praise bestowed upon
her—taught continually to remember and know herself
and her station—and to behave with more respect to her
betters, or else to quit the house.
Margaret had a sweet temper, and really loved her
uncle and the children, or she could not have endured so
long as she did the waywardness of this purse-proud
woman.
Matters had been going on in no very pleasant manner
in Mr. Leader's cottage, and Margaret had found herself
in a very uncomfortable situation. She had been quite
removed from her honourable station, as governess of the
family, and had been treated as a very unworthy menial
by her ignorant aunt.
While things were in this state, it so happened, that
one evening in the month of April Margaret was sent from
her aunt's cottage to the village shop to purchase some
article that was wanted for the morrow. It.was late when
she went out, and the shop stood completely at the end of
the village. It was one of those general shops, half a
good dwelling-house, and half a shop, where the respected
tenant carried on a considerable business without much
outward show.
A lane branched off from the main street leading down
to the vicarage, called the Church Road. It was, pro-
MARGARET CATCIIPOLE.
143
perly speaking, the Woodbridge Road from Brandiaton.
At the moment Margaret was passing over this crossway
towards the shop, she was accosted by the familiar voice
of one asking where Mr. William Leader lived. Margaret
replied:—
"I am now come from Mr. Leader's. He is my uncle.
Do you want to see him ?
 No, Margaret, it is yourself I am m search of. Do
you not know my voice?
It was William Laud!
The reader must conceive the joy, the astonishment, the
surprise, the fear, or all these sensations combined in one,
which Margaret, the persecuted Margaret, felt in being
thus accosted by her lover. Did it require any great
persuasion to induce her to turn aside at such a moment,
and walk a little way down the Church Road, past
the Old Hall, with one she had not seen or heard of
for so long a time; one whom, with a woman's faithful-
ness, she still loved with all the strength of her mind and
heart ?
 I have been very ill, Margaret, said Laud,  since I
came ashore and saw your father and brother. It was the
very evening of the day you left home. Had you left one
day later, I should have seen you, and, perhaps, I might
have been spared a fever which has reduced me to the
verge of the grave:
 It is so long since I have seen or heard of you,
William, that I began to think you had forgotten me.
"I have never forgotten you, Margaret, and I never
shall, till I cease to remember anything. In storm and
tempest, in calm and sunshine; in the midnight watch, or
under the clear blue sky; in danger or in safety, in health
or in sickness 3 in the hour of boisterous mirth, or in the
rough hammock of the seaman, when the dash of waves
and the whistling winds have swept by me, Margaret, I
have always thought of you j but never more than in those
moments of fever and anxiety, when I have been suffering
from the extremes of pain and sickness. Then, Margaret,
I remembered your soothing kindness; and then I bitterly
felt your absence. But have you forgotten and forgiven
my rough conduct, when we last met, a long time ago ? I
am alone now, and but a poor creature.
 I have not forgotten^ William, because I cannot for-
HISTORY OF
get; but I have always forgiven you. Much, much have
I suffered on your account; shame, reproach, and poverty,
have visited ine through you—loss of kindred, friends,
and companions; but God has enabled me to bear all,
with the hope that I should one day see you an altered
man.
 Yes, Margaret, yes; and so you shall. I am altered
much—I long to leave my present line of life, and to settle
in some place where I never was known. Captain Bargood
has given me his word, that, after one more voyage, I shall
be released, with prize-money sufficient to settle any where
I please, and to give me a free passage to that place, be it
where it may.
 I can only say, William, I wish that one voyage
was over. I hate your companions and your employ-
ment. I fear to lose you again, William. Oh, why not
get some honest work on land, and let me toil for and
with you?
 Margaret, I am here upon my word of honour to the
captain, that I would go one more run for him. I have
been a long trip this last time, across the Atlantic, and I
am promised a different tack the next time. But it will
soon be over, and then I will renounce them all. The
captain has nursed me in his own house, and though
a rough fellow and a poor comforter for a sick man, yet
I believe he did his best, and I am bound to be grateful
to him.
 I wish your duty taught you, Will, some better obli-
gation. My heart misgives me for you; and I can never
sanction a day in unlawful pursuits. I grieve for you.
But time steals away, William, and I have forgotten my
own duty. I have not a very kind mistress in my new
aunt; but my duty is obedience. I have to go to shop
now, and I fear it will be closed if I delay any longer.
When shall I see you again, William ?
 I fear me, not until this last voyage is over. I hope
that will be a short one. I shall just go into the King's
Head, refresh myself, and start again for the coast by day-
light.
"Well, William, you have my prayers and my love,
and I hope you may one day claim my duty. At present,
that duty is due to my uncle. So we must part! — Take
care of yourself.—How did you catch that fever ?
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
145
 By over-exertion in returning to my boat by Orwell
Park, the night I left your father. We struck across the
country, as we heard of our pursuers, and came to the
shore greatly heated with our run. The wind was fair for
us, and I had nothing else to do but to sit still. I covered
myself with a piece of damp sail and fell asleep, and when
I awoke I found myself as stiff as a mast—I could not
move a limb. But I will take care of myself for your
sake, Margaret, for the future.
By this time they had just arrived at the vicarage
palings, upon their return, where the angle of the street
branched off, and for a moment they paused to take the
farewell salute which faithful lovers ever appreciate.
They little thought who was near to hear their last
parting words, and to witness that love which they
thought no one but themselves beheld. The farewell was
spoken, and Laud departed. Margaret stood a moment,
with affectionate heart and tearful eye, to watch his re-
ceding form, and then, turning round the corner to go to
the shop, she encountered the enraged Mrs. Leader. She
could only walk on in passive silence through the village,
whilst her aunt's voice, rising higher and higher as she
approached her own domicile, made the neighbours peep
out of their windows to learn the cause of such a dis-
turbance. At last they arrived at home, and Mr. Leader,
with a thousand exaggerations, was informed of his niece's
atrocious conduct.
She eyed the poor girl with such malignant satisfac-
tion, as if she had already seen her condemned, by judge,
jury, counsel, and all the court. Poor Margaret! she
had not attempted to speak; she felt for her uncle — she
felt for his children—she felt for her lover; but for her-
self, nothing. She knew her own heart, and felt keenly
the cruelty and injustice of her aunt's spiteful accusa-
Bona; but that did not wound her so much as to see the
crestfallen distress of the master of that cottage, who, but
a short time before, never addressed her but in thanks or
praise.
Margaret sighed, looked at her uncle, and briefly ex
plained her accidental meeting with William Laud.
This only caused Mrs. Leader to break out into a fresh
passion. She abused her husband, abused Margaret, her
lover, her father, her brother and every one connected
10
11G HISTORY OF
with her. The base reflections she heard cast upon her
family roused the poor girl's indignation, and, after tell-
ing the enraged woman a few home truths, expressed her
determination to quit the house.
 I shall leave you now—yes, before another hour is
gone. I shall only kiss the children, pack up my little
bundle, and then I take my departure. Uncle, I have
done n:y duty by you, and I sincerely wish you happy.
I have had nothing of you, and have nothing to leave
behind me, but my humble blessing for yourself and your
children. Give me your hand, uncle; let us, at all events,
part good friends. You know that I do not mind the
night. A journey to me at this time, under these cir-
cumstances, is no more than a journey would be by day.
As to you, aunt Leader, whether you shake hands with
me or not must rest with your own self. I would not
part even with you in malice. Good-by,. aunt Leader.
Good-niglit!
Mrs. Leader had heard enough; she had met with a
spirit which, when roused, was equal to her own; and
though she looked as if she could have dashed the poker
at the poor girl before her, she dared not stir an inch: the
fury fell back from her seat, and went off in a fit.
Margaret stayed that night, but not another day. The
next morning she set her uncle's breakfast out, saw the
children dressed and sent to the school, and then went up-
stairs to pack up her own bundle. Before doing so, how-
ever, the bible, which had been given her by John Barry,
attracted her attention. It was a small clasped book,
and, from being unable to read it, she had never made
any outward parade of her possession of it. On now
seeing it, she mechanically unclasped the book, and in the
first page there lay a £5 bank-note, and in the last page
another of the same value. What a treasure was here!
How did her heart bless the noble generosity of the
youth who, at a time when money was of the greatest
value to him, thus sacrificed a great share of his riches to
the welfare of one who could never personally thank him
for it!
Margaret had made up her mind, however, to seek a
situation for herself in Ipswich. She remembered the
kindness of the worthy surgeon who had atttnded her
siste? in her childhood, and poor John Barry when he
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
147
was wounded, and she resolved to seek his aid. With a
full heart, she carefully replaced the notes as she found
them, resolving to store them up against a time of need.
And, with more consciousness of independence than she
had ever before felt, she packed up her little bundle, and
went to take leave of her uncle and aunt.
With five shillings, the gift of her uncle, a half-guinea,
the gift of her brother Charles, and a bundle, not a very
weighty one, Margaret Catchpole departed from Bran-
diston. But, fearing her aunt's displeasure, and that she
would send strange reports to Nacton, and that her own
presence under her father's roof would give some coun-
tenance to these malicious falsehoods, she determined not
to return home, but to take the road to Woodbridge.
At that time, Noller's waggon, from Ipswich to Wood-
bridge, Wickham Market, and Framlingham, passed her
upon its return; and the driver asking her if she would
like to ride, she gladly accepted the offer. They arrived
at Ipswich about two o'clock in the afternoon. Margaret
determined to seek a place immediately, and for that pur-
pose brushed the dust off her gown, and made herself as
decent as her poor wardrobe would allow, and arrived at
the door of Mr. George Stebbing, under very different
circumstances from those which had formerly brought her
to the same spot.
CHAPTER XIV.
A cheerful change.
He was a merry, cheerful man, the active surgeon, who
lived in the tall, red-bricked house, in Orwell Place. His
practice was good, extending from the best families in the
town and neighbourhood of Ipswich, to that which is
always the most benevolent part of a surgeon's duty, the
dispensing medicine and advice to the poor. George
Stebbing was an early riser, and a very active practi-
tioner; he was skilful and attentive; and it wag truly said
of him, that he never neglected a poor patient to attend a
rich one. He had his rounds before breakfast, among hi
148
HISTORY OF
poorer patients; next his town practice; and his country
visits in the afternooon. He generally contrived to be
found at home from nine to ten o'clock in the morning;
and from two to three in the afternoon, always dining at
one.
There was one passion, if it may be so called, which, at
certain seasons of the year, made the doctor breakthrough
all his rules and regulations, and to which he so willingly
gave way, as to cause him serious loss of practice among
family patients, who could not make allowances for his
neglect,—namely, a passion for shooting. He was an
excellent shot, delighted in the exercise, and enjoyed it as
much in his old days as he did in his youth. His figure
scarcely ever altered through life. He never grew cor-
pulent, never inactive; but retained his zest for his gun,
with a steady hand, to a good old age.
But for this passion for shooting, the doctor might have
secured to himself a more extensive and lucrative practice.
It certainly was a kind of passport among many great
landed proprietors, who liked his shooting and his society,
and for a good day's shooting, come it when it might,
many of his patients were neglected. He was of a very
generous nature, and sometimes felt keenly the reproaches
of those whom for the sports of the field he deserted; and
there were times in which his own conscious neglect made
him sorrowful; but it did not cure him of his favourite
propensity. At all other times, he was as regular as a
well-cleaned clock.
Margaret arrived at this gentleman's door, and was
shewn into the surgery just as he was preparing to go
into the country. The surgery was a lofty room, though
of small dimensions; the window looked down a neatly
paved area, beside the offices of the house; and flower-
stands, filled with geraniums and other greenhouse plants,
stood against the side of the wall opposite the kitchen.
All was neatness within and without the walls of his
house.
She had scarcely been seated in the surgery a minute,
before in came the merry man, with his cheerful smile and
ready address.  Well, young woman, what's the matter
with you, eh ? What is it ? A bad tooth ? let us see—
let us see. It can be nothing else. You look the picture
of health! What's the matter ? 
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 149
"Nothing is the matter, sir, said Margaret rising and
curtseying.
 Then what do you want with the doctor, my girl ?
 I am come to ask you, sir, if you could help me to a
place.
 A place! cried the doctor; "why, whom do you take
me for? Did you think my surgery was a register-office
for servants? What have I to do with places ? Who on
earth sent you tome?
"No one sent me, sir; I came of my own accord,
because you are the only person that I know in Ipswich.
"Well, they say a great many more people know Tom
Fool than Tom Fool knows. I don't recollect ever seeing
you before. I know not who you are in the least.
 What, sir! do you not remember when you lifted me
off the pony at your door, ever so many years ago, and
called me a brave little girl, and told me, when you left
me at my father's, that if ever I wanted a friend I should
find one in you ? 
 What! are you the girl that made the pony go ?
Can you be Margaret Catchpole, the heroine of Nacton
"I am Margaret, sir; I left my uncle's, at Brandiston,
this morning, and am come to Ipswich in search of a place.
I have lost my sister, my mother, and two brothers, and,
knowing no one in Ipswich but you, I thought, sir, as you
promised to help me, you would not be offended at my
asking. I only want to work and live without being bur-
densome to any one.
 Well, and what place do you want, my girl ?
 I can do any kind of plain work, sir, from the cow-
house to the nursery.
 Nursery! nursery ! do you know anything about the
care of children ? 
 I am very partial <to children, sir, and children are
very fond of me; my uncle had seven little ones, and only
me to look after them until he married again.
"Humph !—Well, go into my kitchen, my girl"—and
here the kind-hearted man opened his door and introduced
her to his cook.  Sally, this is the girl that rode the
pony for the doctor, see and take care of her. Where is
your young mistress? But suddenly turning round as
if a thought struck him, he said,  Margaret! Margaret!
150
HISTORY OF
my girl, stop one moment, I must know if you have quite
recovered from that complaint you had before you left the
Priory Farm?
u Dear me, sir, I never was ill there.
 Oh! yes, you were, Margaret; if you remember, 1 had
to feel your pulse and prescribe for you; your heart was
very bad?
 Oh ! no, sf*, I hope not.
 Let me ask you one question, Margaret—Have you
done with the smuggler ? Because, though I should be
glad to serve you, I should be sorry to run the risk of
introducing bad acquaintances into any respectable family
where I might recommend you.
This was another terrible blow for poor Margaret, and
how to answer it she knew not; she remained silent and
abashed, and the worthy surgeon was touched much more
by her silence than if she had spoken ever so much; it told
him at once the state of the case.
 Well, well, my girl, I see how it is; but you must
not encourage him to visit you when you are at service.
Go! go! I will talk to you another time.
And Margaret was again an inmate in that kind man's
house, who always was a steady and sincere friend to her
throughout her eventful career. He had at that very
time made up his mind to write a note of recommenda-
tion to a lady who lived at the Cliff, upon the banks
of the Orwell; but he delayed it for a day or two, on
purpose to hear what report his own domestic gave of
her. And here Margaret remained in the humblest and
purest enjoyment of peace and quietness that she had felt
for many years.
It was a lovely evening in the latter part of the month
of May, when the mackerel-boats were coming up the
Orwell, being unable to reach the mouth of the Nore, that
old Colson (better known to the reader as Robinson
Crusoe) rowed his little boat up to the landing-place,
close to the Cliff Brewery, and startled some young
children who were watching the tiny eels playing about
those large dark stones which formed the head of the
landing-place. Here a stream of fresh water, gushing
from beneath, formed the outlet of the canal stream
which turned the great wheel in the brewery of John
Cobbdld, Esq.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
151
The eels from the river, especially the young- ones, used
to he incessantly playing- about this outlet, striving- either
to get up into the fresh water, or else feeding upon the
animalculse which came from the canal, and tried to get
back again out of the salt water.
The old man lifted up some small sand-dabs for the
children, all alive and kicking, and gave them to them,
with which they soon bounded up the Cliff steps, and
ran joyously to a lady, who, with two gentlemen, sat
sketching under the lime-trees which then fronted the
small dwelling-house adjoining the more lofty buildings of
the brewery.
The lady was Mrs. Cobbold, and the two gentlemen
were her friends, and both eminent artists in their day.
One had already greatly distinguished himself as a portrait-
painter, and vied with Sir Joshua Reynolds in his own
particular school of painting: this was Gardiner, a distant
relative of the lady. He was a singular old gentleman, in
every way a talented original; his family groups, in half
crayon, half water-colour, gained general admiration 5 and
to this day they stand the test of years, never losing their
peculiar freshness, and remain as spirited as on the first
day they were painted. The other was indeed but a boy,
a fine intelligent lad, with handsome, open countenance,
beaming with all the ardour of a young aspirant for fame:
this was John Constable, who was then sketching the
town of Ipswich from the Cliff, and brushing in the tints
of the setting sun, and receiving those early praises from
the lips of that benevolent and talented lady which be-
came a stimulus to his exertions, before he was raised to
the eminence of a first-rate landscape-painter.
Gardiner delighted in the buoyant group of children,
who, with their flapping- fish, came bounding up the
CL'ff.  Look here! look here! see what old Robin has
given us.
The artist's eyes dilated with glee as he quickly noted
down their jocund faces and merry antics for some future
painting. If he had experienced pleasure in the charac-
ters of James, Thomas, George, Elizabeth, Ann, and
Mary, what a fine master figure was now added to the
f roup in the person of old Robin, the fisherman, who, with
is basket of mackerel and soles, stood behind the children
in front of the happy party!
history of
Gardiner's picture of the  Fisherman's Fhmily was
taken from this group, and it was one which in his mature
years gained him much celebrity.
"Well, Robin, what fish have you got? said the lady,
"and how do,the witches treat you?
 As to the first, madam, here are mackerel and soles;
as to the latter, they treat me scurvily ? 
"What's that ? what's that ? said Gardiner;  what's
all that about the witches?
Old Colson looked at him a minute, and partly believed
he was a brother sufferer; for Gardiner never was what
the world has since denominated a dandy, he was never
even a beau; he was careless in his dress, and very
abrupt in his address,—extremely clever and extremely
eccentric.
 Why, this it is, said the old fisherman,  if the foul
fiend treats you as he does me, he makes us both such
hideous objects that nobody can bear to look at us.
There was no little colour in the artist's face at this mo-
ment: he had met with a light and shade, an odd mixture
"upon his palette not easily defined, and he looked himself
rather vacant upon the fisherman.
 I see how it is, said Robin; "they have been at work
upon you, and have put your robes out of order; but give
them a blast of this ram's horn, and you will soon get rid
of them.
Here the old man presented a ram's horn to the
astonished artist.
 What does the man mean, Mrs. Cohhold ? what does
the man mean ?
This was rather a delicate point to answer; but the
little shrewd Mary, who perfectly well knew what the old
man meant, said at once with the most perfect inno-
cence—
"Oh, Mr. Gardiner! Robin means that you look so
dirty and shabby that you must he bewitched.
At this moment a servant brought a note to the lady,
which, on opening, she read as follows:—
 My dear Madam,
"You mentioned to me some time since that you
wanted a good strong girl who could assist in the double
capacity of a laundress and a nursery-maid; the bearer of
margaret catciipole. 153
this is Margaret Catch pole, whom I have known from her
infancy. My cook tells me she is very quick at learning,
and very handy at any work that may be required of her;
she also states herself to he very fond of children. She
lived servant-of-all-work at the Priory Farm, and has
since kept her uncle's house, where she had the care of
seven young children. Mr. Notcutt, who knew her when
she lived at service at Bealings, speaks highly of her
character. I thirk you will find her a very useful
servant; and if you have not engaged one, I really think
you will be satisfied with this young woman. ^Wishing
that such may be the case, believe me to rem.t u, - Tr dear
madam, yours faithfully, .
"gi'oid'e sttj>i«inu.'
 Orwell Place,
"May 25th, 1793.
As Mrs. Cobbold opened the note, the artists retired;
and she told the footman to lend the young woman round
to the front of the house, and she would speak to her
there. She then kindly addressed Jhe old fisherman:—
 I wish, Robin, I could find a ui>arm which would
drive all these fiends away from you at vbrce, that you
might become a believer in a more blessed agency than in
such unhappy beings.
 Ah! bless you, lady 1 bless you ! If your wish could
but be gratified, I should soon be at liberty; but it will
never be so: they have taken up their abode with me,
and as long as they can torment me, they will. I knew
last night that there would he a storm, and, sure enough,
there was one; but my old barque rode it out, though
many a tighter craft went to the bottom. My foes,
though they love to punish my flesh, will not let me
perish.
 That is but a vain hope, Robin, which will one day
deceive you: you trust too much to your crazy barque,
and to a no less crazy imagination; and, when too late,
you will own your self-delusion.
His benefactress could not succeed in arguing him out
of his belief, and had just told him to leave the fish at the
back-door, as Margaret made her appearance before her
future mistress.
She started back when she beheld Robin, and again
154
history of
thought that some evil genius had determined to oppose
her wherever she went.
"Ah! is that you, Peggy? It's many a long day
since I've seen you. Have the fiends played you any
more tricks ?
Margaret made her curtsey to the lady, but dared not
reply to the salutation of the old fisherman, lest he
should betray the secret of her heart. She was evidently
confused.
 You need not be so proud either, young woman, as to
forget a friend; but you are like the rest of the world :—
* Those whom we first serve are the first to forget us.'
INoWyto^y mind, you're a fit match for Will Laud, and
he's aboiitas ungraqious a chap as any I know.
The tear-started into Margaret's eye, and she could not
utter a word- In the accents of kindness, however, the
lady addressed the trembling girl.
 You must not mind all the wanderings of old Robin,
you,will be better acquainted with him hereafter.
y And so will you, msvam, with her before long. The
'ioui fiend has long^Ylwelt with her and hers, and you'll
soon firtu-tha/o tnit. I've known her almost as long- as
I've known gnu, ma'am; and if she's a-coming to your
service, why, all I can say is, there will be pretty pranks
a-going on in your house.
Here the poor girl could refrain 110 longer from tears;
she sobbed as if her heart would break, and the scene
more than commonly interested the benevolent lady.
 What has Robin known of you, young woman, that
he should speak so harshly against you ? How have you
offended him?
 I never offended him, ma'am—never that I know of'
He was very kind to me, and once, ma'am—once— and
here Margaret paused, and could not finish her sentence.
Robin now quickly saw he was mistaken, and going
close up to the girl, he said,—
 I ask your pardon, Peggy! I thought you were
proud—I see how it is! I see how it is!—Forgive me!
forgive me, ma'am ! She's a good girl; ay, she's a clever
girl! I thought she was a bit proud, so the fiend made
me bark at her, that's all; and, making his bow, he went
with his basket of fish to the back-door.
The lady evidently saw there was a mystery; but, well
MARGARET CATCIirOLE.
155
knowing the sudden changes of the bewildered mind of
the fisherman, although she always found a shadow of
truth about all his ravings, she placed no faith in any of
his prognostications. She did not again question Mar-
garet upon that subject, but spoke to her about her duties.
She found her fully sensible of what she might have to
do, and quite ready to undertake the place. She agreed
to give her, progressively, improving wages, and told her
that as Mr. Stebbing had given her a recommendation,
she should try her. Mrs. Cobbold desired her to come on
the morrow, and wished her good-evening.
The next day saw Margaret an inmate of that family
where her name will never be forgotten; where she spent
so many days of real, uninterrupted happiness; where she
became respected by her mistress and family, and was a
very great favourite with all her fellow-servants. Mar-
garet came to her new place with a good character; with
youth, health, hope, and a willing mind for work. By
the advice of the doctor's old servant, she came (by means
of John Barry's generous gift) with every article clean,
new, and decent, and had the sum of six pounds left for a
nest-egg.
CHAPTER XV.
the new place.
There is no class of persons in society so mucn neglectea
as domestic servants, none who are placed in more re-
sponsible stations, to whom more confidence is given, and
from whom more is expected; yet there are none who are
less instructed, except in the duties of their stations, and
even these they have to learn as they can. The law visits
no one with severer penalties for any dereliction of duty;
and the world makes fewer allowances for their faults
than for those of any other class.
The excellent ladv in whose service Margaret was
placed was one who felt this truth, and took every oppor-
tunity she could to improve the minds of all who cam®
108 HISTORY OP*
under her roof. She was one of the most enlightened of
her sex, with a mind cultivated to the highest degree, and
acquainted from her infancy with many of the leading
persons of the day, in art, literature, and science. And
she was not less domestic than enlightened. The writer
of these pages knew her well, and loved her dearly. He
admired her with deep and reverential love. He was not
able, indeed, to appreciate the full extent of her benevolent
character, till years had snatched her away, and left him
u never to look upon her like again. This he can truly
say, that, in the course of twenty years' acquaintance, he
never knew what it was to have a dull moment in her
company. Lest any may think this is saying too much,
let some of those who now occupy public stations of im-
portance, and some of whom were her domestic servants,
say, how much they were indebted to her instructions.
Let some, even of a higher and more independent class,
who have since attained the pinnacle of their professions,
tell how much they were indebted to the first encouraging
advice of her, who saw and prized their talents, and re-
joiced in their development. She was a most kind bene-
factress to all who needed her advice or assistance, and to
none was she a greater friend, and by none was she more
deeply loved, than by the poor girl whom she took into
her service, as a sort of general help in the humblest
station in her family.
At the Cliff there was not a single individual in whom
the mistress did not feel a deep interest. None were be-
neath her notice; none came near her whom she did not
strive to improve. Though she commanded the hearts of
many highly distinguished persons in the drawing-room,
she commanded the affections of her family, and of every
servant under her roof. Poor Margaret appeared to her
an object of peculiar interest. Ignorant as she found her
in letters, and in many filings relating to her situation,
there was in her a capacity, which this lady discovered,
to require nothing but instruction to perfect it. Readily
did she comprehend when the kindness of her mistress
was shown in condescending to teach her, and rapid
was the progress she made in everything explained to
her.
Margaret had a difficult situation to fulfil even in the
household arrangements of this excellent lady; for she
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 157
was under-nursemaid in the morning', and under-cook in
the evening; two very different stations, but both of which
she discharged with fidelity, and at length rose in that
family to fill the head place in both stations at different
periods.
Her mistress had married a gentleman who had four-
teen children living at the time, and she had every pros-
pect of seeing the number increase. It required a woman
of energy to direct the household affairs of such a nume-
rous family, as well as a woman of method and manage-
ment in the nursery. Well did Margaret second the work
which the head-nurse had in hand. No one could be
more indefatigable in her duties—none more constantly
employed.
It was Margaret's especial province to walk out with
the children, to carry the young ones, and to lead now
and then an elder one. A retired and pleasant walk it
was at the back of the Cliff to Sawyer's Farm, either
along the river's side to the Grove, or Hog Island, or
through the farmyard, up the sandy hill, from the top
of which Ipswich and its environs were so conspicuous.
In all the innocent enjoyments of children, Margaret took
particular delight. She would make chains of dandelions,
whistles of cats' tails; collect lords and ladies, string la-
dies' hair; make whips of rushes for the boys, and cradles
for dolls for the girls. Her eyes were ever watchful, her
hands ever useful. The children loved her, and bounded
to her with pleasure, whenever the order was given for a
walk. She was equally dauntless in their defence, whether
it was against a dog, or the geese, or the cattle of the field,
or the gipsy, or the drunken sailor.
During this service, an occurrence took place of a sin-
gularly providential nature, which showed the sagacity of
this poor girl, and her presence of mind in so striking a
light, that it is well worthy to be here recorded. The
children were all going for a walk, and Master George
and Master Frederic were listening at a rat's hole, under
the foundation of a building, where the workmen were
making some alterations, and had taken away a great deal
of the soil, upon one side of the brickwork. As Margaret
came up with some half dozen of the young fry, the boys
exultingly called to her to come and hear the old rat
gnawing something in the hole.
158 history of
Margaret approached, and with that natural quickness
of perception with which she was so gifted, saw danger in
the situation of the children. Listening one moment at
the hole she was convinced that the creaking sound she
heard did not proceed from a rat. In another instant she
seized the children by their arms, and exclaimed, with a
terror that communicated itself to them all,  Come away 1
come away! that wall is settling ! Scarcely had she ran
with the children half a dozen yards from the spot, when
down came the wall in a mass of ruin that must have
buried them all beneath it but for the providential sagacity
of this young girl. To this day the circumstance is re-
member ed by the parties interested in it, and is looked
upon as the interposition of their good angel, in making
use of this humble instrument for the preservation of their
lives.
Margaret, by this time, could both read and write j for
the lady, who superintended the whole management of
the nursery, had her regular school-hours in the morning
devoted to the minutise of progressive improvement. It
was at one of these morning lessons that she discovered
Margaret's abilities. Hearing the children their lessons
in history, and examining them in the chronology of the
kings of England, she was surprised to hear Margaret
prompting Miss Sophia, in a whisper, when the child was
at a loss for the right date. And when she came to ques-
tion Margaret, she found that this poor girl had been,
though unknown to her, her most attentive scholar. This
induced her to take pains with her, and to let her be a
participator in all the most useful branches of a nursery
education. She was taught to read and write, and under-
stand the Bible history and the Gospel scheme of redemp-
tion; in all which studies she became as well informed as
any of the children. Soon after this, she rose to be the
head nursemaid.
As the winter came on, the walks became more cin-
cumscribed; and though she occasionally saw the old
fisherman, with his basket of soles and plaice, yet from:
him she could gather no tidings of her lover, good or bad.
To hear nothing may be better than to hear bad tidings.;
but some may even think that bad news is better than:
none at all. The certain knowledge of any catastrophe;
if it has taken place, at ever so great a distance, is always-
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 159
more satisfactory and consoling than years of agonizing
suspense.
Perhaps some such ideas might have passed in Mar-
garet's mind; but she had been so accustomed to hear
nothing that was good of her lover, that she began to con-
strue the long interregnum of his non-appearance into the
hope of some permanent amendment.
The Orwell, at the period of our narrative, and during
the winter season, was famous for its wild-fowl. At some
particular times, when the decoy-ponds around were frozen
over, the birds used to come into the channel of the river
in prodigious flights, covering hundreds of acres of water
with their varieties of plumage. Millions of black coot
used to darken the waves, whilst the duck and the mallard,,
the diver, the pin-tail, the bar-goose, and even the wild
swan, used to be seen in such numbers, as in the present
day would seem to be incredible. Those, however, who
can remember this river only fifty years ago will fully
corroborate this account. Some live in Ipswich, at this
day, who can well remember the time in which they have
made dreadful havoc among the feathered tribes of the
river. Now and then a solitary flight may here and
there be seen visiting the river in the evening, and de-
parting with the dawn. Since the port of Ipswich has so
rapidly increased its shipping, the traffic of winter, as
well as summer, has been so constant, that the birds have
sought some quieter feeding-ground than the ooze of the
Orwell.
It was at the time when these birds were most frequent,
that the young fowlers of the port used to have extra-
ordinary tales to tell of the numbers they had killed, and
the escapes and adventures they had.met with in the pur-
suit. One of Mr. Cobbold's younger sons had a great
penchant for this sport, and, though quite a lad, would
venture upon the most hardy enterprises with the weather-
beaten sailors, who had been long accustomed to the river.
He was a good shot, too, for a boy, and would bring home
many a duck and mallard as the fruits of his own excur-
sions.
It was about four o'clock, one winter evening, when
this young gentleman was seen descending the steps of
the Cliff, with the oars over his shoulder, and his gun in
his hand. He looked at the cloudy sky, and thought he
160 HISTORY OP
should have good sport upon the river before the morning.
His sisters, Harriet and Sophia, saw him stealing down
the Cliff, and he requested of them not to take any nonce
of his absence. He unlocked his boat, and shoved off into
the channel alone, rejoicing in the thought of the  spolia
opima he should expose next morning at the breakfast-
table.
At tea-time, all the numerous party seated themselves
round the table, before piles of hot toast and bread and
butter; and the venerated father came from his own pri-
vate room to take his seat with his affectionate wife and
children. He cast his eye upon the party, and looked
round the room, evidently missing one of his children.
"Where's William? he inquired. The sisters, Harriet
and Sophia, began to titter.  Where's William ? again
asked the anxious parent; and the lady, who had been
reading some new book, which had absorbed her attention,
had not until then missed the boy.
Mr. Parkinson, the confidential clerk, a distant relative,
replied,  Master William has gone out in his boat to
shoot wild-fowl.
 What! on such a night as this ? How long since V*
 Two hours or more, sir.
The worthy parent rose from his seat, summoned the
clerk to follow him immediately, and, with a fearful ex-
pression of countenance, which communicated terror to the
whole party, he said,  Depend upon it, the child is lost!
It was a night on which no reasonable man would have
suffered even the stoutest and strongest sailor to go down
the river for such a purpose. The tide was running out
fast, and the ice was floating down in great masses,
enough to stave a stout boat. A piercing sleet, the fore-
runner of a snow-storm, drifted along with the wind.
Altogether it was as dismal as darkness and the fore-
boding anxiety of a fond parent's heart could make it.
Yet Master William, a mere stripling, was upon the
waters, in a boat which required at least two stout men
to manage her, and at the mercy of the storm. Had not
his father by mere chance missed him, and made inquiries
about him, he would not have been heard of till the next
morning, and then they would have spoken of his death.
As it was, the sequel will show how nearly that event
eame to pass.
IiIAIi^Aivtr (JATCIIPOLE. Jg
The brewhouse men were summoned, two stout fellows,
who were put into the small boat, and it then came out
that Master William had taken the oars belonging to the
little boat, to manage a great, heavy craft that wa3 large
enough to hold a dozen men.
Mr. Cobbold and his clerk went along the shore, whilst
the two men in the skiff, with great oars, shoved along
the edge of the channel. Occasionally the parties com-
municated by voice, when the lull of the waves and winds
permitted them to do so j but no tidings of the lost boy
could be obtained.
What agony did that truly good father endure, yet how
mild was his censure of those who ought to have pre-
vented such a lad incurring such danger!
In the midst of these anxieties, there was one who
shared them with as much earnestness as if she had been
the mother of the child; and this was Margaret Catch-
pole. No weather, no winds, no commands of her mas-
ter's, could overrule that determined activity of mind
which this girl possessed, to lend a helping hand in time
of danger. She had thrown her cloak over her head, and
followed her master with the hope that she might be of
some service.
The party on the shore could no longer hear even the
voices of those who were in the boat, as the channel took,
them round the bed of ooze to the opposite shore. Still
did they pursue their course, calling aloud, and stopping
to listen for some faint sound in reply. Nothing answered
their anxious call but the cold moaning of the wintry
wind. They stretched their eyes in vain; they coidd see
nothing: and they had walked miles along the shore,
passing by the Grove, Hog Island, and the Long Reach,
until they came to Downham Reach. No soul had they
met, nor had any sound, save the whistling of the curlew
and the winds, greeted their ears. The anxious father,
down whose cheeks tears began to steal and to stiffen
with the frost, gave his dear son up for lost. He had
lived so long by the river, and knew so well its dangers,
that it seemed to him an impossibility he should be saved j
and he turned round just by the opening to the Priory
Farm, and said to llis clerk, "We must give it up;'
when Margaret said,  Oh, no, sir, not yet; pray do not
give it up yet! Let us go on farther! Do not go home yet.
162
HISTORY OF
Thus urged, her master turned again to pursue the
search, and she followed in his path.
About a hundred yards onward, under the shade of the
wood, they met a man.
 Who g-oes there ?  was the question of the anxious
father.
"What's that to you? was the rough uncourteous
reply, strangely grating to the father's heart at such a
moment.
In those rough sounds Margaret recognised Will Laud's
voice. She sprang forward, exclaiming, to the no small
astonishment of her master,  Oh, William! Mr. Cob-
bold has lost his son! Do lend a hand to find him."'
It is needless to dwell upon the mutual surprise of both
parties at such a rencontre. Laud was equally astonished
at Margaret's presence at such a time, and Margaret her-
self felt an indescribable hope that her lover might render
some effectual service.
 I beg pardon, sir, said Laud,  but I did not know
you.
 My son went down the river in a boat some three or
four hours since, and I fear he is lost, said Mr. Cobbold.
 I came up the river as far as I could, and have seen
no boat. The floats of ice were so troublesome, that I re-
solved to come ashore, and walk to Ipswich. Had there
been a boat between Harwich and the Nacton shore, I
must have seen it. I landed close by Cowhall, and I know
there was no boat on the river, at least so far.
At that moment they thought they heard some one
call. They listened, and plainly heard the men hallooing
from the boat.
 Ahoy! ahoy! called out Will Laud.
They then listened again, and recognised the voice of
Richard Lee, one of the brewing-men, who called out,—
 We have found the boat, but no one in her.
 Ay, sir, said Will Laud,  then the young gentle-
man has got ashore!
 I fear not! said the father;  I fear he is lost!
Laud feared the same, when he heard that the young
lad had taken no mud-splashers with him:  But, he
added,  if the youth knew the river, he would get out of
his boat, and walk by the edge of the channel till he came
to this hardware, and then he might get ashore.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 163
 What is that dark spot yonder, by the edge of the
water? said Margaret, as she stooped down to let her
eye glance along the dark level line of the mud.
 It is only one of the buoys, said the father,  such
as they moor the ships to in the reach.
 There is no buoy in that part of the river, said Will
"Margaret sees something, and so do I now. I don't
know what it is, but I soon will though.
And without more ado, he stepped on to the mud and
was soon upon all-fours, creeping along, and dragging his
body over the softest places of the ooze, where he must
have sunk into the mud up to his waist, if he had kept an
erect posture. As he advanced, he evidently saw some-
thing lying close to the water's edge, and, after great toil,
he came up to it. True enough he found it to be the stiff
body of the poor youth they had been in search of.
Lifting himself up, he called aloud,  Ahoy! ahoy!
Margaret, you are right; words of such joy as were
never forgotten in after years by any of that party.
Laud lost no time in hoisting the poor boy on his back,
and, tying his stiff hands round his own neck with his
handkerchief, he crept upon the mud again toward that
shore where stood those anxious friends awaiting his ap-
proach. The boy was, to all appearance, stiff and lifeless.
The hair of his head was one matted mass of ice and mud;
his limbs were stiff and frozen; one leg seemed like a log
of hard wood, the other they could bend a little. He had
been up to his neck in the mud, and had evidently been
overcome with the exertion of extricating himself. His
clothes were drawn off his back, and had been used as
mud-splashers, until exhausted nature could make no
further effort, and he had sunk, unconscious, upon the
ooze. Death seemed to have done his work.
The only plan now was to get him home as soon as
they could. Laud soon constructed a carriage for him, of
a hurdle, upon which he laid his own jacket, the father's
great-coat, and over him be threw Margaret's cloak.
Each of the four persons taking a corner of the hurdle
upon their shoulders, they made their way, as fast as poe-
sible, along the shore. In this way they proceeded at a
good round pace, until they reached the Grove-side,
where they met the other servants, coming in company
with the two brewhouse-men, with blankets and brandy,
164
IIISTOr.Y OF
in case Master William should be found. Their arrival
was very opportune, as it enabled the exhausted party to
transfer their burden to the new comers. Mr. Cobbold
expressed his gratitude to Laud, and asked him to come
on to the Cliff, and rest himself that night, and he would
endeavour to repay him in the morning.
 I thank you, sir, said Laud ;  I was coming to see
Margaret, and if you would only grant me a word or two
with her, it is all the favour I ask.
 As many as you please, my man; but it would be
better for her and you, too, to be at the kitchen fire such
a night as this, than to be talking upon the banks of the
Orwell.
Laud seemed to hesitate j at last he said, "Well, sir,
I will come.
Soon afterwards the thoughtful Margaret said to Mr.
Cobbold,  Had I not better run forward, sir, and prepare
the slipper-bath, and get the fire lit in the bed-room, and
have warm blankets ready, and send off for Dr. Stebbing ?
"Right, Margaret, right! was her master's reply;
 run, my girl, run! It will be good for you, too. We
shall soon follow you.
On went the damsel, and soon passed the men carrying
their young master, and was the first who brought the
joyful tidings that Master William was found. In all her
plans, however, she was anticipated by her ever-thoughtful
mistress. The amber room was prepared, as being the
quietest in the house. The bath, the hot water, the salt
to rub his benumbed limbs, were all ready; for it was
concluded, that if he was found, he would be in such a
state of paralyzation, from the effects of the weather, as
would make it a work of time to recover him. The boy
was sent off immediately for Mr. Stebbing. The whole
family were in a state of hushed and whispering anxiety.
The two sisters, especially, who had seen their brother
depart, and had not spoken a word about it, were deeply
bewailing their own faults. In short, all was anxiety, all
was expectation, almost breathless suspense. Margaret's
description to her mistress was clear, simple, and concise.
Her meeting with a sailor, whom she knew when she
lived at Priory Farm, and his acquaintance with all the
buoys on the river, all seemed natural and providential.
She gave orders immediatelv for a bed to be prepared in
MAJtGAltET CATCIirOLE. 1G5
the coachman's room for the sailor, to whose exertions
they were so indebted for the restoration of the child,
dead or alive, to his affectionate parents.
Voices were soon heard coming; up the road from the
shrubbery, and the first who entered the house was the
father, supporting- the head, whilst the others raised the
body of the poor boy. Every exertion was now used, but
for some time no symptoms of life could be observed in
him. The doctor arrived, and he perfectly approved of
the steps which had been taken. He opened a vein, from
which the smallest drop of blood exuded. This he counted
a good symptom. He then ordered a bath, at first merely
tepid, and by degrees made warmer. The blood began
to flow a little faster from the arm, and the doctor felt
increased hope that the vital functions were not extinct.
With joy he noticed the beginning of a gentle pulsation
of the heart, and a few minutes afterwards of the wrist,
and pointed out these favourable symptoms to the anxious
parents. A little brandy was now forced into the throat.
The lips, which had hitherto been livid as death, began to
show a slight change. At length, in the midst of anxious
exertions, the chest began to heave, and the lungs to
obtain a little play; a sort of bubbling sound became
audible from the throat; and, shortly afterwards, a moan,
and then the eyelids half unclosed, though with no con-
sciousness of sight. Convulsive shudders began to creep
over the frame—an indication that a warmer bath would
be judicious. This was soon effected. As the warmth
circulated through the veins, the hands began to move, the
eyes to open wider, and to wander wildly over the space
between them. At length they seemed to rest upon the
face of Margaret, who stood at the foot of the bath, and
down whose cheeks tears of hope literally chased each
other. A faint smile was seen to play upon his lips,
which told that recognition was returning. He was then
removed from the warm bath to his warm bed.
An hour afterwards, and their unwearied exertions wer8
rewarded with hearing Master William pronounce the
name of u Margaret. Though so weak that he could not
lift his hand, yet his tongue whispered her name, as if he
felt she had been his preserver.
He shortly afterwards interchanged smiles with the
doctor and his sisters, and presently afterwards, with his
fathei s hand clasped in his, he fell asleep.
166
HISTORY OF
CHAPTER XVL
bright hopes.
It is not surprising- that Laud, as he stood by the kitchen-
fire, and scraped off the mud, a mixture of clay, weeds,
and samphire, which were clotted upon his coarse trousers,
should be considered by the tenants of that part of the
house as a person worthy of all admiration. He had
signalized himself in more than one pair of eyes. The
master of the family and the head clerk had beheld his
prowess, and had spoken most highly of him. They had
given orders that whatever he required should be furnished
for him. No wonder, then, that in Tom's, John's, or
Sally's eyes, he should shine with such increased lustre.
In Margaret's he was beheld with those feelings of love,
and hope, and joy, which anticipated rapid improvement
after long drawbacks, and she saw the object of her
attachment at the most happy and propitious moment of
her existence. The joy of that evening was unalloyed.
Master William was recovering. The grateful father
made Will and all his servants enjoy a hearty supper
together, before they retired to rest, and took care the
social glass was not wanting, to make them as comfortable
as possible.
The whole establishment sat around the well-spread
table before a cheerfully blazing fire, and were descanting
upon the dangers of the night and the perils which Mr.
William must have encountered. At this moment the
doctor entered.
His curiosity had been excited by the account he had
heard of Will Laud. He easily distinguished that dark
swarthy being, with his bluejacket, changed, by the dry-
ing of the mud upon it, to a kind of dun or fawn-colour.
His black hair hung down over his shaggy brow with his
long man-of-war pigtail; and his whiskers, scarcely dis-
tinguishable from his black beard, fulfilled the idea of the
weather-beaten sailor which the doctor had previously
entertained. He was fully satisfied in his own mind witn
what he saw. He came, he said, to report to Laud the
state of his patient; and after asking him a few questions,
■and making some remarks upon his bravery, he wished
MARGARET CATCIIPOLE.
167
tliem all a good-night, and returned to the parlour, to
encounter the entertaining- queries of the intelligent family
at the Cliff.
His report brought them another visitor. The door
again opened, and their mistress stood before her servants.
They all rose as she entered, and Laud above the rest;
but whether from the strangeness of his situation, or from
the belief that the lady was about to speak to him, the
moment that his eye met that intellectual and penetrating
glance of inquiry, it became fixed upon the ground. The
voice of thanks reached him, as well as the words of praise.
If they did not gratify him, they did at least the heart of
the poor girl who stood close by him. She looked in
her mistress's face, and in her heart blessed her for her
kindness.
 Can we be of any service to you, young man? said
the lady. "We are anxious to prove oui-selves grateful
to you: and in any way that you may claim our future
service, you will find us ready to repay you. As an
immediate help, Mr. Cobbold sends you this guinea, an
earnest of some future recompense.
 Thank you, ma'am! Let Margaret have the guinea,
and the thanks too; for she first discovered the young
gentleman.
This was spoken by Laud without looking at the lady,
or once lifting up his eyes. Was it timidity, or was it
shame? Perhaps Laud had never been interrogated in
the presence of a lady before that time.
He was truly relieved, when Mrs. Cobbold, hoping, as
she said, that he had been well taken care of, and again
thanking him for his assistance, wished him a good night's
test, and took her departure.
The opinion of the parlour was not so favourable to
Laud as that of the kitchen, as the character of the bold
smuggler was estimated very differently in each place.
Mr. and Mrs. Cobbold, however, were not aware that Laud
was in the British navy, having been seized in his boat by
a pressgang, and been bound to serve his majesty three
years on board the Briton man-of-war, then cruising off
the coast of Holland.
Such was the want of British seamen just at this
period of the breaking-out of the long war, that many
smugglers received not only their pardon, but good pay
1G8
J1IST0HV OS?'
for joining the navy; and even those taken by the press-
gang were only punished, if it may be termed so, by a
three-years' well-paid service. Laud had been thus taken,
and had been so well received on board, that his captain,
on the night in question, had granted him permission to
come up to Ipswich. He had offered him a crew, but
Laud said he knew the river, and would rather go alone, if
the captain would only lend him one of the small boats
and a pair of oars. He promised to be on board again
the next day. The request was granted; for the captain
was pleased with Laud's confession of his object in under-
taking to go alone—so, in spite of wind and weather, ice
and snow, he had rowed himself up the river Orwell as far
as Nacton Creek.
These facts Will had already communicated to Mar-
garet, who, rejoicing in his present honourable position,
overlooked the dangers of a three-years' service in defence
of his country. She felt more proud of his presence that
night at the Cliff than she had ever before done since the
day of his first entrance into her father's cottage. She
dia not indeed experience that thrilling warmth of
devotion which she once felt when he visited her on the
shores of Downham Reach j but love, through all its
shocks, was much more firm and really hopeful than even
at that enthusiastic period.
Though Margaret became acquainted with the fact of
Laud's admission into the British navy, and he spoke
openly in the kitchen of his ship and her commander,
yet these things were Tsoknown in the parlour, where, as
has just been stated, his personal appearance and cha-
racter stood at a heavy discount. In the kitchen he was
a hero, in the parlour a desperado.
The doctor found Master William m a sound and
apparently refreshing sleep; and retired to a couch
prepared for himself in an adjoining room, in case his
services might be required in the night. The servants
soon after parted for their respective dormitories, and
Laud took leave of Margaret for the night.
It is scarcely possible to believe that Margaret, after all
her fatigues and anxieties, should have refused to retire to
her room. She actually begged permission to sit up all
night with Master William. Vain were all attempts at
persuasion. She said she knew that if she went to bed
MARGARETCATCHrOLE.
169
she could not sleep, and as she begged so hard to bo
permitted to sit up, the request was granted.
Hope is a sweet comforter to an anxious heart, and
presented a vision of future bliss to the wakeful spirit
of the maid, which afforded her occupation for the night,
presenting to her the prospect of days to come, when
Laud should obtain an honourable discharge from his
country's service, where he was now numbered among
the hold, the brave, and the free, and in which the same
Providence which had preserved him to perform the good
act of that night would, she hoped, still preserve him for
many more good deeds. In pleasant reflections the night
passed away; nor was there one in that family who did
not join in the general thanksgiving to God for the signal
preservation of the youth, who was wrapped in a profound
and refreshing sleep, watched by the ever-constant and
faithful Margaret. The tempest of the night had swept
along-, and was succeeded by a calm and glorious sun-
rising, which shone upon the glittering fields of snow.
The fir-trees were weighed down with the weight of the
ice and snow lodged upon their branches, whilst the beams
of the sun made the drops of pendent icicles fall with a
smart sound to the earth. The sailor came down from his
bedroom refreshed after a sound sleep; and, after he had
partaken of a hearty breakfast, he shook hands with all
the servants, and took a more tender leave of Margaret:
leaving his best wishes for the young gentleman, he
returned to his boat some miles down the river, and
thence to his ship.
He was gone before the Cliff party assembled at the
breakfast-table, but he took with him the best prayers of
all, and most especially those of the girl of his heart, for
bis future safety and prosperity.
Master William gradually recovered, and took warning
from, this narrow escape not to venture any more upon
such dangerous excursions. Though fond of boating, he
lost the zest for wild-fowl shooting, and left it for others to
pursuo who had not purchased expedience at so dear a
price*
170
history of
CHAPTER XVIL
altercation and explanation.
It was not long after these occurrences that Mr. Cobbold
and his family removed from the Cliff to a house in the
town, a large family mansion, formerly the property of
C. Norton, Esq., on St. Margaret's Green, which he had
purchased, and thither he and his family would have
earlier removed but for some repairs which were not com-
pleted until that time. It was a fine old mansion, front-
ing the town, with its entrance porch, and lofty windows,
with numerous attics; whilst its drawing, dining, and
breakfast rooms, faced the beautiful green fields which
then skirted the town towards the hills upon the Wood-
bridge Road.
Mrs. Cobbold took the first favourable opportunity of
questioning Margaret respecting her attachment to Will
Laud, of whose character she spoke freely. Margaret
spoke warmly in his defence, while she acknowledged the
truth of much that had been advanced against him, and
as warmly expressed her conviction he would reform.
Sincerely did the lady hope that all her poor servant's
favourable anticipations might be confirmed.
Upon Margaret's spirits, however, this conversation,
which was broken off suddenly by the entrance of one of
the servants, produced a depression which greatly
affected and afflicted her. Her mistress did not appear in
her eyes either so amiable, or so kind, or so just, or so
considerate, as she had always previously done. She
began to suspect that she was prejudiced even against her
on Laud's account. She fancied herself not so much
beloved by her as she used to be, and that she did not
estimate her services as highly as, by her manner, she
used formerly to'show that she did. Words which
Margaret would never have thought anything about at
other times, when now spoken by her mistress, seemed to
import something unpleasant, as if her attachment was the
reason of their being uttered. She was never admonished
now but she thought it was because of her unfortunate
acquaintance with Laud. Mrs. Cobbold did not revert.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 171
in the least degree, to the past matters of confidential
conversation. Indeed, after her most devout aspirations
had been made for her servant's future comfort, she did
not think about the matter. But in Margaret's eyes
every little thing said or done seemed to have a peculiar
meaning, which her own warped mind attached to it. In
fact, she became an altered person—suspicious, distrustful,
capricious, and, in many things, far less careful than she
ought to have been. And all this arose from that well-
intentioned conversation, voluntarily begun on the part of
her mistress, but which had created' such a serious
disappointment in Margaret's mind.
A circumstance arose about the time of the removal of
the family, which, though simple in itself, tended very
greatly to inflame that disquietude in Margaret's breast,
which only wanted to be stirred up to burn most
fiercely.
Many of the things had been removed to St. Mar-
garet's Green. Part of the family had already left the
Cliff, and were domesticated in the mansion. Several of
the children, especially all the younger ones, had become
familiarized with their far more extensive nursery: Mar-
garet was with them. The footman had been sent,
together with the gardener, as safeguards to the house;
and even the old coachman, though frequently engaged
driving backwards and forwards from one house to the
other, considered himself, horses and all, as settled at the
town-house.
The Cliff began to be deserted, and in another day the
master and mistress would leave the house to those only
who were to live in it. Mrs. Cobbold and one or two
of the elder boys were still at the Cliff. The faithful old
dog, Pompey, still kept his kennel, which stood at the
entrance of the stable-yard. Mr. Cobbold had been
superintending the unpacking of some valuable goods
until a late hour-, and his lady, at the Cliff, was anxiously
awaiting his return. It was a clear frosty night, and the
snow was upon the ground; but the gravel path had been
well swept down to the shrubbery gate. Pompey had
been furiously barking for some time, and had disturbed
Mrs. Cobbold, who was engaged with her book—some new
publication of that eventful time. The two elder boys sat
by the fire. She said to them—
172 HISTORY OF
 I wish, hoys, you would go and see what Pompey is
barking at.
 Oh! it is nothing, I dare say, but some sailors on the
shore.
The young men, for so they might be called, had taken
off their hoots or shoes, and had put on their slippers, and
very naturally were little disposed to put them on again,
and to move from a nice, comfortable lire, into the cold air
of a frosty night.
Mrs. Cobbold finding, however, that she could not get
on with her book for the increasing rage of the dog, deter-
mined to go out herself. She was a person of no mean
courage, and not easily daunted. She thought, moreover,
that if she moved, her sons would leave their back-
gammon-board and follow her, and, if not, that she might
probably meet her husband. She put on her thick cloak,
threw a shawl over her head, and sallied forth. As the
door opened, Pompey ceased his loud bai-k, but every now
and then gave a low growl, and a short, suppressed bark,
as if he was not quite satisfied. Mrs. Cobbold walked
down the gravel path toward the gate, and, as she
proceeded, she saw a man go across the path and enter
the. laurel shrubbery directly before her. She went back
immediately to the parlour, and told the two young men
what she had seen; but, whether it was that they were too
deeply engaged with their game, or that they were really
afraid, they treated the matter very lightly, simply saying,
that it was some sweetheart of the cottagers, or that she
must have fancied she saw some one. At all events, they
declined going out, and advised her not to think anything
more about it.
This neither satisfied the lady nor old Pompey, who
began again to give tongue most furiousty. Finding that
she was unable to make them stir, the lady determined to
investigate the matter herself; and, telling the young
men her intention, she again went out, and advanced
to the very spot where she had seen the man enter the
shrubbery. The traces on the snow convinced her the
man was in the shrubbery. In a firm and decided voice,
she cried out—
"Come out of that bush — come out, I say! I know
you are there; I saw you enter; and if you do not imme-
uiately come out, I will order the dog to be let out upon
MARGARET CATCHPOI.E. 173
you! Come out! You had better come out this mo-
ment.
The bushes began to move, the snow to fall from
the leaves, and out rolled a heavy-looking man, dressed
as a sailor, and apparently drunk: he looked up at
the lady with a villanous scowl, and staggered a step
towards her.
"What do you do here? Who are you? she said,
without moving.
"My name's John Luff. I—(hiccup)—I — I do no
harm!
At the sound of his voice, Pompey became so furious,
that he actually dragged his great kennel from its fixture.,
and as his chain would not break, it came lumbering along
over the stones towards the spot.
As the fellow heard this, he began to stagger off;
but at every step turned round to see if the lady fol-
lowed him.
This she did, keeping at the same distance from him,
and saying,  Be off with you! be off! She then saw
him go out at the gate, and turn round the wall, to the
shore.
Farther than her own gate she did not think it prudent
to go; but when she got so far, she was rejoiced to see
her husband at a distance returning upon the marsh wall
to the Cliff.
Old Pompey had by this time come up to the gate
with his kennel behind him, and evidently impatient to be
let loose.
She was engaged in the attempt to unloose the dog as
her astonished husband came up to the gate; he soon
learned the cause of this appearance, and immediately
undid Pompey's collar; the animal sprang over the gate,
and ran along the shore till he came to the cut where
boats occasionally landed, a«.d was closely followed by his
master, who plainly saw a man pulling into the channel in
a manner which convinced him he was no inexperienced
hand at the oar.
In the mean time an exaggerated report reached St.
Margaret's Green, that a sailor had been seen lurking
about the premises at the Cliff, and that he had attacked
their mistress.
Of course, the tale lost nothing but truth by the telling;
174 HISTORY OP
and it was affirmed in the kitclien tliat it was Will Laud
himself.
Some told Margaret the fact; she felt greatly annoyed,
and was much surprised that when Mrs. Cobbold came
to the house the next day, she did not speak to her
upon the subject. She resolved that if her mistress did
not soon speak to her, she would broach the subject her-
self; but Mrs. Cobbold put this question to her the next
day:—
 Margaret, do you know a man of the name of John
Luff?
 Yes, madam, she replied;  I do know such a man,
and I most heartily wish I had never known him.
 I wish the same, Margaret, said her mistress, and
then related her recent adventure.
 He is the man, said Margaret,  who perverted all
Will's naturally good talents, and induced him to join his
nefarious traffickers He is a desperate villain, and would
murder any one! Did he threaten you with any violence?
I am glad, indeed, that you escaped unhurt from the fangs
of such a monster.
 He did me no injury, answered the lady.
Another long conversation then followed between Mrs.
Cobbold and Margaret, in which the latter complained
bitterly of the change she fancied had taken place in her
mistress's behaviour towards her. The lady denied such
change had taken place, and endeavoured to convince her
servant that the alteration was in her own disposition.
CHAPTER XVIII.
the reconciliation.
Whether it was that Margaret's fame had reached the
village of Brandiston, or that Mrs. Leader repented most
bitterly the loss of her assistance, or that her rents of the
land and cottages began to be in arrear and to fall off,
and she herself found that poverty crept in upon her,
certain it was that something sufficiently powerful in its
MARGARET CATCH POLE. 175
nature prompted her to speak kindly to Margaret, whom
she accidentally met that very day as she was going
across the Green towards Christ Church Park; she had
arrived at Ipswich with her husband, and was passing
over the Green just as Margaret with the children, all
wrapped up m cloaks and muffs, were going to see the
skaters on the Round Pond in the Park.
The meeting was much more cordial than could have
been expected; but Mrs. Leader was a changed woman.
After the interchange of mutual civilities, Margaret said
that she should be home by four o'clock, and if her uncle
and aunt would call, she knew that her mistress would
have no objection to their coming into the house. Mrs.
Leader even shook hands with her, and promised to pay
her a visit.
What a wonderful change ! thought Margaret, as she
hastened on with the little ones to overtake two or three
of the impatient party, who were looking behind from the
Park-gate.
The Park at Ipswich is a beautiful place m summer:
twice a week were its gates thrown open by the libera-
proprietor of the domain to the inhabitants of the town,
who rambled along the shady chestnut walk to its utmost
bound. Many were the happy walks that infancy, de-
lighting in the sunny flowers of the mead, took in that
lovely place; and many the more tender and animating
rambles which fond hearts and faithful lovers in the days
of youth enjoyed. Parents and their children breaking
away from the cares of business, delighted to stroll in
holiday attire, and repose themselves beneath the branches
of those stately trees which everywhere adorned the Park.
There they heard the first notes of the cuckoo; there
they watched the green and spotted woodpecker; ob-
served the busy rooks; heard the nightingales, the
thrushes, and the doves, and spoke of all the innocent
pleasures of nature.
The spotted fallow deer crossed their path in a long
line of rapid flight, and assembled in a herd in the valley;
the pheasant and the partridge roamed about in pride and
beauty; whilst the hare and the rabbit, almost familiarized
to the sound of children's voices, lifted up their long ears,
or stood up upon their hind legs to gaze upon them as they
passed.
170
history or
In tlie winter, the stragglers in the Park were com-
paratively few, excepting at that period when the pond
was frozen over, and became the fashionable resort for
company to view the skaters; thither th3 young party
whom Margaret had the care of resorted, to see the
dexterous movements of Counsellor Green, or some of
his majesty's officers from the barracks. The company
that day was numerous, and the scene such as would
delight thousands, even were it. in the gay metropolis;
it would have induced many of the fashionables to
leave the warm, soft cushions by the fireside, and to
wrap themselves in furs, and to put on their snow-
shoes, and to enjoy the healthy, though frosty, air of
Christmas.
Many in the busy town of Ipswich left their labours
and their cares for a few hours' recreation; fair ladies
ventured to lean upon a brother's or a lover's arm and try
the slippery ice; sledges, too, were in requisition.
Though the skating was good, and all the young people
enjoyed it, Margaret's thoughts were upon her uncle and
aunt, and she was the first to remind her young people
that the old Christ Church clock had struck four.
Home they went, gratified and satisfied, talking of the
frightful cracks and heavy falls, and well-contested races,
which they had mightily enjoyed; when they came into
the house they gave a lively account of all they had seen.
With Mrs. Cobbold's permission, Mr. and Mrs. Leader
were invited to take tea in the housekeeper's room, and
Margaret was allowed to have a long talk with them.
She found her uncle much more chatty than her aunt,
for sorrow and coming poverty had cast their shadows
before Mrs. Leader, and wonderfully softened the asperity
of her former purse-proud disposition; she let her husband
speak of all the family troubles, and did not once interrupt
him. Margaret soon learned that all their property was
mortgaged, and for its full value. She learned that the
cluldren were barefoot, and neglected; that it would re-
quire steady management indeed ever to bring them again
into a prosperous or a comfortable state; she felt for them
all, and not only felt, but did all she could to ameliorate
their condition. She offered advice, which was taken in
good part by the now crestfallen aunt.
A strange effect had that comfortable reception in ths
MARGARET CATCIIl'OLE. 177
housekeeper's room upon the nerves and manners of Mrs.
Leader, she looked up to Margaret as if she was a person
of considerable consequence in that family; she asked
Margaret if she might also see the children; nothing could
have given Margaret greater pleasure.
All in the nursery were delighted to see a visitor; and
Mrs. Leader very soon discovered that where manage-
ment, cleanliness, and strict attention are paid, there will
grow up order, regularity, and comfort; she stayed some
minutes with the happy family. As she returned to the
housekeeper's room, she sighed when she said to Mar-
garet—
"I now wish I had never provoked you to leave us!
I did not like to own it, but, very soon after you were
gone, I felt your loss; I hope you will be able to come
and see us in the summer, and should you ever be tired
of service, and wish for a home, you will find us very
altered in our manner to you, and more grateful for your
services.
Margaret could forgive all that her aunt had ever
said or done to her; she felt so happy in having been
reconciled to her, that she could not refrain from telling
her so. She gave a portion of her wages for the school-
ing of the children, and thanked her uncle and aunt for
their kind invitation. She even hinted that the time
might come when her hopes of settling in Brandiston
might be realized, should Laud obtain his discharge; in
short, she promised to see them in summer, as she had
no doubt that she should obtain leave from her kind
mistress.
The day was gone, and the moon was high, and the
sky was clear, and the happy Margaret would have had
them stay all night. She had received a message to the
effect that the pony might be put in the stable, and that
her uncle and aunt might sleep- in the house; they pru-
dently declined, lest a deep snow might fall and prevent
their reaching home; so off they went, happier than
they had been any day since their affectionate nieco
left them, and this happiness arose from the reconcili-
ation.
It was a lucky thing for Mr. and Mrs. Leader that they
went home as they did that very night, for not long after
their arrival home began that severe winter and deep snow
12
173 HISTORY OF
which formed one of the most remarkable features in tho
history of the climate of England.
It would be foreign to the present narrative to dwell
upon the events of that particular season, further than to
refer to the great exertions made by persons of all ranks
and conditions, above actual distress, to support the fam-
ishing poor. Houses were established in different parts
of the town of Ipswich for the public distribution of soup,
coals, and blankets, and various families agreed to furnish
supplies for the various days of the week.
Margaret was now as busy in the kitchen as she had
been in the nursery, for at this time the cook of the family
returned home ill, and no one else could be found so apt
as Margaret to supply her place.
It was at this memorable season that her aptitude for
this situation was discovered, which led to such a change
in her condition, as future pages will record. A servant
was so,on found for the nursery, who supplied her place,
vmd she became the active cook of the family. In such a
large domestic establishment as that of Mr. Cobbold, the
cook was a person of the utmost consequence; and al-
though there was a regular housekeeper who acted as an
intervening link between the parlour and the kitchen, yet
Mrs. Cobbold was by no means so unacquainted with the
proceedings of her house, as to be found negligent of a due
supervision over every department.
In the new place Margaret had undertaken at the
earnest request of her mistress, her active powers of
benevolence were now called into existence. The feeling
manner in which she represented to her fellow-servants
the destitution of thousands around them, and the great
sin there was in the least waste; the strong necessity now
became a duty in every one to deny themselves some por-
tion of their daily bread, that those who were starving
might have a share; made a powerful impression upon the
domestics of that establishment. At this time, though a
greater allowance was made on account of the provisions
given away by this affluent family, yet such was the
economy in the kitchen, and the honest, self-satisfactory
privation exercised by the whole house, that not the least
waste was made, and the accustomed expenditure was
very little increased. The poor, however, were bounti-
fulfy supplied, and Margaret's name was as justly praised
MARGAItET CATCHrOI.E.
179
below stairs, as, in past days, it had been above. Little
did she think that her activity, economy, and manage-
ment, which a sense of duty and charity had called into
action, would fix her in the kitchen at such an increase ot
wages, as, comparatively, seemed to her like coming into
a little fortune. She had now become the head of all the
domestics, from having been the servant of all. She had
an increase of toil, but she had a help under her. There
was dinner for the nursery, dinner for the kitchen, dinner
for the parlour, and that which is now almost obsolete, a
hot supper for all the house. But what is work to one
who is strong and willing, and ready and desirous of giving
satisfaction ?
Time, fully occupied, passes on rapidly, and Margaret
was now looked upon with respect by the whole house.
What a pity that thit respect should ever have been
blighted, or that any ciitramstances should have interfered
with that peaceful enjoyment which she seemed' at this
time to experience, and which in after years she never
forgot! In leaving the nursery, she left that frequent
intercourse with her mistress, and consequently that con-
tinued mental improvement which she had gradually
imbibed. She was not now under her immediate eye; she
seldom heard that sweet voice of approbation, pleasing
beyond all expression from such a mistress.
It was one of those singular coincidences which hap-
pened in her eventful life, that on the celebrated 1st of
June, 1794, her lover, William Laud, distinguished him-
self in Lord Howe's victory over the French, and was
one of the seamen appointed to bring home a splendid
prize to Portsmouth; and that Margaret herself, on the
very same day, distinguished herself in an aquatic feat,
which would have been no disgrace to a British seaman
to have performed, and which exhibited a degree of
courage and presence of mind, truly wonderful in a
female.
In the garden belonging to the mansion at St. Mar-
garet's Green was a very deep pond, with turfed sides,
which were sloping and steep, so that the gardener had to
descend to the water by a flight of six steps. Formerly
it had been a handsome square pond, with edges neatly
kept, and surrounded by alpine strawberry-beds. At the
period of this tale, one side opened into the adjoining
ISO HISTORY OF
meadow, and half of that extensive garden was laid down
to grass. To this day, the two stately weeping willows
may be seen dipping their pensile edges into the pond,
though time has lopped off many an arm, and somewhat
curtailed them of their beauty. At that time, when
Margaret was cook at St. Margaret's Green, these trees
were the ornaments of the exterior of the town, and to have
made a sketch from the hill, on the Woodbridge Road,
without including them, would have been to have robbed
the town of Ipswich of one of its most prominent and
pleasing features of landscape beauty. They were very
lofty, though pendent, and in the month of June, might be
justly styled magnificent. Hundreds of their boughs
kissed the water with their thin, taper points. The girl
who had the care of the children had been often warned
not to go near the edge of the road.
On this 1st of June, 1794, Margaret had entered the
garden to gather some herbs, and had scarcely closed the
gate before she heard a sudden shriek of distress. The
voices of the children struck upon her, from the centre ol
the garden. She ran down the path, and there she saw
the whole group standing and screaming at the edge of
the pond, and the nursemaid completely at her wits end
with fright. Master Henry had been running away from
his sisters, who were pursuing him down the path, and
having turned his head round to look at them, he did not
perceive his danger. His foot caught the edge of the
grass border which surrounded the pond, and he was pre-
jfipitated head-foremost into the deepest part of it. In a
moment he was seen plunging and screaming for help, but
all his efforts only tended to carry him still further towards
the middle of the pond: he must inevitably have been
drowned, had not Margaret at that moment providentially
entered the garden.
Margaret's astonishing presence of mind enabled her to
resolve in an instant what it was best to, do, and her
heroic courage caused her not to shrink from doing it;
she ordered the nurserymaid to run with all speed to the
stables for a ladder and rope, and then creeping along the
strongest arm of the weeping willow that spread itself
over the centre of the pond, and going as far as she could
towards the child, she grasped a handful of those pendent
branches which dipped themselves into the water, and
MARGARET CATCH PORE.
181
swinging herself by her right arm, into the pond, and
stretching out her left to the utmost, she seized the child
by the collar of his little jacket, and held him above the
water until the assistance she sent for arrived.
It required both nerve and presence of mind, as well as
bodily strength to support herself in this position only for
a few minutes. She gradually drew the child nearer to
her, and though in great danger herself, her first words to
him were,  Don't be afraid, Master Henry; I have got
you! Keep still! keep still! don't struggle!
The gardener and the coachman had by this time
arrived with the ladder and a rope, they let it down from
the arm of the tree, resting the upper stave just against
its branches. The gardener descended a few steps, and
Margaret gave him the child, whilst she herself remained
with the boughs in her hand, until the boy was safe. She
then requested them to throw her the rope, that she might
leave go of the willow and be drawn to the side of the
pond. She put the rope round her waist and took hold of
it, doubled, with both hands, and in this way was dragged
through the water to the bank.
Thus was Margaret Catchpole, for the third time, the
providential instrument in preserving the life of a member
of Mr. Cobbold's family. It will not, then, be matter of
surprise, that the records of her life should have been so
strictly preserved among them. If there had been any
former coolness or misunderstanding between her and any
of the domestics of the family, this event completely re-
conciled all differences. It was felt by one and all, that
a woman who could risk her life to save another's, in this
manner, was worthy of their united respect. She was, at
this time, at the very summit of her reputation. A few
days more brought the news of that celebrated victory
over the French fleet, which added so much to the naval
glory of Old England. In that victory more than one
Ipswich man partook, and returned to speak of the
engagement. One poor fellow, in particular, was sent
home, desperately wounded, who, for many years, became
an object of respect, as well as charitable attention, to
many families in the town and neighbourhood. This was
oor old Jack, whose friends kept the Salutation public-
ouse, in Carr Street, who always went by the name of
 What Cheer ? When he first returned to his aunt, tlu
182 HISTORY OF
landlady of tlie house, he had his senses perfect, and could
speak of the engagement with such clearness and precision,
as delighted the seamen who frequented the house. He
was on board the same ship as Will Laud, and on the 1st
of June they fought side by side.
Margaret heard of this, and used to go down to the
public-house in question, to hear from Jack all she could
of one who was as dear to her as her own life. He was
desired by Laud to tell Margaret that he was coming
home with plenty of prize-money as soon as he could
obtain his discharge. It was this which gave her spirit
such joy, and made her so anxious to hear all she could of
the battle; and, of course, of that, part which her lover
took in it. Poor Jack's intellects, however, from the
severity of his wounds, and consequent attack of fever,
became irretrievably impaired; and though he recovered
his health, and became a constant visitor at St. Margaret's
Green, yet he never could afterwards give any connected
account of the battle.
CHAPTER XIX.
the alteration.
We left our heroine, in the last chapter, esteemed of
every one who knew her, and looking forward to what
was to her the height of human felicity—the reformation
and return of her sailor-lover. No less true than strange
is the fact, that when we reach the highest pinnacle of
this world's happiness, some giddiness of the head is apt
to make us fall. So, at all events, it proved with the
female who gives a title to this book. It became matter
of deep concern to every member of Mr. Cobbold's family,
to behold in her an alteration which no previous circum-
stances in her life had prepared them for. There was
nothing in reason, and consistent with their own happi-
ness, that her grateful master and mistress would'not
MARGARET CATCIirOLE.
183
have granted her. Any situation she wished to attain,
either for herself or for her friends, would have com-
manded every exertion they could have made in her
favour. She stood so high in their opinion, and in every
one's else who knew her, that it scarcely seemed possible
for her to forfeit it. Apparently she had nothing to
complain of; no cause for dissatisfaction; no inducement
whatever to alter her disposition. Yet an alteration did
take place, and one which became evident to every one.
Where the heart is unsettled, things seldom go on well.
There wants that peace and security which can alone
make the discharge of our daily duties a daily pleasure.
Margaret's early impressions of religion had been of a
very desultory kind, and here was the root of all the evil
that afterwards befell her. The want of fixed religious
principles early instilled into the young mmd has caused
many a good disposition to give way to those changes and
chances which happen in life, and to create an alteration
even in the brightest prospects. In the earliest days of
this child of nature, an innate humanity of disposition
had been cultivated and increased by her attendance on a
sick and afflicted sister and an aged mother, both of
whom had constantly required, her aid. Her natural
qualities were, as the reader has seen, up to this
moment of the noblest cast. Still, in the absence of any
strong religious sentiment, the best dispositions are at tho
mercy of violent passions, and are subject to the most
dangerous caprices. The reader must have observed that,
in the midst of all her good qualities, Margaret Catchpole
evinced a pertinacity of attachment to the object of her
affections, even in his most unworthy days—an attach-
ment which no circumstances whatever, not even the
warning of her sister's deathbed, could shake. She had
built upon a vague hope of Laud's alteration of life, and
his settlement in some quiet occupation. She had been
accustomed to very great disappointments and vexations;
and, with a spirit above her years, she had borne them
all, and had shown an energy of mind and activity worthy
of better things. How weak are all qualities without t\'-i
support of religion! At a time when promises scGiiieu
most fair, when an unexpected reconciliation had taken
phfc§^ with her uncle and aunt Leader, when Laud's re-
turn was daily expected, and all the favours of a generous
HISTORY OF
family were heaped upon her for her good condu it,—at
such a time an alteration of her disposition took place,
which embittered her existence for many years. She
became peevish and irritable, discontented and unhappy,
moody and melancholy. She thanked nobody for assist-
ance, asked nothing- of any one, and gave no reason to
any of her fellow-servants for this sudden alteration.
Such would not have been the case, had religion taught
her, as it now does many in her station of life, how to feel
supported in prosperity as well as in adversity. It is a
trite saying, that "we seldom know when we are well
off. We are not content to  let well alone; but too
often foolishly speculate upon the future, and fall into
some present snare.
Nothing- had been heard of or from Laud, except that
a sailor, who had served with him in the glorious battle
of the 1st of June, had visited the town, and told Mar-
g-aret that Laud was appointed to come home in one of
the prizes taken by Lord Howe; and that, probably, he
was then at Portsmouth, waiting until he should receive
his prize-money and his discharge. Margaret occasionally
stole down in the evening to the Salutation public-house,
where the old sailor was staying, to speak with him, and
to hear the naval news. She was here occasionally seen
by other sailors, who frequented the house, and learned
where she lived. They understood the bearings of her
history, and some of them used to fabricate tales, on
purpose to get an introduction into the kitchen at St.
Margaret's Green, where they were sure to be welcomed
and well treated by Margaret. She was, at this time, very
anxious to hear tidings of her lover, and day after day ex-
hibited symptoms of restlessness, which could not long be
passed by without notice. The frequency of sailors' visits
to the kitchen began to be rumoured through the house,
and stories injurious to the reputations of the inmates
were circulated in the neighbourhood. Moreover, the
housekeeper missed various articles; and meat, and bread,
and stores, began to be unaccountably diminished. Inqui-
ries were instituted, and it was found that Margaret had
certainly given such and such things to sailors ; and with-
out doubt, some things were stolen.
Under these circumstances, it became high time for
the mistress of the house to take notice of these things;
MARGARET CATCIirOLE.
185
and, in as gentle a manner as the circumstances of tne case
would permit, she spoke to Margaret alone on the subject,
She regretted to hear from all quarters the alteration
which had taken place in her manner. She spoke to her
most feelingly upon the result of such a change, and with
great kindness contrasted the pleasure of the past with the
sorrow which her late conduct occasioned.
 I cannot, she added,  permit sailors of every kind
to be incessantly coming to the house at all hours with
pretended news of Laud, and so deceiving you by playing
upon your disposition, and then robbing you and the
house. Reports of a very unpleasant nature have reached
my ears injurious to your character and that of my estab-
lishment. I cannot submit to these things; and, though
I most sincerely regard you, Margaret, yet I must make
you sensible of the danger you incur by listening to the
artful tales of these men. I strongly recommend you to
have nothing to do with them. Your own character is of
much more consequence to you than their nonsensical
stories. If you wish it, I will write for you to Portsmouth
to make inquiries about Laud; and, rather than you
should be in doubt and affliction, and in any uncertainty
about him, I am sure that your master will send a trust-
worthy person to search him out and ascertain the cause
of his detention.
 Let me see you henceforth what you used to be—
cheerful and contented, thankful and happy, and not over-
anxious about matters which in the end will all probably
come right. You have my entire forgiveness of the past,
even though you do not ask it; but let me not be imposed
upon for the future. Go, Margaret, go; and let me hear
no more of these complaints.
Margaret heard all that her mistress said in perfect
silence. She neither defended herself, nor yet thanked
her mistress, as she used to do. She seemed sullen and
indifferent. She left the presence of that kind lady and
most sincere friend with scarce a curtsey, and with such
a pale, downcast countenance, as deeply distressed her
benefactress. Then was it the painful reflection oc-
curred, that her servant's religious principles had been
neglected; that her duty as a servant had been done
from no higher motive than that of pleasing man; and
that whea she failed to do go, and received a rebuke, her
186
HISTORY OF
spirit would not bear it. These reflections pressed them1
selves upon the kind lady's mind, and she resolved to do
her best to correct for the future that which appeared
80 deficient.
Margaret returned to the kitchen unaltered, saving in
feature; she was silent, pale, and restless. She did her
work mechanically, but something appeared to be working
upon her in a very strange way. She could not sit still a
moment. Sometimes she put down her work, and sat
looking at the fire, as if she was counting the coals upon
it. At one time she would rise and appear to go in search
of something, without knowing what she went for. At
another time she would bite her lips and mutter something,
as if she were resolute and determined upon some point
which she did not reveal. Her fellow-servants did not lay
anything to her, and took as little notice as her strange
manner would permit. They all considered that something
very unpleasant had occurred between herself and her
mistress. Some surmised that warning had been given;
others that she would leave of her own accord; but all
felt sorry that one who had been so highly esteemed should
now be so perverse.
One evening, in the midst of these domestic arrange-
ments of the kitchen, when all the servants were assem-
bled, a knock was heard at the back-kitchen door; the girl
who opened it immediately called out, "Another sailor
wants to see you, Margaret!
Without rising from her seat, as she was accustomed
to do with alacrity upon such occasions, Margaret petu-
lantly and passionately replied, loud enough for the sailor
to hear her through the door of the kitchen, which now
stood open,  Tell the fellow to go about his business! I
have nothing to do with, or to say to, any more sailors.
Tell him to be off!
The sailor stepped one step forward, and pitched a can-
vass bag in at the kitchen-door, which fell with a loud
chink upon the bricks. He had heard the words of
Margaret, and was off in a moment.
The reader will doubtless surmise that this was none
other than Will Laud. He it was who, at this unfor-
lunate moment, returned, with all his prize-money, on
purpose to give it to Margaret, for whom he had kept it,
intending- to purchase a shop at Brandiston, or one of the
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
187
neighbouring villages, where she might like to live. The
bag had a label, directed
 To Margaret Catchpole,
John Cobbold's, Esq.,
Cliff, Ipswich.
Had this unfortunate girl been in a different mood, she
might have recognised the voice, as she once did on that
memorable night when Mr. William's life was saved. She
heard the rap, and the inquiry for her; but, knowing her
mistress's commands, and believing the visitor to be one of
those whom she had styled impostors and thieves, she had,
with considerable energy and irritability, spoken those
cutting words, which sent him away in despair.
What agony now struck upon the heart of Margaret!
She started at the sound of the bag as it fell at her feet;
she looked bewildered for one moment; the truth burst
upon her, and she rushed out of the house with such
a wild shriek as pierced the heart of every one who heard
it. She ran into the street. The night was growing dark;
but, on the opposite side of the green, against the garden
pales, she saw a sailor standing and looking at the house.
She ran to him, seized his arm, and exclaimed,  Laud, is
it you?
He replied,  Yes—hush!
 Come in, then; come into the house; I am sure you
may come in.
The sailor walked on, with Margaret by his side. He
did not speak. This Margaret naturally attributed to her
late repulsive words, and she now said, soothingly, by way
of apologising for her harshness—
 I did not intend to send you away. I have lately had
several sailors to speak to me about you, and I was only
too glad to hear them; but my mistress gave orders to me
this day not to have anything more to do with them. I
am sure she did not mean to send you away—neither did
I intend it. Come back, come back !
 Come on, come on! said the sailor, in as soft accents
as he could. And, by this time, they had approached the
old granary wall, at the back of the park stables. Oppo-
site to these stables was a cowkeeper's yard, with the
dwelling inside the gates. The gates stood open: they
might rather be termed folding-doors, for, when shut, no
18S HISTORY OF
one could see through any part but the keyhole. The
sailor turned in here with Margaret, as if he knew the
premises, and immediately closed the gates. A light
glanced from a window in the cottage, and fell upen the
sailor's face. In an instant Margaret recognised the hated
features of John Luff.
The poor girl was paralyzed; she was completely in the
tiger'3 claws; she could not speak, her heart so swelled
with agony. She thought of this monster's cruelty, and
believed him to be capable of any desperate deed. She
recovered sufficient presence of mind, however, to be
resolved to grapple with him, should he have any evil
purpose in view. She retreated a few steps toward the
gates. He suspected by this that she had discovered who
he was, and he threw off the mask in a moment.
"You know who I am, I see; and I know you. I do
not want to harm you; but I want to know something
from you, which, if you tell me truly, you shall receive no
injury; but, if you do not tell me, I tell you plainly that,
as you are now in my power, so you shall never escape
me. You spoke just now of Will Laud. Now, no tacking
about; bear up at once, and come to the point. Tell me
where he can be found.
 I do not know, replied Margaret.
"No lies, girl! You do know. You were expecting
him from Portsmouth this very night. I knew he was
coming home with his prize-money; so did you. I don't
want his money, but I want him. I have sworn to take
him, dead or alive, and have him I will. You have seen
him: I have not. Now tell me where he is, and I will
let you go; but if you tell me not, down you shall go
headlong into the well at the bottom of this yard !
The truth burst upon the poor girl's mind, that this
•fellow was watching Laud to murder him. She was now
convinced that it was Laud who came to the back-kitchen
door, and that he must have gone over the garden-palings
towards the Woodbridge Road, instead of going into tne
street. With a woman's heart beating high at the danger
of her lover, she inwardly rejoiced, even at this dreadful
moment, that her sudden words had perhaps saved Laud's
life. She forgot her own loss, and her spirit rose to reply
firmly and boldly to the cowardly rascal who threatened
her—
MARGARET CATCIIPOLE.
180
 I do not know where Laud is. I wish I did; and I
would let him know that such a villain as you are ought
to he hanged.
Thejnonster seized her, gagged her mouth with a tow-
knot, and tried to pull her away from the gate. She had
seized hold of the long iron bar, which was fastened to a
low post, and fitted into a staple on the door. She
thought she heard voices outside the gates, speaking of
her. Just as the villain lifted her from the ground to
fulfil his determined purpose, she swung the iron against
the door with such force, that the servants outside were
convinced something was wrong. They called, but re-
eeived no answer. They heard footsteps i*eceding from
the door, and called to Smith, the cowkeeper, to know
what was the matter. They did not receive any imme-
diate answer, but a light streamed under the door, and in
another moment they heard a scuffle, and Smith's voice
calling for help.
With their united force they hurst the gates open, and
ran down the yard. The candle was burning on the
ground, and Smith prostrate beside it. In a moment
after, they heard the bucket of the well descending with
rapidity, and then a sudden splash, as if a heavy body had
reached the bottom of it.
Smith recovered quickly from his fall, and declared
he saw a sailor-looking man, carrying a female in his
arms, and he firmly believed that she was thrown down
the well. He got his lantern, and directed the men to
take down the long- church ladder, which was hung up
under the roof of the cowhouse, and bring it after him.
The ladder was put down the well, and Smith descended
with his lantern, and called out that there was a woman
in the well.
 Unhank the bucket: tie the rope round her body,
and ease her up the ladder; we can help you to get her
out so.
This was done: and when she was drawn up, the ser-
vants recognised the features of Margaret Catchpole.
Smith was quite sure the man he saw was in a sailor's
dress. It was a providential circumstance that the very
act of gagging had prevented the water getting to her
lungs, and so saved her from drowning. She breathed
hard, and harder still when the gag was removed, and was
100
HISTORY OF
very black in the face. She had received a severe blow
on the head from her fall against the bucket; the iron of
which had caught her gown, and was the cause of its
descending with her to the water. She might have had
a severer blow against the sides of the well but for this
circumstance. She was quite insensible, and in this
state was carried home, where she was laid between warm
blankets, and the doctor sent for. She was quickly bled,
and was soon restored to conscious animation.
As she revived, she refused to communicate anything
on the subject of the disaster; and it was thought best, at
that time, not to say much to her about it. Conjectures
were much raised, and the matter was much talked oter.
The bag, which was opened by her master, was found to
contain one hundred and thirty guineas in gold and silver
coin. Mr. Cobbold took charge of it, and sealed it with
his own seal. From all that could be learned, it seemed
that a sailor, whom all now conjectured to be Laud, had
thrown the money in at the door, and Margaret had
rushed out after him; that she had overtaken him; and
that some violent altercation had taken place between
them, which had led to this most extraordinary act.
The whole affair seemed to be fraught with reckless
desperation. Could anything be more so than to throw
such a sum of money at a person's foot, and then to throw
that person down a well? Why do such a deed? Was
he jealous ? Had he heard of the many sailors who had
lately made Margaret's acquaintance? It might be,
thought some, that he had suddenly returned, and hear-
ing of her conduct, had put the worst construction upon
it; and, in a desperate state, had been foolishly generous,
but too fatally jealous to hear any explanation. These
ideas passed through the minds of more than one of the
family.
Margaret slowly recovered from the fever which had
settled in her frame, and greatly reduced it. She kept
her bed for several weeks; she kept her tongue, too, as
still and as free from communication with any one as she
possibly could under the circumstances. She did not say
anything of her own accord, even to her anxious and
beloved mistress.
It was soon circulated about that an atrocious attempt
at murder had been made in the parish of St. Margaret s,
MARGARET CATCIIPOLE.
191
and tlie authorities of the town took it up, and made
inquiries into the matter. Understanding that the young
female was in too weak a state to have her deposition
taken, they did not visit her, but a reward was offered for
the apprehension of the man, and his person was described
by the cowkeeper.
There was but one person to whom Margaret opened her
lips willingly upon the subject, and that was her old friend
and medical attendant, Mr. Stebbing. He learned from her,
that it was not Laud who had thrown her down the well, but
a fellow named Luff, one of his former evil companions.
She told the doctor her belief that Laud was the person
who had unintentionally been driven away by her on that
unfortunate night;  And I fear, she added,  that he
will be induced by my seeming harshness to return to his
old courses. He will never forgive me—I know he never
will! Oh, that I could have had one word with him!
If I could but get well, I would try and find him. Oh,
doctor, I am so anxious to get well! Pray, help me!
 This is the plain reason, my girl, why you are so slow
in recovering. I knew you had something upon your
mind that kept you back; and now that you have told
me thus much, let me speak to you in my own way. I
tell you honestly, Margaret, I never should think a man
worth having who took himself off in that kind of way.
If, as you say, you refused to see a sailor who did not
give his name, the man ought to have been pleased, rather
than displeased, if he really loved you. If he was not a
fool, he would naturally think it would be the very first
thing a girl with any proper feeling would say. Take my
word, Margaret, and I am somewhat more experienced
than you are, that if Laud is worth your having, he will
soon be here again. But don't you think of running after
him. If he comes back in a few days, well; but if not,
I wish I might be able to persuade you not to think of
him at all. What could induce Luff to attempt to murder
you?
"He threatened, that unless I told him where Laud
was, he would throw me down the well. I imagine that
Laud having escaped from the gang of smugglers, this
villain was sworn either to be revenged upon him for
some quarrel, or else he had promised Captain Bargood,
his employer, to bring him back again. I was deter-
192
HISTORY OB
mined not to tell him that Laud had been to the house,
and the fellow took this desperate revenge on me. But,
thank God, his purpose is frustrated! You know Laud,
doctor, as well as I do. I can conceive that my speech
took him so completely by surprise, that, after he had
been saving' up all his money for me, and had been con-
g-ratulating' his mind upon my joy at his change, my
words must have cut him to the quick, and have driven
him away in desperation.
 I wish I could think so, Margaret; but my idea is,
that if he had been the altered man you picture him, he
would never have conducted himself in that way. I tell
you plainly, that I should be much more apt to think he
liked somebody else better than you; and that he threw
down the money merely because his conscience told him
he had wronged you; and made him feel that he ought to
make you some recompense. If he does not come back
m a few days, I shall be confirmed in this opinion.
The poor girl had never looked at the matter in this
light. She felt a strange sensation creeping over her
mind, and, in the weak state she then was in, she had a
superstitious dread of her sister's last words— Margaret,
you will never marry William Laud. The words seemed
to tingle in her ear, and to come, at this moment, with
redoubled force; she shook her head, sighed, and thanked
the doctor for his good advice.
 I shall explain these matters to your mistress, Mar*
garet, said Mr. Stebbing.  It will remove all erroneous
ideas, and may spare you some pain and trouble. You
must rouse yourself; the magistrates are daily asking me
about you; I have told them that }rou have too virulent a
fever upon you at present to make it safe for them to see
you; and, depend upon it, they will not be over-anxious
to run any risk.
 Pray, sir, could not you take down what I have said,
as well as having any other person to do it?
 If I do, Margaret, it must be read to you before two
justices of the peace, and you will have to swear to it.
 Well, sir, so it must be then.
And the good doctor left his patient, and gladly ex-
plained the exact state of the case to her mistress.
It was not very difficult for that lady to form her own
cer fusions now. She was of Margaret's opinion, that
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 193
Laud's first step would be te rejoin the smugglers. She
thought that he would become a more desperate character
than ever. Instability of purpose was always Laud's
failing. When Margaret got about again, her mistress,
having considered all the circumstances, thought it best
that she should go home to her parent's roof for a time.
 As you are so much better, said she to her one day,
u and have been so much shaken lately, and your deposi-
tion has been taken before the magistrates, I would
strongly recommend a little change for the benefit of your
health. The doctor thinks it advisable. You can go and
stay a while with your uncle and aunt Leader, or you can
go and see your father and younger brother. You may go
when you please. Remember that there are one hundred
and thirty guineas in your master's hands, to be appro-
priated to your use. Your father or your uncle may wish
to consult us for your benefit. We shall be happy to see
them for such purpose at any time. If you wish to enter
into any business, you shall have our best advice and
assistance. I think change will do you good. If you do
not settle in any way for yourself, and still prefer service,
we shall be glad to receive you amongst us again when
you have recruited your health rnd spirits.
 I do not, Margaret replied,  want anything beyond
my wages. I do not consider that money my own, and
shall never appropriate any of it to my own use. It
belongs to Will Laud. I feel very much obliged to both
my master and yourself for the interest you have always
taken in me, and for your offer of future assistance. I
will consult with my friends. I certainly do not feel so
happy as I used to do.
Her kind mistress did not choose to remind her of the
great alteration of her temper and conduct of late, because-
she did not wish to revive old grievances. And, as she
was about to leave her for a time, with a possibility of
some chance of settlement without service, she let the
matter rest.
Margaret, shortly after this conversation, took leave of
as good a mistress as a servant ever had. If she did not
feel quite the warmth of attachment to her that she had
formerly done, the fault lay in herself, not in that benevo-
lent lady, who at that time and ever after, manifested fop
her the sinrerest kindness.
13
194
HISTORY OF
CHAPTER XX.
CHANGE OF scene and change of PLACB.
Soon after Margaret's recovery, and the taking of hef
deposition before Colonel Neale, Mr. Gibson, and Mr.
Seekamp, justices of the peace, she took leave of the
affectionate friends she bad gained in the family at
St. Margaret's Green. She bad permission to go and
stay as long as she felt necessary for the recruiting of
her spirits, and accordingly she went to Nacton. She
found her aged father and her younger brother living in
the same cottage, and in better work and condition than
when she bad left them. They g'ladly welcomed her,
and she spent a peaceful quiet time with them, though
painful thoughts intruded themselves upon her mind.
Old and joyful, as well as joyless, associations crowded
upon her; she thought of her career of fortune and mis-
fortune, with many a deep and painful sigh. Oh! had
religious instruction then fortified that mind as it did
years afterwards, what comfort might it not have gained
even in this moment of adversity—what pain might it
not have turned aside! Her father soon perceived that
disappointment was gnawing at Margaret's heart, the
more keenly, as it found stronger food to feed upon, from
the past revival of warm hopes, now severely blighted.
The old man sought her confidence, and found that, by
conversation with her, he lightened the heaviness of her
load.
Margaret told her father the exact state of her mind,
and did not conceal anything from him.
"I much fear, said the old man, "that he has re-
turned to the coast again, and perhaps to his former
vicious companions. Not that I have heard anything of
him; but I know that the coast-guard are as active as
they ever were in the discharge of their desperate duty.
I cannot think of any other method of ascertaining the
fact, than by sending your brother Edward down to the
coast for a time, and let him learn what he can. He is
a very sharp young fellow, and I can tell you, Margaret,
that for activity of head, heart, and limb, not one of my
boys ever exceeded him.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 195
** I think the scheme might answer, replied Margaret:
 at all events, it is worth trying. I shall feel more satis-
fied, let the result he what it may. I will give him part
of my wages, so that he shall lose nothing by the trip.
In the evening, the plan was proposed to the young
man, who readily entered into his sister's views upon the
subject. He would ask his master for a week or ten days,
or a fortnight, if required.
Margaret gave him strict charge to explain to Will
Laud the circumstance of her having so hastily uttered
those words which had given him such offence; that it
was her mistress's command that she should see no more
sailors.  Be cautious, she added ; u avoid that villain
Luff; for in his clutches you would be no more than a
lamb beneath a tiger's paw. You must visit all the dif-
ferent places along the coast from Felixtow to Aldeburgh.
If any of the coast-guard speak to you, tell them honestly
who you are; and if you see young Edward Barry, you
may tell him all the truth. He will help you, as he pro-
mised to befriend me, should I ever require his aid. If
any private opportunity of speaking to Laud should
occur, tell him his money is all safe, and shall be employed
according to his directions. I consider it his property,
though directed to me. Go, Edward. I shall spend
many a restless hour until you return.
Edward Catchpole was soon on his road to Felixtow.
His first attempt was to find out the old ferryman, Laud's
father, and ascertain if he knew anything of him. But
he learned that the old man had quietly departed this
life, soon after receiving the news of his son's engagement
with the French, in Lord Howe's victory of the 1st of
June. The only thing like a footmark of Laud was in
the report given by some of the neighbours, that a sailor
had been there some weeks ago, making inquiries about
the old ferryman; who, ascertaining, however, that he
was dead, went away, and no one heard anything more
of him.
Edward next went on from Felixtow to Bawdsey Ferry,
and took up his quarters at the Sun Inn. Here he seemed
as one come to the sea-side for health; for he was to be
seen wandering along the shore, and talking whenever
he could with the sailors. But he could gain no tidings,
directly or indirectly, of the person he sought. He shifted
196 HISTORY OF
his position from the Sun to the Old Beach House, at
the mouth of the river Aide, now known by the name of
the Life-Boat public-house, then kept by Jacob Merrells,
a pilot.
Great preparations were then making for building forts
and Martello towers along the coast, to oppose any inva-
sion. Numbers of surveyors, and workmen in tie employ
of government, frequented the Beach House. The con-
versation sometimes turned upon smuggling, and young
Catchpole's heart beat high at such moments, with the
hope of some clue to Laud. Nothing, however, could he
elicit, except that, as so many government men were
about at that time, the smugglers were not likely to
be carrying on a very brisk trade. Still it mas carried
on, and Captain Bargood was, it was said, as busy as
ever.
He next visited Boyton and Sudbourn, and Orford.
He lodged at the Mariner's Compass, then kept by an old
weather-beaten sailor, who often put him across from the
quay on the banks of the Aide, to the North Vere; and
here he used to spend so many hours, that the coast-
guard, who kept a watch upon his movements, suspected
that his countryman's dress was only a ruse to hide some
sinister intention. They observed, however, that he did
not avoid them, but rather sought opportunity for their
acquaintance. A more dreary place than this North Yere
is scarcely to be found on all the coast of Great Britain.
It is a mass of shingle nearly twenty miles long, in some
places nearly a mile broad, in others, only a few hundred
yards. This wall of pebbles separates the river Aide from
the ocean. The bank reaches from Hollesley Bay to
Aldeburgh. The sea and the river are very deep along
the shelving banks on either side.
Thousands upon thousands of sea-birds build, or rather
lay their eggs, upon this desolate bed of shingle. A few
wild, straggling plants of seakale, and very long, thin,
sickly spires of grass, occasionally shoot up through the
stones; but there is no other vegetation, except here and
there in some few hollows in this desert of stones, where
a little clay, mixed with the sea-fowl dung, formed a green
patch. These spots used to be much frequented by smug-
glers, which, from their sunken situations, used to hide
both them and their goods from view. Nothing pre mi-
MARGARET CATCIirOLE.
197
nent can be seen for miles round this coast, except the
Orford lights, which stand conspicuous enough about
midway between Hollesley and Aldeburgh.
The poor fellows who acted as preventive-service men
in the coast-guard had no sinecure in this dreadful situa-
tion. The sun burnt them by day, and the wind, from
whatever quarter it blew, and ^specially in the winter
nights, was cutting and cold; and from the exposure be-
tween two waters, the sea and the river, it roared like the
discharge of batteries. In some of the hollows these poor
men used to construct huts of such rude materials as
came to hand; old pieces of wrecks, or broken-up boats,
which they covered with seaweed, collected after a storm.
These served to break the east winds which blew over
the German Ocean, in their terrible night-watches, which
they were forced to keep pretty constantly, as they were
watched, though they were watchers. Many were the
desperate struggles upon this wild beach between these
brave men and the smugglers, in which hard fighting,
and too often death-blows, told the desperate nature of
the service.
"Well, my man, what brings you upon this coast?
said one of the officers to Edward Catchpole, as he was
sauntering lazily along the sea-side.
 Oh, replied Edward,  I have got a holiday, and I
wish to spend a day or two by the sea-side.
 A day or two! Why you have been here six days,
and you have been staying at Hollesley, and Boyton, and
Felixtow. Come, come, young man, you are up to some
work which may get you into trouble. You had better
take my advice, and sheer off.
 I have no unlawful calling; if I had, I might deserve
your scrutiny. You think, perhaps, that I am connected
with smugglers, and am here for the purpose of giving
them information. I am, however, much more desirous
of receiving than of giving information. I never saw a
smuggler's boat in my life. You suspect me, I see; but
what of?—tell me.
 I ought to be suspicious of the truth of what you tell
me. But I never saw you before, and your looks do not
betray deceit.
 Are you sure you never saw me before ? Perhaps you
may be mistaken. I have seen you before to-day, and
198
HlbTGSV 02?
have spoken to you before this day. I know yon, if you
do not know me.
 I certainly do not knew you, and assuredly have never
spoken to you till now. My memory is pretty accurate as
to persons and faces, yet neither the one nor the other are
familiar to me in you.
 Your face is familiar to me. I never saw you more
than twice, and then you spoke to me, and very kindly
too.
 You certainly puzzle me. What is your name, and
whence do you come ?
 You are Edward Barry, and I am Edward Catchpole.
Do you remember the lad that drove his sister down to
the boat-house at Bawdsey ? 
"Yes, I remember you now, though you are greatly
changed. But what brings you here?
 That which keeps you here night and day! I am
upon the look-out for the smugglers.
"You may look a long time if you are looking for
Will Laud. Do you not know that he is in the British
navy ? 
 I knew that he was so, but I do not know that he is.
My sister told me if I met you to make you acquainted
with her trials, and to ask your assistance.
Here the young man told him the events which had
taken place, and her fears that Laud had returned to his
old career.
 I do not think he has. His old companions are as
active as ever; but I heard that he had split with them,
and that, when he was taken by the pressgang, he was
quarrelling with Luff, who, as I understood, escaped, and
swore to finish his work upon Laud whenever he could
catch him. There is not a man among us but would run
any risk to deliver that fellow up to justice. We have
had orders from government to secure him if we can, and
the reward is extended to us. He is a daring wretch,
and knowing, as he must do, our determination to take him,
it is my conviction that he will never be taken alive. But,
if you wish to see a bit of sharp work, we have got in-
formation that he is now off this coast, preparing to land
a cargo on the Vere. If you have a mind to lend a hand
to take him, you can be of great service to us, without
running much danger in work that you are not accus-
tomed to.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 199
 That I will do gladly.
"Well, now listen. You cannot walk five hundred
yards along the brow of the beach without meeting one of
my men. They are all upon the shore in readiness, and
have had their eyes upon you, though you have not seen
them. Look along the line of the coast against the upper
ridge of shingle at the spring-tide mark,—you see nothing.
If you walk along that line five hundred yards from where
you stand, you will see a head pop up from the shingle
and salute you. They are placed there, and have buried
themselves in the shingle on purpose to watch your mo-
tions. You are suspected to be the person appointed to
hoist a white flag, opposite Havergate Island, as a signal
that the boat may come ashore. I implicitly believe what
you have told me of yourself, and, if you will assist me, I
will in return render you all the assistance I can in search
of your object.
"I will do anything you appoint me to do within
my power.
 I ask nothing of you, but what you can easily per-
form. Remember the watchword which I now give you.
It is 1 King George for ever,' an expression you must
use if any of my men salute you. What I w-ant you to
do is, to pass along the whole line in the direction of the
spring-tide mark, which is the highest point that the tide
reaches. Every five hundred yards you will find your-
self spoken to by one of my men, who will say, ' Who
goes there ?' Do you reply, ' King George for ever!'
They will say ' Hurrah! pass on.' You will find four-
teen men, which will tell you that four miles of this coast
is strictly guarded to-night. Pass along the whole line;
but note when you come to the seventh man, and lay this
pole, and white flag which is bound to it, about twenty
yards on' this side of him. You will observe that, at that
point, a tall poplar tree in Sudbourn Grove, on the hori-
zon, will be in a direct line with you and the Shepherd's
Cottage on Havergate Island. Leave the flag-pole there
until you return from going the whole line. Take this
keg over your shoulder, and replenish every man's can as
you pass along, for they will have sharp work to-night,
and it is cold work lying in suspense. As you come back
from the line, unfurl the flag, and fix the staff strongly in
the ground. The wind blows off-shore, and will soon
200
HISTORY OR
carry it streaming outward. It will then be your duty to
take up your position at a respectful distance from the
spot, and see that no one from the land removes the flag.
1 strongly suspect that the old shepherd, who lives in the
Red Cottage on Havergate Island, is the man who will
come to remove it if he can. If you can secure him with-
out our aid, so much the better; but if not, just put your
lips to this whistle which I give you, and assistance will
be close at hand. At aft events, the old fellow must be
secured, and carried back to his cottage, and be bound to
his bed. And you must remain with him until night
draws on. Then put the old man's light, an oil lamp,
which you will find standing under the bed, into the
little window looking towards the sea, which is at the
gable-end to the east.
 Then you must come over again with his boat, and
mind and shove her the full length of her moorings into
the water before you fix her anchor on the shore, or the
falling tide will leave her high and dry. Then return to
the place, where you can bury yourself in the shingle.
If I mistake not, as Soon as the moon is high, you will
see a boat come ashore with a cargo. There is a dell
not far off the flag, to which they will probably carry
all their tubs. You must not be seen by them. You
will easily see how my men manage to hide themselves.
Wow be very particular in noting what I tell you, or
the lives of many may be forfeited. After the men have
landed their goods, two of them will go across to the river,
to see if the shepherd's boat is moored ready for them.
When they come back, you will hear them say ' Up! all's
right!' They will then each take up his burthen, and
proceed with it to the river's side. I expect there will be
ten or twelve of them. As soon as they are all fairly out
of the dell, do you give a good loud long whistle. By this
time, my men, who will have seen the boat coming
ashore, will be getting on their hands and knees close
up to you. The smugglers will throw down their loads,
and hasten to their boat; we shall be ready to receive
them. But, whatever you do, lie still, and you will be
out of danger; and if you have a mind to see what
a battle is, you will have a good view of it. I do not ask
you to risk your life, you will probably see some of
us killed, and should I be among the number, just re*
MARGARET CATCHFOLE. L'01
member, that in the bottom of my cartridge-box there
is a letter to my sister, which I will get you to deliver.
Do you think you fully understand me ? and are you now
willing to help us ? It is singular that I should find in
you the very instrument we wanted. I was about to have
you secured, and to perform the part myself; but ten to
one if the old shepherd saw meybut he would smell pow-
der, and keep at home; but, seeing you a country youth,
he will not mind you, but will come to the scratch. You
see how much depends upon your courage.
Young Edward Catchpole had long made up his mind,
notwithstanding all the danger, to run any risk sooner
than give up the enterprise; like his sister, he possessed
great personal courage, and was quick, intelligent, and
active. He also looked upon the cause as a good one; it
was for his king and country, and for a sister whom he
loved. He had given up the idea of meeting with Laud,
and thought only of securing the vile assassin whose
crimes had reached such an enormous pitch. He entered
upon his commission immediately, pursued his career along
the high-water mark of the beach, and, true enough,
about every five hundred yards, a head popped up from
the shingle, with,  Who goes there ?   King George
for ever! was the answer; and  That's right, my
hearty, we '11 drink his health if you please, was the hint
for the young man to replenish the brave sailor's can.
He noted the seventh man; there he left the flag and
staff, and proceeded on the whole length of the line. As
he returned he placed the pole firmly into the deep shingle,
and unfurled the white sheet, which soon formed a most
conspicuous streamer in the air. He then quietly secreted
himself in the manner he had been shown by one of the
men, by working his body into the shingle, and letting
the larger stones fall over him until he was completely
covered, save his head. It was not long before a sail,
which had been seen in the distance, now kept standing
off and on in the offing. But now came his own work.
About an hour after the flag had been unfurled, Edward
plainly heard the bleating of sheep, and saw a shepherd
driving a score of sheep leisurely along- towards the flag-,
apparently watching his sheep cropping the scant herbage
of the North Yere. As he came whistling on, and ap-
proached the staff, looking cautiously around him, Edward
202 HISTORY Olf
thougl:t it was time to commence proceedings, especially
as the old man laid hold of the flag-staff to unship it. He
jumped up, and called to the shepherd,—
 I say, old boy, let that belwether of mine alone, will
you ? 
The shepherd started, and left the staff, and approached
the young man.
 What do you put that flag there for, young man?
 Because such are my orders.
 But suppose I wish to have that flag for a sheet foi
my bed to-night, who shall prevent it?
"I will.
 Why, I could lick half a dozen such fellows as you,
with one arm.
 Maybe so—but come, now, let's have a fair trial of
strength. Lay down your crook between us, and see if
you or I can pull the other over it. If you succeed, then
take the flag. If I, then you must take yourself off how
you can.
 Done, said the shepherd— it shall be a bargain
and he threw his crook down on the ground.  Now for
it, young man.
Accordingly, they approached each other. Young
Edward saw that he had a formidable antagonist to con-
tend with, a brawny, sinewy frame, full of compact
strength, and more than an equal match for his youth j
but he resolved not to give the whistle, if he could over-
come the man any how by himself.
 Stop, said Edward; "you have laid the crook so as
to give yourself the upper hand : that is not fair. Lay it
down from sea to river, so that we both have the same
chance in the slant. I '11 shew you what I mean.
And the young man shewed him in a moment what he
meant; for, taking up the crook, and stooping down to
place it as he had said, with a shepherd's dexterity (for
the reader will remember that the youth was also a shep-
herd) he swung it round the ankle of the old man, and at
the same instant gave it such a jerk, as pitched him back-
wards upon his head, which came with such violence upon
the stones, that he was completely stunned. Edward was
for a moment fearful that he was dead; but conjecturing,
very wisely, that he might revive, he took out of his
Wallet the old man's sheep-cords (strong thongs which
MARGARET CATGHPOLE. 20b
shepherds use wlien they dress their sheep, or such as
sheep-shearers use when they clip them), and, without
more ado, he tied his hands and legs together behind him,
so that he was completely pinioned.
It was well that young Catchpole had taken this ad-
vantage and precaution; for, upon searching the inner
pocket of the wallet, he found a brace of pistols, primed
and loaded, which would have made the contest very
uneven. As the old man shortly began to- revive, he
called out most lustily for help.
 Hold your tongue, said Edward,  or I will shoot
you dead with your own pistols! Lie still, and no one
will hurt you. What should an honest man, in your
calling, do with such weapons as these?
The old fellow was soon convinced that he had to deal
with as good a hand as his own; and one as expert at
catching a ram, too. His arms and legs were tied in such
a scientific manner, as convinced him that the young
man was a shepherd. He thought it best, therefore, to
hear his present condition silently.
 Come along-, old boy, said the youth, as he stuck
the shepherd's crook under the cords, and began dragging
him along towards his boat;  I '11 ease you down to the
river.
 Take care you are not eased down yourself, said the
old man.  I have friends, who will give you your
deserts before long, and ease me of these clutches.
 I '11 tell you what you deserve, old man; and what, if
the coast-guard suffer to-night, you will receive. You
deserve to be thrown into the river as you are; and if I
have many words with you, and you refuse to give me a
plain direction and answer to whatever question I put to
you, you may depend upon it I will do it myself; and
that will scon settle all disputes between us. You have
had in your wallet, pistols; your crook would make a flag-
staff; and I find, upon dragging you along, that, as your
jacket buttons give way, you have half a sheet round
your body. Tell me, when did you intend to give the
smugglers the signal? It will do you no good to tell me
a lie. You have seen enough to be convinced I under-
stand what you are. You had better tell me the truth
at once, or a cold salt-water bath will compel you to
do so.
204
HISTORY OF
 Not to-night! —not to-night!
u Why not to-night 1 n
 Because the coast-guard are upon the watch.'*
As they proceeded on their way, Edward asked the old
man, "Do you expect Captains Laud or Luff to-night?
You may as well tell me; for you must be pretty well
convinced, by this time, that I know what is going on.
 Well—I expect Captain Luff. Laud is dead.
The young man fairly dropped the crook, as he repeated
Maud's words— Laud is dead! Laud is dead !—How do
you know that?
 If you will unbind me, I will tell you all about it.
 Perhaps I may, when you tell me how and where he
died, and shew me what proof you have of his death.
 Will you unbind me then ? 
"Yes; when I think you have been bound long
enough.
 These thongs cut me sore.
 How can that be? they are too broad to cut; and if
you do not attempt to draw your hands asunder, you
know, as well as I do, that the knot is tied so that they
cannot hurt you. I see, by your keeping your hands
close together, that they do not hurt you.
They had now arrived at the river's side, where a large
ferry-boat, such as is used to carry stock over from the
main land to the island, was moored against the shore.
Edward lifted the old man into the broad-bottomed craft,
and laying him down upon the boards, pulled up the
anchor, and shoved off towards the island. The old man
soon perceived that Edward was no sailor, by the manner
in which he managed, or rather mismanaged the boat;
and truly this was the hardest work the young man had
yet to perform. He had been so taken up with the
thought of doing every thing he was commissioned to do,
and in his pride so determined to do it all himself, with-
out help, that he had overlooked his greatest difficulty,
and forgot that he should want assistance to row the
boat. He still did not use his whistle; but, with very
great exertion, and very awkward management, contrived
to bring the boat to the island, and to shove her along the
side of the marsh wall, to a creek, close by the shepherd's
house. He then lifted the old man out of the boat, and
dragged him up the mud wall, and laid him down at his
MAKGARKT CATCHPOLE.
205
cottage door. The door was locked ; and, in the scuffle,
the key of it had fallen out of the old man's pocket; and
Edward was obliged to make his way in at a low window
behind the house; when, having forced back the bolt, he
pulled the old man in, and lifted him on to a bed, which
was in the room adjoining, and took a seat by his side.
 I'm both hungry and thirsty after all my exertions;
have you any refreshment of any kind in this comfortable
dwelling ?
 You will find plenty in the closet by the fire-place. I
wish I could eat and drink with you.
 So you may, and I will feed you as if you were my
cosset lamb.
He soon found that the shepherd's cottage contained
sufficient to recruit the spirits of any man whose stomach
was not too proud for wholesome food. There was a
slice of cold boiled bacon, and bread and cheese in plenty.
There was brandy, too, but very bad water; and it
required something stronger than tea to take off the
brackish taste; brandy alone could make it palatable for
man. The cattle sometimes suffered by drinking it. The
young shepherd fed the old one, whose muscular limbs
were now as powerless as an infant's; not from second
childhood, but from the dexterity with which they were
bound together. There was something of kindness in the
young man's manner, though he was justified, in sell-
defence, to take the advantage he had done.
 Now, said he,  tell me how you know Captain Laud
is dead?
 Captain Luff told me so.
 And rs that all you know of it ? Have you no other
proof?
 Yes; I have the captain's watch, which Luff gave to
me, and the case of it has his true-love's name engraved
in the inside. The watch is in the old plum-tree box, in
the cupboard '
The young man eagerly examined the spot. He found
the box, and in it the watch, with both names engraved
on-the inside of the case, shining as bright, and the en-
graving as sharp, as if it had been executed only that
very day.  William Laud and Margaret Catchpole,
round the interior circumference, and "June 1st, 1794,
with a wreath of victory surrounding it, in the centre.
206 HISTOKY OF
"All this is correct, as you say, but how did he
die?
"Well, I will tell you all I know. Captain Luff (if
you do not know him, I do) is a most desperate fellow;
a price is set upon his head, dead or alive, so that it be
hut taken. Well, he murdered the poor girl whose name
is written in the watch; and I firmly believe that he
murdered Captain Laud too! Towards the close of the
last year I was upon Sudbourn Heath, keeping my sheep,
and who should I meet but Captain Luff, who accosted
me with this question:—
"' Have you seen my young commander, Captain Laud,
pass this way ?'
"Well, it was a curious question, and quite natural too;
for about six o'clock that very morning, as I was taking
my sheep out of the fold, who should pass by me but the
gallant young fellow who he inquired after ? Singularly
enough he asked after Luff, and whether I knew if he was
upon the coast. I told him that I had not had any sig-
nals lately; but that some of the crew were ashore, and
were staying at the Mariner's Compass, at Orford. Well,
I told Luff the same as I now tell you; and he no sooner
received the intelligence, than with all the eagerness of a
blood-hound when he touches upon the'scent of his victim,
he was off for Orford in a moment. Well, I thought this
was all for old acquaintance' sake, or for business; so I
rather rejoiced in the adventure. That very night I had
made an appointment to take some game; and as I went
up the Gap Lane, leading to the Heath, I heard angry
words, and soon found the two captains at variance. I
had no wish, as you may suppose, to interfere with their
strife, so I quietly laid myself up in the ferns. It was a
dreadful sound to hear the thunder of those two men's
voices. How they cursed each other! At length I heard
the report of two pistols, and one of the balls passed
within a yard of my head; but as for blows, I could not
count them. They fought each other like two bull-dogs,
I should say for near an hour, till I heard the snap and
jingle of a broken sword, and then one of them fled. I
found the broken part of the blade next morning close to
the spot. It was red with blood; and the marks of feet
in the sand were as numerous as if twenty men had been
contending. I found drops of blood sunk into the sand
MARGARET CATCIIPOLE. 207
all the way down the lane, until yoti come to the marshes :
here I lost the track. I have seen no more of Laud
since. But what makes me think that he was killed by
Luff on that night is the after-behaviour of the captain.
About two months after this occurrence I received a
signal from the North Vere; and who should it be but
Luff. Well, he came home to my cottage, and as we sat
together I said, by way of a sounder, ' Where's Captain
Laud?'
"' What makes you ask that question?' says he, has-
tily and fiercely. ' Have you any particular reason for
asking me after him? Speak out at once,' says he,—
' speak out; have you heard anything about him ?'
 The terrific glare of the fiend's eye fell upon me so
cruelly that I dared not tell him I had witnessed the
fight, so I said, ' I have not seSn the captain for so long
a time, that I did not know where he was.'
"' Ho! ho! that's it, is it ?' says he. ' Have you seen
him since the morning you fed your sheep on Sudbourn
Heath ?'
"' No,' says I; 1 he was then anxious to see you. Did
you find him ?'
 Yes, I did; and I have reason to think he was lost at
sea that very night; for he agreed to come on board, and
we have seen nothing more of him, nor two of our crew,
since that very time.. Two of my men were in the river
boat, but I have seen nothing of them since. They were
to have joined the crew off the head of the North Vere,
but we never saw them again.'
 ' That's very odd,' says I; ' but how did you join
the crew?'
"11 got a cast down the river in Master Mannell's
boat, the old fisherman of Boy ton.'1
 Then, after a pause,
"(Here, Jim,' says he, '111 make you a present ot
poor Will's watch. I do not like to wear it; it grieves
me when I look at it. We used to be such friends.'
"Now I thought this very strange, and it confirmed
me in the opinion that his conscience would not let him
rest. I took the watch, and you have now got it in your
hand.
 What shaH I give you for this watch ? said Edward.
6i What you like; for ever since I have had it, it has
208
HISTORY OP
appeared to me as if I was an accomplice in Captain
Laud's murder.
 I will give you half a guinea.
"Well, it is yours.
 I will put the money into the box in the cupboard.
Time now wears aiVay. What are all these pieces of
wood for?
"They are thowls for the boat, when the smugglers
use it.
 With your permission I will take them with me. Have
you any oars for them also ?
 No! the smugglers bring their own oars.
"Well, I must be moving; and now since you have
told me the truth, and I have every reason to thank you,
I will candidly tell you who I am: I am Margaret Catch-
pole's brother.
 You are a shepherd, then?
"lama shepherd.
 I was sure of it by the manner in which you used
these thongs. May I ask, is your sister dead ?
"She is not dead. How many men do you expect
from the lugger when they land ?
 Ten, with the captain.
 Well, lie you still now. I must, for the sake of ful-
filling the orders of my commander, fasten your cords to
the bedstead, or I may be blamed. So: that will do.
Now, should the captain himself come to see you, he will
be convinced that the foul play was not your part; and
if he does not come to-night, I will. But time presses,
and I must do my duty. Where is your lamp ?
 I see by your question, said the old man,  that all
is discovered. You want the lamp to put in the window
up stairs; you will find it under the bed.
There it was, and was soon lighted and put in its pro-
per place: a joyful signal of success to the brave and
patient coast-guard, and a fatal lure to the desperadoes
on board the smuggler.
 Now then, old friend, good-by, said Edward.  If
success attend our scheme you and I may be better ac-
quainted; you may be glad that you have told me all the
truth. Farewell.
The youth was soon on board the ferry-boat; and withu
much labour brought her to the same spot where he had
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
209
before unmoored her. The tide had fallen some feet, and
was near its last ebb, so that he very wisely drew her up
as high as he could on to the shore, concluding that if he
anchored her in the water when the tide flowed again,
which it would soon do, it would cover the anchor on the
shore. He drew her up far enough just to place her
cable's end at high-water mark; and having put the
thowls in their proper places, he then walked across to
the white flag. Just before he passed the dell, who
should lift up his head but young Barry!
 I began to think our plan had not succeeded. Is all
right?
 All is as you could wish it, and more; but I will tell
you all another time.
"We can see the lugger, said young Barry, "stand-
ing off and on: our white flag is successful. You must
go to the right, so as to lay yourself in such a position as
to command a view of this little dell and the river. Bring
yourself to anchor full a hundred yards from this hole,
for I suspect the fight will be here; keep your head
below the ocean mark when you give the signal, or a few
bullets may whistle about your ears.
Only those who have had anything to do with the pre-
ventive service can tell the dangers and difficulties which
the poor fellows who defend our trade have to encounter;
how much toil and anxiety, and how seldom sufficient
honour or reward do such men gain in discharging their
onerous duty. It is a life of feverish vexation. Fancy
fourteen men collected and stationed along four miles of
coast the whole day, buried in the pebbles, and waiting
on a cold night for the approach of the smuggler. They
all saw the vessel reconnoitring and sailing about the
offing: the least want of circumspection on their part
would thwart the scheme which up to this moment pro-
mised success. Even the men accustomed to this kind
of work shook with the anxiety of suspense; but what
must have been the sensations of the young landsman
who had to give the signal for the onset, in which more
than one might fall? To say that he did not suffer
severely, enough almost to make him wish himself at
home, would not be true; the thought, however, that he
might be instrumental in bringing the villain Luff to jus-
tice for all his crimes, and the singular manner in which
210 HUSTOiiV OF
lie had discovered his treachery to Laud, made the young
man some amends for the truly painful task he had un-
dertaken.
Night now began to draw on, and the sea-birds left off
their screaming; the tern and the dottrell hastened to their
resting-places; and the last of all the feathered sea-shore
tribe, the one which goes to roost the latest, the grey
curlew, bent his rapid wing toward Havergate Island, and
gave a mournful note as he flapped over the head of the
young watchman. As the moon arose the wind began to
blow a little fresh, and the ocean to roar upon the beach.
The smugglers rejoiced at this, as it would enable them to
land their cargo with less chance of being heard. The
flag- still streamed and flapped in the wind; the light shone
like a star in the shepherd's cot; and the time drew near
for the contest.
Not a sound could be now heard save that of the wind.
The vessel, however, might be seen in the moonlight,
approaching the shore; and now a heavy eight-oared boat
was seen to leave her: she was heavily laden, even to the
gunwale. The boat lurched through the breakers like a
log. On she came, with her helmsman, John Lulf, who
laid her broadside on to the shore. Now for an anxious
moment. Not a word was spoken. The wind preventing
any sound along the shore, nothing could be heard even of
the grounding of the boat's keel upon the beach. Dark
figures of men were seen getting out of the boat. They
were expert sailors, up to their work; as the sea heaved
the boat up, they dragged her higher on the shore, until
they could more conveniently unload her. This was done
as expeditiously as possible; each man carried a sack
heavily laden. They went to the very spot that Barry had
named, deposited their load, and again returned to their
boat. Twice they performed this work; and now the two
last men, carrying the eight oars, brought up the rear.
The eight quietly seated themselves on the sacks, whilst
the other two went forward with the oars; they returned,
and, as young Edward concluded, must have said, "All's
right.
By this time the coast-guard were drawing their lines
closer to the spot, each man taking up his brother, 01
calling on him as he passed him, until the whole fourteen
were within the space of ten yards from the flag j breath-
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
211
less, on their knees did they await the shrill whistle which,
like the trumpet's sound, was to give the word for the
charge.
Young Catchpole saw the smugglers emerge from the
dell, with each man his sack upon his shoulder; for an
instant he thought he ought to wait until thev came the
second time, but as his orders did not say so, and he judged
that if they once stowed away half their cargo they would
make quickly for the river, he deemed it best to give the
signal at once; so drawing in his breath, he gave the
histle such a long, shrill blast, that had the wind lain that
way it might have been heard to Orford. He did not raise
himself up, and it was well he did not, for over his head
whizzed a ball, and flash—flash—flash went the pistols.
As was predicted the men dropped their cargoes, and ran
for the pit, but here stood the coast-guard ready to receive
them, young Barry having brought his men down below
the horizon of the sea, that they might not be exposed to
the sight of the smugglers, whilst the river lying lower,
and they ascending from it, became a visible mark against
the moonlit water for their fire.
Dreadful was the contest that ensued. The smug-
glers formed a close line: the coast-guard line was more
measured, and with some space between each two men,
so that their danger was the less. The firing, as they
approached each other, was awful; two men of the smug-
glers fell. They closed nearer, and swords clashed and
sparkled in the moonlight; and the uproar at length be-
came more audible than the noise of the wind and waves.
At last there was one sudden, tremendous yell from the
boat's crew, and then the cry for quarter; some fell, others
fled, not to the boat but along the coast. It was the ob-
ject of the coast-guard not to pursue them so far as to
separate from each other; and as three fled one way, and
two another, they merely sent flying shots after them,
and cleared a passage to the boat. The shout announced
the leader of the smugglers to be shot, and two more
were lying by his side, and two surrendered, and were dis-
armed and guarded, whilst but one of the coast-guard had
fallen.
As the enemy was dispersed young Barry mustered his
men, and .missed his comrade. They found him near the
two smugglers who had first fallen. Close to them lay
212
HISTORY OF
the captain, his arm nearly cut in two, shot in the side,
and severely wounded on the head. Young Edward, who
had seen the fight, now came forward to render further
assistance. The two smugglers were dead; but the pre-
ventive-service man and the captain of the crew were not
dead, though both were severely wounded.
The two wounded men were taken to the shepherd's
cottage. Four men, with Barry and young Edward,
rowed across to the island, whilst ten men were left to
guard the prisoners and the cargo, and to secure the smug-
glers' boat. The whole proved to be a most valuable prize.
The captain, as the reader may suppose, proved to be
no other than the hated John Luff. The old shepherd
was released by young Catchpole, and from cramp and
pain from his long do ubled-up* position he could scarcely
stand. The two wounded men were placed upon his bed,
presenting such a contrast of feature, expression, and
character, as the ablest artist in the world could not have
justly delineated. Luff, with his dark brow, haggard eye,
and hairy face, looking like a dying hyena, looked up and
saw before him, Barry, Catchpole, and the shepherd; and
with the scowl of revenge (a strong passion to exhibit in
such agony), he muttered a dreadful curse upon them all.
The poor coast-guard man, with his pale but placid coun-
tenance, though suffering severely from his wounds, ex-
tended his hand to his commander, and implored him to
let him be carried to another bed, to let him lie on the floor
in the other room, or anywhere but head to head beside
the demon who lay shuddering and cursing by his side.
The bed of the shepherd's daughter, who was at that
time staying at Orford, was brought down and laid in the
keeping-room beside the fire-place, and the poor fellow was
laid upon it. Luff's death-hour was evidently at hand.
It was a fearful thing to see him in his horrible tortures,
and to hear him, in his groans and moans, proclaiming
himself the murderer of Will Laud. Whenever he opened
his eyes he saw nothing but the evidences of guilt before
him, as he raved in wild frenzy,—
 There! there ! there! I see him! He is not dead!
—-no! no! no! There's Laud and Margaret Catchpole!
Look! they laugh at me!
At last, with one wild scream, his spirit, like an af-
frighted bird, fled away. Never did those who stood near
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
213
him witness such a death. A cold shudder crept over
their flesh, and they owned one to another that they should
never forget that awful sight.
When it became known that the notorious smuggler,
John Luff, was killed, numbers came to see him; and few
that saw his body but owned that he was a fearful fellow
when living. Government paid the reward over into the
hands of the coast-guard, who all subscribed liberally to-
wards the comfort of their wounded messmate. Edward
Catchpole was included among those who shared the re-
ward, and this enabled him to pay all his expenses without
any recurrence to his sister's purse.
When young Catchpole returned to Nacton with the
eventful tidings of his journey, and related all the parti-
culars to Margaret, stating his full belief of Laud's death,
she pondered for a while over his statement, and then
expressed her dissent from her brother's conclusions.
"I see no certain proof of Laud's death, said she.
 The old shepherd and the wretch Luff, may both have
supposed him dead; but there is a mystery not yet cleared
up which nils me with strange hopes—I mean the sudden
disappearance of the two sailors with the boat that very
night. Luff made no mention of them in his dying
moments. I really think these two men are somehow
connected with the safety of Laud; and I yet have hope.
She rejoiced, however, that Laud was not found in com-
pany with his former band, and especially with that bad
man Luff; and drew conclusions, in her own mind, fa-
vourable to his character and conduct. She was very
grateful to her brother; and not long afterwards she pro-
posed to return to her place. She had certainly been very
remiss in not communicating with her mistress once since
she left her. So taken up was she with her thoughts of
Laud, that she forgot her situation; and, until her brother's
return, had never spoken of going back to Ipswich. Her
mistress not hearing of or from her, sent over to Brandis-
ton, and there learned that she had never been to see hef
uncle and aunt, nor had they heard anything of her. A
man was sent to Nacton, and, unfortunately, the cottage
was locked up, as Margaret had been that day to spend a
few hours with her first mistress, at the Priory Farm.
These strange circumstances made her mistress at Ipswich
conclude that she was gone in search of Laud; and con-
214 HISTORY OF
gequently she engaged another servant. When Margaret
returned to St. Margaret's Green she found her place
filled up; and her mistress reproached her for her neglect
in not having had some communication with her. Mar-
garet felt hurt and disappointed. She stayed a short
time at one or two places, but was extremely unsettled
and dissatisfied. She was in the habit of frequently
visiting St. Margaret's Green, and of being asked to go
and see the children. About eight months after a vacancy
unexpectedly occurred in Mrs. Cobbold's establishment,
and Margaret entered a second time into the service of
her former mistress, in the capacity of cook; but her stay
this time was short. She was now as unlike as possible
to the Margaret of former days. She was not happy.
Her temper had been soured by disappointment, and her
spirit made restless by rumours of Laud being alive. She
became impatient towards her fellow-servants, careless in
her dress and manner, and negligent in her work—a com-
plete contrast to her former self, who had been a pattern
of order, decency, and regularity. At the end of one year,
it became her mistress's painful duty to give her a final
warning. It was a real heartfelt sorrow to that benevo-
lent lady to be compelled, for the sake of example to her
other servants, to discharge Margaret. But she could not
do otherwise.
Here was a painful duty discharged conscientiously.
Let not the reader think that it made no impression. It
fell with full force upon Margaret's mind. Margaret wept
most bitterly when she found that she must now break off
all connexion with that family in which she had once been
so happy. She merely asked permission to remain till the
end of the week, and that in such a subdued tone and
supplicating manner, as touched her mistress's heart. It
is needless to say that her request was granted.
The morning of departure arrived, and not a servant,
no, nor a child in that house, could say "Good+by
without tears. Her mistress, when handing over to her
the money directed to her by Laud, made Margaret sit
down, and conversed with her upon her future prospects.
She also gave her some good books for a remembrance,
expressed a hope that she would read them, and told her
she should forget all but her good deeds, and be ever
ready tc serve her.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
211
Then, with tears rolling down her cheeks, Margaret
tottered to the cart which had been provided to take hei
to Brandiston, and left that house never to enter it again,
and never to look upon it without terror.
The author cannot help introducing at the close of this
chapter an authenticated document, which has been sent
to him from Reading, in Berkshire. It is the testimony
of a man still living, who has never forgotten Margaret
Catchpole: and the reader will say he had good reason to
remember her. This man now lives in the service of Mr.
John Snare, No. 16 Minster Street, Reading; and, since
the publication of the former edition of this work, has
made known to his master a providential escape which
he had in his infancy, through the intrepidity of this
extraordinary woman. Poor Margaret! it is with inex-
pressible pleasure that the author transcribes this tribute
to her memory; for it proves to him, that whatever was
the cause of her unsettled state of mind, her noble spirit
was still as prompt to hear the cry of the helpless as in
her days of confidence and comfort with her beloved
mistress. The author is indebted to the Rev. John Con-
nop, Bradfield Hall, Reading, for the original document,
which he now gives to the public; and which he is happy
to add, is fully confirmed by persons now living at
Ipswich.
The Declaration of William White, of Beading,
in Berkshire.
u My parents lived on St. Margaret's Green, St. Mar-
garet's parish, Ipswich, about five doors from the house
of John Cobbold, Esq. Margaret Catchpole was then
living in Mr. Cobbola's service as cook. About the
middle of the spring of 1797, 1, being then a child about
six years of age, was playing on the Green with many of
the neighbours' children; and in the midst of our sport, a
mad bull rushed most furiously towards us, directing his
attack upon our little group to the precise spot where I
stood. Paralysed by fear and surprise, I saw no hope of
safety in flight, ana must have fallen a victim to the
assault of the infuriated beast, had not my companions set
up a cry of alarm. At this critical moment, Margaret
Catchpole rushed out of Mr. Cobbold's house, to ascertain
the cause of the disturbance, and had the courage to fly in
216
jxioiu-ttx ulf
tlie face of the bull, just as he was in the act of tossing
me. Indeed I was slightly gored by him, and must
inevitably have been severely injured, had not this coura-
geous woman snatched me up, and carried me into Mr.
Cobbold's kitchen, taking every care of me until my
parents arrived.
 I was not seriously hurt, but I have been told that my
bruises and scars did not disappear for several weeks; and
during this time I was visited by Margaret Catchpole and
Mrs. Cobbold, who both took great notice of me, and
evinced great anxiety for my recovery.
 I remember that this courageous act of Margaret
Catchpole's was much talked of at the time, and the Rev.
Mr. Fonnereau, the rector of St. Margaret's, took much
interest in the affair; so much, indeed, did he think of it,
that on my marriage in 181?, be, being still the rector,
and performing the ceremony, reminded me of the extra-
ordinary circumstance which had occurred in my child-
hood, and of my providential escape from an early grave,
 My uncle, Samuel Bayley (my mother's brother), was
cooper and brewer to J. Cobbold, Esq., being in his
employment at the Cliff Brewery, near Ipswich, at the
time the above occurred.
 William White,
 Reading, February 18, 1847.
CHAPTER XXI.
guilt and chime.
The reader will be anxious to know what really was the
fate of Will Laud, and will not be surprised to learn that
Margaret's idea was quite in accordance with the fact.
When Luff quitted the old shepherd upon Sudbourn
Heath, in search of Laud, he was prepared to find him
at the Compasses at Orford, and there he did find him,
and he pretended to be glad to see him, and to be very
friendly with him. All former animosities seemed to be
extinct; and Luff quickly wormed out of him the secrets
of his heart. He asked after Margaret with as much
apparent indifference as if he had heard nothing; of her.
MARGARET CATCIII'OLK. 217
 I have left her for ever, said Laud.  I will have
nothing more to do with her. Some more powerful enemy
than I have ever contended with has at last prevailed
over me, and pulled down the proud flag I had hoisted in
her love. I heard her say, almost to my face, that she
would never see another sailor, though she must have
been expecting me home, for I sent her word by an old
messmate that I was coming; and what could she mean,
but to let me know flatly that she preferred some lubberly
landsman (perhaps some powdered footman), to one of
Lord Howe's Britons? I could stand it no longer, so I
just threw all my prize-money overboard; and here I am,
Jack, ready to join your crew again. Have you forgotten
our last rub ? Come, give us your hand, Jack.
LulF put out his blood-stained palm, and pretended all
the peace of a restored friendship. Grog was ordered j,
and the two easily struck a bargain to go on board again
in the service of Captain Bargood. But LulF was too
determined a villain to forego that opportunity, which
now offered itself, of fulfilling the deadly purpose he had
often sworn-to his crew that he would accomplish, "to
bring Laud a captive, dead or alive, on board the brig."'
The treacherous fellow had left no stone unturned to bring
about this plan. It was he who pursued such a system
of fraud with regard to Margaret as led to her disgrace.
He hired sailors to deceive her with false tales, and to
learn what they could of Laud, that he might the more
easily wreak his vengeance upon his victim. And now at
last here was the object of his hatred, trusting to him as
he would have done to the most tried friend. He was as
loud and artful in his ridicule of Margaret as a determined
monster of envy could be. He had heard, he said, many
tales of her; and that she was at last going to marry one
of the brewhouse men. Such were the inventions of this
hollow-hearted villain, to inflame the irritable mind of
Laud. There were two of the crew present, to whom
Luff had given the wink, and made them to understand he
had trapped his man.
 Let us take a bit of a cruise, and have a look at the
port, said Luff to his pretended friend; and then turning
to the others, he said, "We shall be in again presently,
and go on board to-night.
 Ay, ay, master, replied one of the men,  all right1
2j8 history ok
i—I say, Sam, observed be, when tbe two captains had
left the room,  what a shocking fellow our captain is!
I '11 wager now that he either puts a bullet through Laud's
head, or a dagger in his heart, or shoves him overboard
at night!
 Ay, Jim, I don't mind a brush with the coast-guard,
but I don't like such cold-blooded work as this any more
than you do. Don't let us wait for the captain; but,
as soon as we have finished our grog, let's be off for the
boat.
 With all my heart, Sam; and let us drink our young
captain's health, and good luck to him.
Luff had enticed his captain to a longer walk than he
expected; and no sooner had they entered the Gap Lane
than he began a quarrel, and presently attacked him,
sword in hand. Laud defended himself with great dex-
terity, until his sword was broken, and he himself dis-
armed. He fled towards the marshes, but was overtaken,
cut down, and cast for dead into one of those deep marsh
ditches which abound in the neighbourhood of Orford.
After Luff had thus wreaked his vengeance, he crept
stealthily towards the town; and as he went picked up
Laud's watch, which had fallen from, his pocket. It
made his blood, already heated with exertion, grow cold
with conscious horror. He was too great a villain, how-
ever, to have much thought of mercy, pity, or repentance.
He entered the Compasses and called for a strong north-
wester, and inquired for his men, and learned they had
been gone to their boat some time. He gave them some
coarse malediction for their pains, and sat down to his
strong potation.
The two men were at that time crossing a plank over
the very dyke which Laud had been cast into, and were
startled by his groans. On looking about them they
observed a man's head just out of the water, beside the
bank; they pulled him out, and found to their horror that
it was Laud. Having decided on taking him to his
uncle's, they lifted Laud up and carried him across the
marshes, and laid him as carefully as they could upon
some old sails at the bottom of the boat; and instead of
going down the river to Hollesley Bay, they rowed
directly up the river with the flood tide. They arrived at
Aldborough iust as the tide turned, and had the precau-
MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
219
tion or prudence, directly they landed, to send tlieir boat
adrift; which, getting into the channel, was carried down
the river, and was cast upon a sand-bank, within a few
yards of the smuggler's cutter, by which means it was
supposed that the two men had perished; for at day-
break, when Lulf came on board, he was the first to dis-
cover the boat, keel upwards, upon the bank.
 It served them right, said the captain,  for leaving
their commander behind them.
They had safely conveyed Will Laud to the Jolly
Tar, which then stood close to the river's side. His
uncle was sent for, who came, attended by Mr. Nursey,
at that time the skilful and highly esteemed surgeon of
Aldborough. He found him dreadfully wounded; but at
length, by strict attention and consummate skill, sue-
ceeded in effecting a cure. That uncle had always loved
his nephew, and in some measure considered himself
responsible for the waywardness of his seafaring- propen-
sities; and he took him to his home, and treated him in
every respect as a lost son restored.
Here, then, was an opportunity—a golden opportunity
—for reformation. Laud's former character had been
cancelled by his service in the British navy; and his
gallant conduct on the glorious 1st of June had obtained
for him a free discharge, with prize-money, and certificate
of character in the service. He was now placed in a
situation calculated to restore him to independence. In
the years 1795 and 1796 he served his uncle faithfully;
and such were the hopes entertained of his steadiness and
attention to business, that at the end of that year, when
his uncle died, he left him all that he possessed.
It may seem strange that Laud should never have
sought for Margaret Catchpole during all this time, or
that she should not have made further inquiries about
him. Had they met at this period, and come to a mutual
explanation, they might both have been spared from that
misery and remorse attendant upon a degraded character.
But it was otherwise decreed. He had always brooded
over his imaginary wrongs at the hands of Margaret; had
learned to think little of her; and never to have forgiven
her for that unfortunate speech the night he left Ipswich.
And when he became a master and a man of substance (as
above related), he did not appear to be settled or happy.
220 history or
The news of Luff's death might have been supposed to
take away from him any hankering after the illicit pur-
suits of his youth; but the escape of some of the crew,
and their strong attachment to Laud, induced him to
listen to their proposals of service, and to employ a ship in
the trade; and he actually sent out smugglers, though he
would not head them himself; so that, very soon after the
decease of his uncle, Laud became deeply engaged again
in the illicit traffic of the coast.
But what was Margaret doing all this time ? She
returned to her uncle and aunt Leader, and became their
assistant. She undertook once more the management of
the children, and was instrumental in restoring order and
decency in the house. She did not feel quite so lively an
interest in this employment as she had formerly done,
though her aunt's manner was a complete contrast to what
it had formerly been. By her uncle's advice, she put the
money she never considered her own into the hands of the
much-respected general shopkeeper of the parish, who
placed it in the bank, and became a trustee for her.
Still she resolved not to touch it, but to keep it, as the
property of Laud, until she should be more sure of his
death. She had great hopes still that she should one day
see him again. She lived with her uncle and aunt, and
made herself useful in every possible way; nor did she
ever murmur at her condition, though she often sighed
over past misfortunes.
In the month of May, 1797, she received a letter
from old George Teager, her fellow-servant, which ran
thus:—
 Margaret,
 This comes hoping it may find you well, as it still
leaves me, though very deaf. I have got a bit of news
for you, which I know you will be glad to hear. I was
going down the Wash yesterday, when who should I meet
but Will Laud ? He looked uncommon well, and was very
civil to me. He asked me many questions about you; ana
I set him right about some bad splints and curbs he had
got in his head. He told me he should soon manage to
see you, so no more from old
 George Teager.
 Margaret's Green, May 3, 1797.
MARGARET CATCHTOLE.
221
Imagine poor Margaret's anxiety. She waited seven
days in such a state of feverish suspense as only those so
situated can feel. She rested neither day nor night, but
became each morning more anxiously disturbed, until she
determined to go herself to Ipswich.
Now Laud had been to Ipswich to purchase some tim-
ber, and to dispose of some of his smuggled goods. He
had met old Teager, the coachman, and had treated him
with a friendly glass, which the old man seldom refused.
He had also met an old messmate accidentally; a good-
for-nothing fellow, whom Luff had formerly made use of to
deceive Margaret with false reports concerning him. Laud
had treated this man to some grog; and in talking over
old times, the man disclosed some of Luff's villany, with
which Laud had never before been acquainted; especially
his conduct to Margaret on that wretched night in which
Laud had sought an interview with her. This fellow,
whose name was John Cook, told him that he was one of
the sailors bribed to deceive her, and to go backwards and
forwards with false reports to the kitchen of St. Margaret's
Green.
Laud now saw the reason for poor Margaret's exclama-
tion,  I will have nothing more to do with any sailors!
The truth broke on him with such conviction, that he
resolved to seek out his betrothed the very moment he had
fulfilled his engagement at Ipswich. It is a remarkable
feet, that, on the very same day on which Laud left the
town with the full determination to see and have an expla-
nation with Margaret, she determined to go to Ipswich, to
explain (if she could find him) the whole of her conduct.
This was on the evening of the 9th of May, 1797. She
had frankly explained to her uncle the purpose of her
journey; and as to the money in the hands of the trustee,
she said,  If a letter comes to you, from me, about it,
you can then consult with Mr. Smith about its disposal.
I fully expect, she added, to meet Laud at Ipswich,
and whatever his fortunes may be, I am determined to
share them with him.
She arrived at Ipswich that afternoon, and took up her
abode at her former lodgings at the Widow Syers', a distant
relative of her mother's, though by no means a desirable
person for Margaret to abide with at such a time. She
did not go, as she ought to have done, to her good mistress,
222 uictcmt or1
who would have instituted every inquiry for her; but she
chose to pursue her own course. She saw the old coach-
man, and learned from him that he had seen Laud at the
Salutation, in Carr Street, only the day before. She did
not stay to ask any more questions, but off she went to-
wards the public-house in question. On her way, it was
her misfortune to meet with that vagabond, John Cook, the
very fellow who had so often made a dupe of her before,
and who was now the cause of her performing an act that
is probably without precedent in female history. Intent
but upon one thing, the obtaining an interview with her
lover, the mainspring of all her prospects in life, and the
centre to which all her hopes, wishes, thoughts, and cares
were pointed, she was almost crazy with anxiety to see
this worthless object of her idolatry. She had been be-
trayed into misfortunes by her blindness on this point;
and though careful, prudent, and considerate upon almost
every other thing, she had been, and was still, the easy
victim of any artful machination which had for its bait the
sight of her lover. Had she consulted any of her friends,
Mr. Stebbing, Mr. Brooks, Mr. Notcutt, or her beloved
mistress, she would not have fallen a prey to the artful
villany of a wicked man; but Margaret had forgotten at
this time her mistress, and every other consideration, ex-
cept the all-engrossing subject which filled her heart; and
she saw neither danger nor difficulty, right nor wrong,
but was ready to go anywhere, or to do anything, provided
she could only have an explanation with Laud.
 Why, Margaret, is that you ? said John Cook as he
met her, turning the corner of the Chaise and Pair, on the
.evening of the 9th of May; "why, where have you been
all these livelong days ? And what are you doing now in
Ipswich?;' J
 I am in search of Laud: have you seen or heard any-
thing of him to-day?
 Yes, that I have; you are in luck to meet with the
only person in the world who could tell you where he is!
But this is not the place to be talking secrets. Come with
me to the Marquis Cornwallis, where Laud and I have
spent a merry time, and I will tell you all about him.
There was no difficulty in persuading her to accompany
him, and on arriving at the inn, Margaret found by this
fellow's conversation with the landlord, that Laud and he
MARGARET CATCIIPOLE.
223
had spent the previous evening at that house. This con-
firmed her belief in his story, and enabled him to make her
the easy dupe of all the vile inventions which were to
follow.
They requested that they might have the parlour to
themselves; and the ever-liberal Margaret ordered some
refreshment, though she could, from her anxiety, partake
of nothing herself.
"Well, I promised you I would tell you all about
Laud; but first let me tell you that I set him right about
your ugly speech that night when you got such a
ducking.
 Did you? did you, indeed? What did he say to it?
Did he forgive me?
"Did he? Ay! I'll tell you what, I never saw a
fellow so dumb-foundered before. He looked almost like
a madman, cursed his stars, and swore they were all con -
federate against him. He swore you were the best
creature in the world, and if he could but see you, he
would make you happy.
 Oh, John! how good you were to tell him! But
where is he ? Is he in Ipswich ? Do bring me to him ? 
 Hold hard a bit; I must let you into a little bit of a
secret. You must know that Laud and I are upon such
intimate terms, that we communicate by a kind of expres-
sion known only to ourselves. He, as you know, went
back to smuggling again after your rap, though that
was not intentional on your part. He did not go to sea,
but entered upon the timber trade, though he employed
about twenty men under him to carry on his traffic. Now
I know he would have gone in search of your hiding-place,
if he had not been compelled to hide himself. The fact
is, he is escaped from an arrest for five hundred pounds,
which he was bound to pay to the Excise, and but for
a very lucky turn he would have been nabbed last night.'*
 Well, but where is he now ? 
"I will tell you where he may be found to-morrow.
All I know now is, that he took the mail last night, by the
greatest good luck in the world, and went off to London.
He is to write to me to-night, and I shall be able to tell you
to-morrow.
That this was all a mere invention of this rascal's, to
get out of Margaret all he could, the reader will easily
224 msTonr oy
believe. Lucky was it for her that she did not tell him
what sum of money she had belonging- to Laud, or every
farthing of it would have gone into this fellow's hands.
As it was, he managed to get out of her what little cash
she could spare, under the promise of revealing to her the
hiding-place of Laud. After chatting with him a long
time, and hearing much of herself and her lover, all pure
inventions of this fellow's brain, and easily detected by any
person with less blindness upon the subject, Margaret took
her leave of him, giving- him half-a-crown to spend. She
returned to the Widow Syers, and, as might be supposed,
passed a feverish night, restless with nervous anxiety.
Poor girl! she little thought of the mischief then brooding
for her ruin.
The morrow came, bringing a letter to John Cook, of a
very different description to that which Margaret antici-
pated. It ran thus-
 Dog and Bone, Lambeth,
 May 8, 1797.
 Jack,
 I sold the bay mare at Smithfield yesterday.
I might ha' got more, but the nabs were about; so I
wopt her off for ten. Old Snacks, at the Bone here, got
his 'centage. I crabbed the old chap as well as I could;
but he's up to snuff. You wouldn't ha' known old Peggy
again. We blacked her white legs, and popt a white
face on to her, gave her a rat's tail, filed her teeth, and
burnt her mark, and wop me if I mightent ha' sold her
for a six-year old, if I hadn't been in a hurry. But she 'a
off, they tell me, to serve in a foreign country. She 'a
a right good un, though an old'n. All's honour bright,
Jack!
 I say, old boy, we talked o' the brown nag; can ye
send him up to Chelmsford ? or if to the Dog and Bone,
direct to your old chum,
"Bob Bush,
 Sam Snacks,
 Dog and Bone, Lambeth.
"To John Cook,
 Marquis Cornwallis,
 Ipswich, Suffolk.
This letter, which was found some days after at the inn.
makua-kti uahjhpole. 225
and delivered up to the constable of the parish of St. Mar-
garet's, may serve to show the connection which this fellow
had with a gang of horse-stealers, who, at this time, infested
the counties of Essex, Norfolk, and Suffolk. The brown
nag here mentioned was one which had been turned off
in the pastures of St. Margaret's, belonging to John
Cobbold, Esq. He was a high-spirited little horse, and
aged. The eyes of this rogue had been upon him, and a
most diabolical project now entered his brain, of making
Margaret Catchpole, whose early feats of riding were not
unknown to him, the minister of this theft.
"I shall make something out of her now, said the
fellow, "if I can only play upon her feelings. How shall
I do it?
A thought struck him that he would tear off the half of
the letter containing the post-mark, and paste one which
he would invent, on that half, and sign it for Will Laud.
Margaret knew little or nothing of Will's handwriting, so
that she could easily be deceived in this respect; and if she
knew that it was not his, the fellow was ready enough to
swear that he had hurt his hand by the falling of a spar,
and so got a friend to write it for him. He put his wits
to work, and concocted an epistle as nearly pertinent to what
he had made out Laud's case to be, as he could.
He dated it from the same place from whence he re-
eeived his own, and intended to write to Bob Bush to take
the horse off Margaret's hands, if he could get her on to it.
He wrote thus:—
"Dog and Bone, Lambeth, May 9 1797.
"Dear Jack,
"Hurrah, my boy! Safely anchored, though I had cut
my cable, and run; but I have got into a friendly port, and
my pursuers shan't easily find me. Precious hard, though,
Jack, after just finding out my girl, to have to tack and
leave her. You might lend a hand now, just to serve an
old friend. Margaret would make my present dull time a
little lighter, if you could but find her up, and put her on
the right road to find me. I think she would forgive me,
if you could explain matters a little to her. Tell her we
could get married here, and after a time all would be well.
But, Jack, mum must be the order of the day. Don't you
fire ® volley at me until she's oft to London. She must
15
HISTORY OF
come incog, Jack; aj, in man's clothes, if she can: yon
know why. A thought strikes me, which if you put it into
her head, will just suit her, and me too. Persuade her to
borrow the old pony of her master's, from the pasture on
the Woodbridge road, or to take it with French leave. It
is worth nothing, and will never he inquired after ; and if
disposed of, will scarcely he missed. And if she was found
out, it would only he treated as a good spree! So, Jack,
try her; she has a spirit equal to the work, and we shall
then be no more parted. Now, do this for
"Your old friend,
"Will Laud.
Margaret read this letter with mingled feelings of pain
and pleasure, hut she implicitly believed every word of it,
yet she did not like Laud's plan. "Why not go and bor-
row the horse of old Teager, said she, "if it must he so?
I know he will lend it to me.
 What, and tell him you want his stable-dress to ride
to London in? Fine fun he'd make of it, would he not?
No, no, Margaret, that will never do. We must take it
with French leave, or let it alone.
 I wish I could see him by some other means. I do not
like his plan; and yet, perhaps, he has none other to offer,
said Margaret, as if pondering within herself.
 I can tell you he is not the man to offer it if he has,
said Cook.  Once put him off again, and it will belong
enough before you ever see or hear of him again.
Margaret felt that such would be the case, and yielded
to the artful duplicity of this wicked man, and agreed to
meet him the next night to put their wild plan in practice.
Eut as heaven willed that she should have one more chance
of escape from the evil which threatened her, the excite-
ment which she suffered brought on an attack of fever that
very night, and she was laid up for many days. The
warning, however, was in vain; and so soon as she reco-
vered, she agreed to put their plan in execution.
It was on the 23rd of May that Margaret met John
Cook at the place before appointed, having previously
bought herself a hat and a pair of boots. But now a new
obstacle presented itself, which like the one just alluded to,
might have served as a new warning, had any religious feel-
MARGARET CATCHPOLfi. 227
mgs founJ place in Margaret's mind and heart. They went
into the meadow, and for more than an hour tried to catch
the horse. But it was all in vain; he would he caught by
nobody but old Teager.
What was to he done now?
 This is a turn I did not bargain for, said John Cook,
 and I have written to Laud to say you will be, without
fail, at the place I shall tell you of when you are once
mounted. A horse we came for, and a horse we will have,
for I would not disappoint the captain for a hundred horses;
so follow me, Margaret.
The girl hesitated, and inquired what it was he proposed
to do.
 Not many yards off, in yonder stable, there are two
noble horses that are worth riding; you shall take one of
them 
 D<f you mean the carriage-horses? I dare not ride
one of them.
 Nonsense, girl! If you don't come along and just do
as I bid you, hang me if I don't write to Laud, and tell
him you don't care anything about him. Come along! I
must help you over the low wall against the end of the
garden. Come along! You have fairly begun the work;
don't give it up.
Margaret never wanted courage until that moment, and
then she followed, trembling from head to foot.
The fellow got on to the wall and assisted her up and
down. He then went across the lawn to the stable-yard
with the trembling Margaret at his heels; they found the
stable-door locked; but the wicket at the side, by the muck-
bin, was unhanked and stood ajar. Margaret got into the
stable through this place, and slipped hack the bolt of the
Btable-door; the horses had been accustomed to her coming
into the stable for straw for her fire, and she had often
spoke to them and patted them, so that her voice now, as
she said, "Whoho, Crop! and "Gently, Rochford! was
familiar to them; and they did not rise up until John Cook
entered and began to strike a light.
"Now, Margaret, pull the litter down toward the stable-
door, whiht I just look into the harness-house.
Rochfor ', a fiery grey horse which Mr. Cobbold had
lately purchased from Lord Rochford, at Easton, rose up
and snorted, and clanked his chains so terribly, that Mar-
228 HISTORY OF
garet expected every moment that old George, who slept
over the stable, would present himself; but the old man was
deaf, and heavy in his sleep, and had only returned from Mrs.
Proby's, of Stratford, late that evening, and had not been
in bed above an hour, so that he was in his first sound
sleep.
"Margaret, you must take this lantern, and just move
the dark part round, and it will show you where the old
boy's stable-dress is; go up the stairs carefully, and bring
it down with you.
Margaret did so. She went with breathless step to the
bedside of the coachman. His stable dress was upon the
floor; she took it up gently, and as cautiously receded with
it down to the stable again, closing the door without noise.
 So far so good, Margaret. Now, do you dress yourself
there in the empty stall, while I saddle and bridle the fur-
ther horse.
This, however, was more than John Cook could do, for
Rochford was of such a spirit, and sent out at him with
such vengeance that he dared not go up to him ; nor could
he without Margaret's help put the saddle or bridle on to
Crop. She dressed herself as quickly as she could in the
coachman's stable-dress; he being a little fellow, and Mar-
garet rather tall, they only hung about her a little loosely,
but were not too long for her. When she came from the
stall, after rolling her own thing3 in a bundle, and putting
them into the very bottom of the seed-box, under the man-
ger, and covering them with hay, she looked exactly like a
young groom. She went up to the Crop horse and patted
him on the neck, whilst her companion saddled and bridled
him; she then tied some straw round his feet, so that no
noise should be made in the stable-yard, and out the gal-
lant fellow was led, ready for such a journey and for such
a rider as never before had mounted his back.
"Now my girl, exclaimed Cook,  screw up your cou-
rage to the start! Come into the meadow. I can let you
cut on to the Woodbridge road, and then off with you.
"But where am I to find him? You have not told me
that, exclaimed Margaret.
"Mount 1 and I will tell you.''
Margaret, with his aid, was soon in the saddle, and
ores there, she felt her own command over her steed.
"Now Margaret, he replied, "mind what I say; you
makwakhiX uaTCHPOLE. 229
must sell tTiat horse if you can, at Chelmsford market to-
morrow morning; if not, you must ride on to the Bull, in
Aldgate, London; but if you regard your own and your
lover's safety, you will sell the horse first, and then find
your way to the Dog and Bone public-house, at Lambeth;
there you will find Will Laud expecting you. Sell the
horse for all you can get; say he is worth a hundred
guineas, and that your master, Squire John Cook, sent
you up to sell him.
The horse was a strawberry roan colour, remarkable for
his action and the spirit with which he went through a
journey. His ears were short enough, for, in accordance
with a barbarous practice of that day, they were cropped;
few that ever knew the horse could forget him; in harness
he carried himself as proudly as if he had been trained to
exhibit his beauty, but this was his constant habit; his
spirit was such, that he was never touched with a whip,
and never exhibited the least disposition to restiveness;
free, easy, gentle, noble, swift, untiring, graceful, and
grand—he was admired wherever he went; and the short
coachman, who occasionally used to ride him, made him, a
sixteen-hand horse, look at least a hand higher. What
an object was Margaret Catcbpole upon him ! Her spirit
was up as well as Crop's; her resolution to go through all
she had undertaken was fixed, and in reply to John Cook's
question, when they came to the paddock-gate,  Are you
ready, Margaret? she replied "Quite ready!
 And now, off with you, said the fellow, as he opened
the gate.  Remember the Dog and Bone. A hundred
guineas for the horse, and you will be a happy woman
and off started poor Margaret at a sweeping pace for the
London road.
St. Margaret's clock struck one, just as she passed the
front of that house in which she had lived so much re-
spected, and in which, unconscious of her guilt, slept the
kipdest master and mistress that a servant ever knew.
But Margaret rode on, reckless of all the ills that might
await her, and thinking only of the lover that she was to
meet at the end of her mad journey.
The guard of the mail-coach observed to the driver of
the Ipswich mail, as Margaret met it, about two miles
before she reached Colchester,  That's Mr. Cobbold's
Crop horse! There must be something the matter in the
230 msTnT?Y o*
family by the pace the groom is going. Did you see ths
fellow's stable-dress up to his knees ? Tnere's something
amiss, or the horse is stolen.
When he came to Ipswich, the man mentioned the cir-
cumstance at the coach-office, and said he was positive
something was wrong.
Mr. Bailey, the post-master, immediately sent a mes-
senger with a note, to inform Mr. Cobbold that the guard
had met some one riding his horse very fast on the London
road.
It was five o'clock when the man rang loudly at the
porch-bell; the footman came down in a great hurry and
carried up the note to his master's room, who quickly
ordered him to go to the stable and see if George Teager
and the horses were safe. He ran to the stable, and true
enough, he found the Crop horse gone. He called out to
George, whom, at first, he suspected of having gone off
with the horse, "Hullo, George; Crop is gone !
The old man jumped up. "What's the matter ? Who
calls?
 One of the horses is stolen, George; you must come
down immediately; it wa3 met two miles this side of Col-
Chester!
"Come, come, Tom, none o' your tricks! this is only
some of your nonsense: can't ye let an old fellow rest in
his bed without playing off your boys' tricks ? what hate
you done with my stable dress?
This made Thomas bolt up stairs.
 I know nothing of your stable-dress; I tell you mas-
ter will be here in a minute: on with your livery. I'll be
whipped if somebody has not stolen the fustians! Come,
old boy, this is no fun, it's as true as you are staring there;
•so up with you.
George found by his companion's earnest manner that
he spoke the truth, and putting on his livery he came down;
he was, as many a man at his age and in his situation would
be, much bewildered. He ascertained, however, that the
thief had taken his master's new saddle and bridle, and a
small stick of his own. He observed that it must have
been an old practitioner, by the straw being littered down
to the door, and pointed out to Thomas that the horse's
hoofs had been covered with straw to prevent them clatter-
in£ on the pavement of the yard. His master soon came
hassaust saxchpole. 231
down and easily tracked the horse to the paddock gate.
Of course all the family were roused. "Go directly,
George, up to Mr. Spink's, the dealer's, who got this
horse for me, and knows him as well as you do, and order
a post-chaise from the Lion, and bring Mr. Spink here.
You must both of you pursue the thief, even to London.
Be as quick as you can.
In the mean time a handbill was written and sent to Mp.
Jackson's, of the "County Press, with a request that
copies might -be struck off immediately, in time for the
nine o'clock coaches to London. It was to this effect:—
"TWENTY GUINEAS REWARD.
"Whereas, last night, or this morning, May 24th, a fine
strawberry roan grey gelding was stolen out of the stable
of John Cobbold, Esq. of St. Margaret's Green, Ipswich,
together with a new saddle and bridle, and the coachman's
stable-dress. Whoever shall give information of the rob-
ber, so as to lead to the recovery of the horse, or the con-
viction of the offender, shall receive the above reward at
the hands of the owner.
 N.B. The horse is sixteen hands high, has cropped
ears, is six years old, has a cut tail, and is very strong and
very fast.
 Ipswich, May 24th, 1797.
This was struck off as soon as possible, and circulated
over the town and through the country, by every vehicle
leaving the town.
It was about seven o'clock when old. Teager and Mr.
Spink left Ipswich for Colchester, so that Margaret had
some hours' start of her pursuers. As they went on they
heard at every toll-gate of a young man having gone through
on just the description of horse given, so that it was a
warm scent before them.
When they arrived at Chelmsford, through a misdirec-
tion of some person, they were told that the same burse
was seen going on to Maldon, in the hundreds of Essex;
and they had just given the post-boy orders to turn off the
London road in pursuit, as Mr. Alston, of Diss, rode into
the yard of the Black Boy as the pursuers were in the act
of getting into the chaise.
232 HIS'1 UK 1 ur
 Pray, sir, may I be so bold as to ask if you came faf
along the London road?
 I left town this morning, and am now on my journey
to Manningtree. Why do you ask?
 Because I am in pursuit of a thief. You did not chance
to meet a man riding a strawberry roan carriage-horse?
"Yes, I did; and remarked at the time that I thought
it was the finest shaped horse I had ever seen. He wa3 a
crop, with high action and bold crest,
"It is the very horse! Whereabouts might you meet
him, sir?
 I met him I should say about five miles on the other
side of Romford, near to Ilford. It was about nine o'clock.
I remarked to myself, what a fool the lad must be who was
riding him, that he did not manage to fasten his overalls
down at hi3 ancles, as I could see his stockings up to his
knees. Some gentleman I thought was sending him into
livery stables.
"We are greatly obliged to you, sir. On, boy, on!
and the post-chaise dashed out of the yard.
But for the accidental meeting of Mr. Alston it is very
probable Margaret would have escaped; but the inform a-
tion thus given put the pursuers on the right scent, just in
the right time.
Meantime let us accompany Margaret on her perilous
expedition. She had actually ridden the horse from Ips-
wich to London in the space of eight hours and a half; it
being seventy miles from that place to the Bull, in Aldgate.
She only stopped once on the road, at a small public-house,
called the Trowel and Hammer, at Marks Tey, in Essex;
here she gave her gallant horse a feed of corn, and had a
glass of brandy and water and a biscuit. It was just five
o'clock when she baited. She dared not to offer the horse
for sale at Chelmsford for fear of detection, at such an
early hour. She felt persuaded that a pursuit would be
made, and hoped to hide herself in the metropolis before
her pursuers could reach her. Accordingly she allowed
the horse no more time than was sufficient for him to finish
his corn, and off she went again for nearly five hours'
further ride. As she approached town many were the eyes
directed towards her, both on account of the remarkable
character of the horse, and the singular appearance of the
rider. Margaret took no notice of any one, but pushed on
MAltGAftET CATCHFOtE. 233
her willing steed with the same indifference as if she had
been sent upon an errand of only a few miles ; nor was the
horse apparently fatigued in the least when they arrived at
the Bull Inn, which they did ahout half-past nine o'clock.
She rode quietly down the yard, called for the ostler,
dismounted, shook her trousers down, and addressed the
man in as off-hand a manner as if she were a real groom.
 Rub that horse down well, and get him cool and com-
vfortable; give him a sup of water and a mouthful of hay,
and I will come and see him fed.
 Have you rode far, young man? asked the ostler.
 Not a very great way. I came out of Chelmsford this
morning. See and rub his ears dry, ostler. You must
make him look as well as you can, for I expect my master
up in town to-night; and if I don't meet with a customer
for that horse he'll blow me up.
 He's a very fine horse; and if as good as he looks,
would he worth any man's money.
"He's better than he looks, ostler: and 'tisn't any man's
money that will buy him. He must give a good price for
him, whoever buys him. But look well after him. I must
go and get a bait myself.
She went into the bar, ordered her breakfast, took up
the newspaper, and with all the airs of a consequential
young jockey sat down to the perusal of it. After taking
some refreshment she got up to see her horse fed.
The ostler, finding so fine a horse was for sale, apprised
a livery-stable-keeper of his acquaintance, who on hearing
his representation hastened to look at him. Margaret was
called out; the animal exhibited ; under-valued by the dealer
in the style so characteristic of such gentry; and his good
qualifications well vouched for by the young groom.
"Did you ever see a better shape? exclaimed Margaret.
 Look at his fore-end; there's a crest, there's a shoulder,
there's a head! Look at his legs, as straight and clean
as a colt's; and as for quarters, where will you find such
for strength and beauty? He's six-year old next grass;
has never done any hard work before this day; and you
won't find a puff as big as a pea in any of his sinews.
Quiet to ride or drive, and without a fault. Now, what's
the matter with him?
This was such a poser to the dealer that he could only
reply by asking,  Can I ha/e a warrantry with him?
234 mSTORV Off
"To be sure you can, said Margaret. "You may
have a written one from me; or, if you like better to deal
with my master, you may wait till he comes up, and then
he'll give you a character, and perhaps you'll make a better
bargain with him than you will with me.
 Are you authorised to sell the horse?
 To be sure I am, or else I should not stand here to
talk with you about him.
 Who does he belong to, young man?
 He belongs to my master, Mr. Cook, of Ipswich, in
Suffolk.
 What do you want for him?
M One hundred guineas.
 May I take him for a trial?
 Yes; when you have bought and paid for him. He is
not to go out of my sight until I receive the money for him,
or deliver the horse himself into my master's charge.
 I should like to see him down our ride; I could better
judge of his paces.
 Clap the saddle on him. I will ride him where you
like; or I will let you drive me with him; but I do not
trust any one else with him whilst he is in my care.
The saddle and bridle were put on, and Crop came out
of the stable free, and ready to trot back again to Ipswich
if his rider was so disposed. He was as fresh and joyous
as a lark, and sprang up into the air with almost as light
a heart. Margaret mounted awkwardly; put her foot into
the stirrup the wrong way; and perceiving that this was
noticed, she crossed the stirrups over the saddle in front of
her, saying,
"My master always makes me ride without stirrups, and
I like it best.
In truth she sat the horse better without them; and had
she had no saddle, it would have suited her even better
still; but this seemed to have the desired effect.
The dealer, however, entertained some suspicions from
the awkward manner of the groom, and having already suf-
fered for purchasing a stolen horse, he was more on his
guard than he otherwise might have been.
They went out of the stable-yard together, and reached
the ride belonging to the dealer, and Margaret turned her
horse in as she was directed. The stable lads peeped out
to see what kind of nag their master was buying, and were
MABGABET CATCHPOLE.
235
not satisfied with a glance, but looked with much admira-
tion at him.
"Just trot him down the ride, young man.*
Margaret dashed him down the yard and back again.
 Soho ! my fine fellow ! Peter, he said to his head
man, "just come and look at this nag.
Peter stepped forward, and gave his master a knowing
look, as much as to say, "Am I to decry him ? 
 Look at his mouth !
Peter did so.
 How is it, Peter ? 
 All right, sir.
 What's his age ? 
"Risiug six.
 What do you say to him ? 
Peter looked at every point, then scratched his head,
and again looked at his master ; but he received no sign to
manoeuvre; so he replied,  Why, master, if you ask for
truth you shall have it. He's a right good one ; that is it.
"Well, young man, now what is the lowest price you
will take ? 
"I told you his price when you asked me before. You
don't expect me to lower the price of my own horse without
a bid 1 What do you say you will give ? 
 Why, I don't know ! He's not every man's horse !
Not easily matched ; and not suited for a town horse ; but
I'll bid you fifty guineas for him.
 Thank you for your bid, sir; but you must come nigh
to double that before you'll buy.
"Will you take sixty for him ?
 No ; I will not.
 Will you take seventy ? Come now, I'll give you
seventy. You may go a long way before you'll get such
another offer. Say, will you take it ? 
 Add another ten to it and it shall be a bargain. I
will take eighty,
 Just walk him down again. Peter, what do you think
of him?
 He's worth the money ; that's what I say. Buy him,
master.
"Well young man, I'll take the horse ; but you must
give me a written warranty with him.
236 HISTORY OF
 That I'll do; but perhaps you'll not like to conclude
the bargain -without master's warrantry; if so, we had
better not exactly conclude the price.
This so took the dealer aback, that it drove away all
suspicions, and he said,  No, no; your warranty will do.
I'll give you the money. He was in the act of going to
the gateway as he saw one of his men come into the yard,
with a paper in his hand, which proved to be one of the
identical hand-bills, offering a reward of twenty guineas for
the very horse he had just bought.  Peter, he called
out, "tell the young man just to walk that horse once more
iip the yard, and come yon here.
He showed Peter the bill, who said: "It's the very
torse!
"Go you and fetch a constable; I'll keep him in play
ft bit until he conies.
 He's a charming shaped horse, young man. I'd just
ft mind to ask you if you'd throw the saddle and bridle into
the bargain.
"Why, master told me I might sell that if I pleased, and
if I sold well, that should be my perquisite.
"I see 'tis a country-made saddle; but it looks prePy
good. What will you have for it?
"Four guineas for both. Come, I have let you take the
horse at much less than he is worth; you can afford to
give me a fair price for the saddle and bridle, which are,
you see, quite new.
By this time Peter returned with the constable; but
Margaret was joking about the saddle and bridle, and
greatly rejoicing at her success, not the least conscious of
the presence of the man of the law, or of the dreadful fate
which awaited her.
"Did you say that horse came from Ipswich, young
man? said the dealer.
"I did, said she.
"When did he leave Ipswich?
* "Yesterday.
"Did you leave with him?
"Yes, I did; I told you so.
"No, you didn't; you told me you rode him from
Chelmsford.
"So I did; and from Ipswich too.
Margaret catghi-uajq.
*'What was your master's name?
"Mr. John Cook, said Margaret, who notv began to feel
a little uneasy.
"Are you sure it was not Mr. John Cobbold? Look at
that hand-bill, young man.
Margaret saw only her master's name, and all her forti-
tude forsook her; she swooned away in a moment, and
would have fallen from the horse, had not the constable
caught her by her jacket as she was falling; and in en-
Jeavouring to support her off the horse the jacket flew
open, and to the astonishment of all around, lo, and behold,
it was a woman!
Margaret was taken into custody; and such a hubbub
waB created in the neighbourhood, that the story of a female
horse-stealer was soon spread abroad, and people began to
crowd into the yard. Among the multitude was a son-in-
law of Mr. Cobbold's, who happened to be in town at the
time, and identified both the horse and his rider. It was
not long before the coachman and Mr. Spink made their
appearance, and she was taken before a magistrate, and
immediately committed to Newgate, until further evidence
COKld be produced.
CHAPTER XXII.
preparation for triait.
Margaret Catchpole was taken into custody; and whilst
she was spending a dismal night in the dungeon, a letter
was on the road to Ipswich, to inform her master of the
capture of the thief.
The wretched young woman had now time for rest and
reflection. Instead of meeting her lover, for which purpose
alone she had undertaken her desperate enterprise, she had
now before her eyes the terrors of the law, the certainty of
conviction, the probability of a violent and shameful death.
Who knew anythiag of the cause which had indweed her to
steal the horse, and who would pity her if they did? The
secret was known only to herself, and she resolved it should
continue so, lest her lover should be involved in the conse-
quences of her guilt.
It will readily be beiieved that the news of what had
happened created no small sensation in the minds of the
various members of that family who had so dearly loved
the miserable culprit.
It was immediately arranged that both Mr. and Mrs.
Cobbold should go to to rn, and they arrived about nine
o'clock in the evening at the Four Swans, Bishopsgate
Street.
At the time fixed for the examination of the prisoner
before the magistrates, Mr. and Mrs. Cobbold arrived at
the Police-office in Whitechapel.
Many gentlemen were present, who having heard the
case mentioned, had obtained permission to attend.
The office was crowded, and the street also, for it waa
understood that Margaret was to be brought up for exami-
nation. Hundreds who knew nothing of the parties, but
only that a female had stolen a horse, were assembled purely
from curiosity to see such a person.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 239
Margaret wa3 brought up in proper custody, and found
herself the object of jokes and gibes amidst the thought-
less rabble of the streets. She was conducted into an ante-
room adjoining the court, and as a door opened into the
passage from the magistrates' private room, she thought
she heard her mistress's voice. Another moment convinced
her that she saw her. It was to her a moment of great
bitterness and agony.
At1 he request of the prosecutor, she was summoned into
the mrgistrates' private room, before going into the public
court. She was terrified beyond measure at the idea of
encour tering the sight of her mistress. She begged hard
not to be taken into her presence, but she was compelled to
go in. The moment she saw her she exclaimed: "Oh,
my dear mistress! and fell to the ground. She was lifted
up and placed in a chair; and from her dreadful state of
agitation, it was agreed among the magistrates that, upon
her recovery, her deposition should be taken where she
then w as. Accordingly, the clerk was summoned from the
public office into the private room.
Her mistress as well as herself was greatly affected at
the inteiview, and deeply touched at her distress. All the
gentlemen present felt more than commonly interested in
the scene.
The girl slowly revived; the gentlemen took their seats,
and the clerk jvas ordered to take down her deposition.
The ma gistrate told her that the confession she had made,
and might now make, would be evidence against her on
her trial, and that she was at liberty to speak, or not, as
she pleased.
Having implored and obtained forgiveness from her mas-
ter and mistress, Margaret became more composed, and
made a full confession of her guilt. She acknowledged that
she had been persuaded, and even compelled, to this act by
a man named John Cook, a sailor at Ipswich, and declared
that she stole the horse by his direction and threats; that
} «he was to have sold it at Chelmsford, but that she dared
not offer it there. She did not once betray her lover's
name, or mention anything about his hiding-place; but she
described all the particulars of the robbery with which the
reader is acquainted, and stated, as a corroborative fact,
that her own clothes would be found, if no already removed,
under the manger of the empty stall.
240 BlSie§Y fli
Her deposition having been then read over to her by the
clerk, she signed her name to it. Before they parted, Mrs.
Cobbold spoke to her consolingly, while she placed before
her mind the heinousness of her offence. Poor Margaret
felt better after thi3, and with a heart very much humbled,
was committed to Newgate by N. Bond, Esq., with an order
for her removal as soon as the forms could be gone through,
to the gaol of the county in which the offence was committed.
Mr. Cobbold was bound over to prosecute, which being
done, that gentleman and his lady returned to their hotel.
Every effort was made to discover the resort of John
Cook; but that scamp, the moment he heard of the cap-
ture, decamped, nor was he ever after heard of. He was
well known; and the landlord of the Marquis Cornwallis
testified to Margaret's having been at his house with the
man, as also his being at the same place with Captain Laud,
as he was called, the evening before. But what became of
him no one ever knew. The half of a letter from his com-
panion in London was found at the inn, and was adduced
to show his connexion with a gang of horse-stealers; but
this only served to tell against poor Margaret on her trial.
Margaret was removed to Ipswich by habeas corpus,
July 6th, 1797, and Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler, informed her
mistress of her arrival.
On the evening of the day Margaret arrived at Ipswich,
she wrote the following letter to her mistress. It has been
already stated that she had been taught to read and write,
and keep accounts, by Mrs. Cobbold, when she superin-
tended the education of her family; and the results of this
teaching, as exemplified in the touching epistles which we
shall hereafter present to the reader, will doubtless be
received with singular interest, copied as they are from the
original documents, which are carefully preserved in the
family. The following is the first she ever wrote:—
"Ipswich, Thursday, July 6th, 1797.
"Honoured Madam,
"Your wretched servant has this evening arrLod at the
county gaol. Hope induced me to look forward to an
earlier abode near you, that I might have the consolation
of your instruction and advice. Oh! my honoured lady,
when I look upon that dear spot in which you live, and see
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 241
thoBe green fields before your house, in which I used to
walk and play with your dear children, I think the more
deeply of the gloom of my felon's chamber, from which I can
even at this moment behold them. They recall to my mind
those happy hours in which I enjoyed your approbation
and respect. How wretched do I now feel! Oh! what
have I not lost!
 I am come to Ipswich to take my trial, and am already
condemned by my own conscience more severely than any
j udge can condemn me. But yours must be the task to teach
me how to escape, not the condemnation of the judge, but
of my own heart. Oh, my dear lady! do come and see
me! Many people were kind to me at Newgate, and many
persons contributed to my necessities; some indeed flattered
me, and called me a brave girl for my recent act, which
they termed clever and courageous. But if they were so,
dear lady, why should I now feel so much fear? I thought
them poor consolers, and not half such sincere friends as
those who told me, as you did, the greatness of my offence,
and the probable extent of ultimate punishment.
"Honoured madam, would you let a messenger go to my
dear father and tell him where I am, and how much I de-
sire to see him? I fear you will think me very bold and
troublesome, but I know your kind heart will make allow-
ances for my troubled mind. I should like to see my uncle
Leader. But I should, first of all, like to see you, my dear
lady. Perhaps it will not be long before I shall see you
no more. I wish to make up my mind to the worst, but I
am at times dreadfully troubled. I feel it so hard to be
suddenly torn away from every earthly bond, and some on
earth I do so dearly love; and none more deserves that
love than you do. Pray come to me; and ever believe ma
"Your grateful, though
"Most wretched servant,
"Margaret Catchpole.
"P.S.—Mr. Ripshaw has promised to send you this
letter this evening. He tells me you have often inquired
for me.
The chaplain of the gaol was a friend of Mrs. Cobbold's;
she wrote a note to him requesting him to accompany her
16
242 msiuKt ur
at any ho most convenient to himself, to see her poor
servant. A ' eleven o'clock the next day, the interview
took place bet >> tbn the wretched culprit and this truly
Christian lady. *>She spent some hours with that discon-
solate being, whosfe whole thoughts seemed to be directed
with bitter agony to days of past happiness. For though
she had endured much mortification in early life, she had
experienced the comfort and consolation of a true and dis-
interested friend and benefactress in the person of that
kind mistress, and her naturally intelligent mind had duly
appreciated these benefits.
These visits were repeated many times, and with the
most beneficial effects on the mind of the culprit. Her
present anguish was the keener, because her sensibilities
were all so acutely alive to the memory of the past. It
was her mistress's endeavour not to suffer her to be deceived
with any false hopes. She was well aware that the penalty
of her crime was death, and that unless her instigating
accomplice could be delivered up to justice, she stood every
chance of being made a public example, on account of the
great frequency of the crime. To such an extent had
horse-stealing been carried on in the counties of Suffolk
and Essex, that scarce a week passed without rewards
being offered for the apprehension of the thieves.
Margaret's interviews with her father and brother were
still more deeply affecting: but to them and to her beloved
mistress alone did she make known the real circumstances,
attending her stealing the horse. She did not attempt,
however, to defend the act, nor would she admit that
another's influence was any exculpation of her offence. Mr.
Stebbing, the surgeon of the gaol, who had been her first
friend in Ipswich, was very kind to her, as was likewise
his benevolent daughter, who lent her many useful books.
But the being she most wished to see, and from whose
memory she had never thought she could have been dis-
placed, came not near her in her adversity. William Laud
had been at Nacton, to see her father and brother. The
report of her confession had reached him-—he had seen it
in the newspapers; and it altered all his views and inten-
tions respecting her; so that the very act which she had
done in the hope of strengthening his attachment to her,
was the direct cause of his deserting her. In fact, he be-
lieved that she had committed the act from an attachment
margaret catchpole. 243
to somebody else, and lie gave up all idea of her for the
future.
But Margaret was still true to him. In one of her in-
terviews with Mrs. Cobbold, that kind and good lady, re-
ferring to the fact of Laud's not coming near her in her
adversity, said earnestly—
"You must endeavour to think less of him, Margaret.
"It is hard, madam, was the reply, "for flesh and blood
not to think of one who has been in one's thoughts so
many years of one's life. In happy as well as miserable
hours, I have thought of him, madam, and have always
hoped for the best. He is still in all my prayers!
 Your hopes of him, Margaret, must now be at an end.
It would have been happier for you, if they had ended when
you lived with me.
"Perhaps so, good lady; perhaps so. Or even earlier.
I think now of my poor sister Susan's last words: 'Mar-
garet, you will never marry William Laud.' I had hoped
that these words were only the fears of the moment; but,
alas! I perceive they will prove too true!
The only diversion of Margaret's mind at this period,
from a fixed and undivided attention to heavenly things,
was the one hope of seeing Laud. She clung with tenacity
to this, as a sort of last farewell to all things in the world.
She said, that had she but one interview with him, she
should then have no other wish but to die.
Time flew fast, and the day of her trial approached.
She was to depart for Bury, where the assizes were held,
early on the morning of the 9th of August; and, on the
preceding day, she wrote the following letter to her mis-
tress:—
"Ipswich Gaol, August 8th, 1797.
"Honoured Madam,
"By the time you read this, which I expect will be
at your happy breakfast-table to-morrow morning, your
poor servant will be at Bury, awaiting the awful moment
of her condemnation. I could not leave this place, how-
ever, without pouring out my heart to you, my dear and
honoured lady; thanking you for your great kindness and
Christian charity to my poor soul. I have confessed n^p
guilt to God and man, and I go to my trial with the same
determination to plead guilty before both.
244 histqsy PF
"Honoured madam, I am told that the judge will call
upon me to know if I have any body in court to speak
to my character. Now, though I cannot hope, and indeed
would not urge you to be present in court, considering the
state you are now in,1 yet you have spoken well of me in
private, and I know you would never fear to speak pub-
licly that which you have said of me in private. Perhaps
a line from you would do that which I want. You well
know, my dear madam, that it is not from any hope of its
obtaining a pardon for me that I ask it; but it is from the
hope that one, whom I shall never see again, may by some
means catch a sight of it; and may think better of me
than the world at large, who know nothing of me, can do.
Pardon this weakness.
 Think not that I have any hope of mercy or pardon
here. You have taught me how to hope for both here-
after. You have shewn me much mercy and pity here,
and the Lord reward you and my dear master for your
unmerited compassion to your • wretched servant! You
have fortified my mind with the riches of consolation in
that religion which I hope will he poured with tenfold
increase into your own heart, and give you that peace you
are bo anxious I should possess. It grieves me to see my
fellow-prisoners so unprepared for the fate which awaits
them. Oh, that they had such friends as I have had!
Oh, that they had been partakers of the same consolation
as myself! And now, dearest lady, I have only to request
your mention of me in your prayers. Bless you, my dear
madam! God bless you and your dear children, and may
they live to he a blessing to your old age! Give my kind
thanks to all those friends who may ever inquire about
me. And now, dearest lady, pardon the errors of this
letter, as you have done all the graver faults of your ever
grateful and now happier servant,
"Margaret Catchpole.
"To Mrs. Cobbold, St. Margaret's Green, Ipswich.
Margaret, with several other prisoners, departed for
Bury assizes in the prisoners' van, which started at six
1 The writer of these pages, one of the sons of that excellent
woman, was born on the 9th of September following.
margaret catchpole. 245
o'clock on the 9th of August, 1797, under the care of Mr.
Ripshaw, the gaoler, and arrived at that place about eleven
o'clock in the forenoon.
The town was in a bustle, and the prisoners were
received into the borough gaol that day an hour or so
previously to their trial—a day of anxiety to many, but
by too many spent in revelry and folly. The various wit-
nesses crowded into the town. The inns were filled on
the 8th. Expectation was alive and active; and the bustle
of preparing for business created a stir throughout that
town, which at other times is the most silent, the coldest,
and the dullest place in England.
CHAPTER XXIII.
trial and condemnation to death.
There are few things that appear in greater and more
painful contrast than the general rejoicing which attends
the assizes of a country town, and the solemn and awful
purposes for which those assizes are held. It may be said,
that it is matter of rejoicing when justice is about to be
administered; and that honest people have a right to be
glad when the wicked are about to be punished. But
there is great difference between a reasonable show of re-
joicitig, and the overflowings of pomp and parade, levity
and folly.
At the assizes at Bury, at the time we speak of, the
sheriff's pomp and state was something approaching to regal
splendour. His gaudy liveries, his gilded carriage, his
courtly dress, and all the expenses attendant upon such a
station, made it a heavy burthen to the unfortunate country
gentleman who should be appointed to such an office. The
balls, too, and public entertainments common at such time
in the county, formed a striking contrast to the sorrows
and despair of the criminals. The judges entered the town,
the trumpets sounded, the bells rang, the sheriff's carriage
was surrounded with hosts of gapers of all kinds, to see
their lordships alight at the Angel steps. The Lord Chief
Baron Macdonald and Mr. Justice Heath attended divine
216
HISTORY OF
service, at St. James's Churcli, previously to their entering
the courts. Who could look down upon that assemblage,
and see those grave men, with their white wigs crowned
with black patches, their scarlet robes, lined with ermine,
preceded by the sheriff's officers, and all the municipal ser-
vants of that ancient borough, with their gilt chains, silver
maces, and ample robes, and not think of the purpose for
which they were assembled!
The best preparation for the scenes met with in a court
of justice, is the house of prayer; though even here there
is a strange contrast between the peace and quietness of the
church, and the bustle, broil, and turmoil usually attendant
on the administration of criminal justice.
At twelve o'clock, on the day of trial, August 9th, 1797,
the Lord Chief Baron Macdonald took his seat upon the
bench, in the criminal court. Mr. Justice Heath presided
in the Nisi Priu3. On the right hand of the Lord Chief
Baron sat the High Sheriff, Chalonor Archdeckne, Esq.
of Glevering Hall, with his chaplain, and a full bench of
county and borough magistrates. After the proclamation
had been read, the respective lists of the grand jury for the
county and the liberty were then called over, as follows:—
FOR THE COUNTY.
Lord Viscount Brome.
Sir John Blois, Bart.
Philip Bowes Broke, Esq.
Charles Berners, jun., Esq.
George Golding, Esq.
William Middleton, Esq
Eleazar Davy, Esq.
John Frere, Esq.
Matthias Kerrison, Esq.
Wolfran Lewis, Esq.
John Sheppard, Esq.
Francis Broke, Esq.
Mileson Edgar, Esq.
Thomas Shaw, Esq.
John Vernon, Esq.
James Reeve, Esq.
James Stutter, Esq
John Bleadon, Esq.
John Cobbold, Esq.
Thomas Green, Esq.
Joseph Burch Smith, Esq
Robert Trotman, Esq,
FOR THE LIBERTY.
Sir Charles Bunbury, Bart.
Sir Charles Davers, Bart.
Sir Thomas Cullum, Bart.
Sir Harry Parker, Bart.
Sir William Rowley, Bart.
Nathaniel Lee Acton, Esq.
Capel Lofft, Esq.
Samuel Brice, Esq.
William Parker, Esq.
Richard Moore, Esq.
Robert Walpole, Esq.
James Oakes, Esq.
Matthias Wright, Esq.
Abraham Reeve, Esq.
John Oliver, Esq.
John Pytches, Esq.
Thomas Cocksedge, Esq.
John Cooke, Esq.
George Jackson, Esq.
William Kemp Jardine, Es«l
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 247
After the names had been respectively answered, the
Lord Chief Baron addressed the grand jury, in a mostpow-
erful and impressive speech, in which he pointed out to
their attention the extraordinary case then about to come
on for trial. The grand jury retired. The prisoners were
led into the cages, under the body of the court, where the
people sat. They could hear all the proceedings, and could
see, through an iron grating, all the witnesses in attendance.
After the petty jury had been sworn, and had appointed
John Bloomfield, auctioneer and farmer, their foreman, they
took their seats, and various true bills were handed into
court against the prisoners, whose trials then came on.
After an hour or two, a paper was handed from the grand
jury box, to the clerk of arraigns; it was announced as "a
true bill against Margaret Catchpole, for horse-stealing.
She presently after heard herself summoned by name; and
with trembling hand and foot, ascended the steps of the
dock, and stood before the bar. The court was crowded to
excess, and upon the bench sat more ladies than gentlemen.
The judge cast a severe glance at the prisoner, evidently
expecting to find a bold, athletic female, of a coarse and
masculine appearance. Margaret was dressed in a plain
blue cotton gown, and appeared deeply dejected. She
seemed to be inwardly engaged in prayer. Once she looked
round the court, to see if she could discover the person of
her lover, or the instigator to the crime for which she was
arraigned. Her eye rested only upon her aged father and
her affectionate brother Edward, who stood beneath her,
close to the bar. The workings of nature were too power-
ful to be resisted, and tears rolled down the old man's
cheeks, as he gave his hand to his daughter. She kissed
it, and let fall upon it the hot drops of agony.
 Prisoner at the bar, you stand commited upon your
own confession, before two of his majesty's justices of the
peace for the county of Middlesex, of having, on the night
of the 23rd of May last past, stolen from the stable of
your late master, John Cobbold, Esq. of St. Margaret's
Green, Ipswich, a strawberry roan-grey coach gelding, and
of having rode the same from Ipswich to London that night;
and being in the act of selling the horse next day following,
when you were taken into custody. For this offence you
now stand before the court. How say you, prisoner at tha
bar, are you guilty, or not guilty?
248 HISTORY OF
Margaret looked at her judge, and in a firm though low
roice said, "Guilty, my lord.
 Prisoner at the bar, resumed the judge,  though you
have made this confession, you are at liberty to retract it,
and to plead, 'Not Guilty,' if you please, and so to take
your trial. Your plea of 'guilty' will avail you nothing
in the sentence which must follow. Consider then your
answer.
Margaret replied,  I am not able now, my lord, to plead
•Not guilty.'
"Why not? said the judge.
"Because I know that I am 'guilty."*
This was too sound an argument to be disputed; and the
judge did not attempt any further explanation.
Margaret's appearance was not remarkable for beauty,
nor was it by any means unpleasing. Her figure was not
masculine. She was tall, and rather slender. She had a
dark eye, dark hair, and a countenance pale from emotion. *
The judge then addressed her in the following words:—
 Prisoner at the bar, it is my painful duty to address one
of your sex in such a situation. I cannot possibly judge
of your motives for committing such a crime. They do
not appear in your confession, and I am at a loss to con-
ceive what can have induced you to commit it. The sen-
tence to which you have subjected yourself is death. Have
you anything to say why this sentence of the law should net
be passed upon you? Have you any friends in court to
speak to your character?
There was evidently a stir in the body of the court, and
several persons were seen crowding forward to the witness-
box, and all ready to enter it. At this juncture the prisoner
expressed a wish to know if she might speak a few words
to the judge.
 Prisoner at the bar, said the chief baron, "I am quite
ready to hear what you have to say.
There was now a hushed and breathless silence in the
court, and the prisoner spoke calmly, clearly, and audibly,
in the following words:—
 My lord, I am not going to say anything in defence of
my conduct, or to make any excuse whatever for my crimes.
I told your lordship that I was guilty, and guilty I feel
that I am. It is not for my own sake, either, that I am
speaking, but that all in this court may take warning from
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 249
my bad example* A kinder master and mistress no ser-
vant ever had, nor had ever master or mistress a more
ungrateful servant. I have long since condemned myself,
and more severely than your lordship can do it. I know
my crime, and I know its punishment. I feel that, even if
the law acquitted me, my own conscience would still con-
demn me. But you lordship may proceed to pass sentence
upon my body. I have already felt assurance of some peace
and merey where I alone could look for it, and thanks be to
God I have not sought it in vain. It has prepared me for
1 tills moment. My master and mistress have forgiven me.
Oh! that all against whom I have offended by my bad ex-
ample could here do the same! I do not ask forgiveness of
the law, because I have no right to do so. I have offended,
and am subject to the penalty of death. If your lordship
should even change my sentence, and send me out of the
country for life, I should rather choose death, at this time,
than banishment from my father and my friends. Tempta-
tion would no longer assail me, and I shall hope to see
them, and all whom I now see before me, in a better world.
I hope your lordship will forgive my words, though you
must condemn me for my actions.
To attempt a description of the effect of these few words
upon the court would be impossible. The ladies hoped
that mercy would be extended to her. The judge looked
at her with mingled astonishment and pity.
 Are there any persons present, said the judge, "who
are ready to speak to the previous character of the pri-
soner? Whereupon the prosecutor, her master, imme-
diately ascended the witness-box. He stated that the
prisoner had, during the time she lived in his service, al-
ways discharged her duty faithfully. He had reason to
believe that she was neither a hardened nor an abandoned
character. He knew from experience that she was most
humane and faithful, and ready to risk her own life in the
service of another. He here mentioned her presence of
mind, and the intrepidity she had so signally displayed in
saving the lives of his children. He stated, moreover,
that, for his own part, he never should have prosecuted the
prisoner but that the magistrates in London had bound him
over so to do, and a sense of duty compelled him to adopt
this course. He should always entertain, under all circum-
stances, a grateful recollection of her. He particularly re-
£50 HISTORY OP
commended her to mercy, because he did not believe that
8ho had committed the crime in question in conjunction
with any gang of horse-stealers, but that she was the dupe
of an infamous villain, who had persuaded her to steal the
horse for him, and for no pecuniary benefit to herself. He
believed her to be a proper object for royal clemency, and
hoped that if his lordship could find any mitigating circum-
stances in her favour, that he would give her the full benefit
of them.
George Stebbing, Esq., surgeon, Ipswich, stated that he
had known the prisoner from her childhood; that in her
earliest years she gave promise of such good character and
conduct as would have merited the approbation of all men,
He mentioned her riding the pony to Ipswioh.
Margaret put her head down upon the bar, and, hiding
her face in her hands, sobbed audibly before the whole
court.
The doctor stated that, if she was at that moment at
liberty, he- would take her into his own house. He assured
his lordship that it was a romantic hope of seeing her lover,
that induced her to listen to the voice of the tempter who
induced her to steal the horse. He prayed for mercy for
her, and handed a petition to the court, signed by many
persons who knew her early history, and bore testimony to
her former good character.
Her uncle and aunt Leader next spoke in the highest
terms of her general good character. Her first mistress
at the Priory Farm gave her also an excellent character for
honesty and humanity, and assured his lordship that it was
an early but unfortunate attachment which had been the
cause of this rash act; adding, that neither she nor her
husband would object to take the prisoner again into their
service.
Several other persons spoke in her favour, and so cordial
and so earnest had been the testimony borne to her cha-
racter, that in almost every breast a hope began to prevail
that mercy would be extended to her.
The judge took an unusually long time for deliberation.
He was in conversation with the high sheriff, but what
passed between them did not transpire. The longer he de-
layed his judgment, the stronger grew the hopes of mercy.
At last, turning round to the body of the court, he looked
for one most awful moment steadfastly at the prisoner; and,
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 251
when every eye was riveted upon him, he was seen to take
the black cap from beneath his desk, and to place it upon
his head. That dreadful forerunner of impending condem-
nation struck forcibly upon the hearts of all the people as-
Bembled. Some ladies fainted, and were carried out of
court. The most perfect stillness ensued, as the Lord
Chief Baron addressed the unhappy creature in the follow-
ing words:—
 Prisoner at the bar, I have paid attention to your ad-
dress to me, and to those around you, and am glad to find
that you have made a proper use of the time which has in-
tervened between your committal to prison and the present
moment. Your words show that you are by no means iguo-
rant of your duty as a member of society, and that you
are possessed of strong sense and much good feeling. I
earnestly wish that your conduct had not been such as to
belie that good sense which you possess. It is, however,
the more inexcusable in one who, at the time she was com-
mitting an offence, must have known its heinousness. Your
sin, prisoner at the bar, has found you out quickly, and
judgment as speedily follows. I will not aggravate those
feelings of remorse which I am sure you experience, by any
longer dwelling upon the painful situation in which your
crimes have placed you. I trust your own persuasive words
will be long remembered by every one present, and be a
warning to all how they suffer themselves to be betrayed
into crime. May your early fate warn them in time to keep
themselves in the path of rectitude and honesty.
 I must say that, in the whole course of my judicial
career, I have never met with a person who so well knew
right from wrong, and who so extraordinarily perverted that
gift. I must say, likewise, that I have never met with any
one who has received so good a former character at such a
moment as the present. The representations that have
been made of your past conduct shall be forwarded to the
king, with whom alone the prerogative of mercy in your
case exists.
 It would be cruelty, however, in me did I not candidly
tell you, that the crime for which you are now to suffer is
one of such frequent, bold, and, in this day, daring com-
mission, as to defy the authority of the law; so that per-
sons detected and brought to judgment, as you are, stand
but little chance of mercy. It is not in my power to give
252 HISTORY OF
you any hope of escaping the full punishment of the law,
but I will represent your case this very night, before I
sleep, to the proper quarter whence any alteration in your
behalf can alone be obtained.
 I need scarcely tell you not to rely upon any false
hopes which friends may hold out to you, who would grieve
the more could they see the danger and distress which they
thereby occasion. Let me rather entreat you to continue
that attention to the interest of your soul which has already
beeh well instructed and fortified against the present crisis.
You have to prepare, prisoner at the bar, for a greater
trial, a more awful moment; and I hope you will make good
use of the short time which remains in preparation for eter-
nity. You appear to have been well assisted hitherto, and
the good instruction seems to have fallen upon productive
ground. I hope the increase will continue to the day of
your death.
"It only remains for me to fulfil my duty, by passing
the sentence of the court upon you, which is—
"That you be taken from the place where you now stand,
back to the place whence you came, and thence to the place
of execution, and there bo hanged by the neck until yoube
dead; and may God have mercy upon your soul!
At these last words tears of agony overwhelmed many
in the court; but Margaret herself seemed to be less over-
come by the sentence than by the kind words of the judge.
She respectfully curtseyed to him and the court, and, in
the act of retiring, fell in^o her father's arms. She was
conveyed back to the gaol in a swoon.
In the mean time every exertion was made to represent
her case favourably to the judge. A petition was signed
by many of the grand jury, as well as the petty jury, in
her behalf, and strong hopes were entertained of a re-
prieve.
These things were not mentioned to the prisoner, who re-
turned to the cell of condemned felons, to employ her time
in "seeking that peace which the world cannot give.
A keeper constantly attended her, and a female sat up
with her all that night. She requested to have a Bible, and
pen, ink, and paper: these were granted her. She did not
sleep, but read the Sacred Book, sometimes aloud, some-
times to herself. She also seemed to find great relief in
writing to her friends. One letter which she wrote to her
margaret catchpole. 258
uncle, and another to her mistress, on that very night, will
best evince the state of her mind and feelings.
 My dear Uncle,
 This will reach you to-morrow before you leave Bury.
Give my love and best thanks to my aunt and friends who
spoke this day in behalf of your unhappy niece; but, when
you arrive at Ipswich, be sure and call and thank that dear
old gentleman, Doctor Stebbing. I know he feels very
much for me, but tell him not to distress himself, as if I
were to be lost for ever. Tell him I hope to see him in a
better world. He has been very kind to me in those days
when I was most forlorn, and my Saviour, who then guided
me to him, will give him his reward. For he says, that a
cup of cold water given to one of His most poor and wretched
children, shall not be forgotten.
 Dear uncle, show this letter to the gentleman in whose
hands you have placed the money which I gave you for
euch purpose, and tell him that I wish it to be restored to
William Laud, its rightful owner, if he can be found, and
will receive it again. If he is not found, after my death,
within the space of one year, I wish it to be divided into
four equal portions: one for my father, one for my brother
Edward, one for yourself, and one for my aunt.
 Do not mourn for me, dear uncle, for I sincerely believe
in God's forgiveness of my past sins, through the merits of
Jesus Christ, my Saviour. My prayer to God is, ' Increase
my faith, 0 Lord! and pardon me, as thou didst the male-
factor upon the cross;' for I feel, dear uncle, as if I was
justly in that thief's condemnation. I hope soon, very
soon, to be in a better state, and in a happier world. I
wish you and my aunt to come to Ipswich and see me once
more before I suffer. Tell my aunt I wish her to purchase
something decent for my funeral. She will find some money
in the corner of my box, under the linen. Oh! how little
did he, who gave me that money, and who so worthily es-
teemed me, how little did he think that any portion of it
would be devoted to sucli a purpose! My dear uncle! go
and comfort my poor father, and my good vouug brother;
I will write to them before another day is past. I wish my
bones to lie beside my mother's and sister's, in Nacton
churchyard. I am told that on Saturday week I shall
probably suffer death. God grant 1 may then be prepared!
254 HI£tohv OF
"We shall all return to Ipswich as Soon as the nine pri«
soners, whom Mr. Ripshaw brought to Bury, shall have
been tried. Pray for me, dear uncle! Warn the dear
children by my fate. I should like to see them myself. I
wish I could impress upon their young minds the dreadful
feelings of guilt which I have endured, and so prevent their
commission of any crime. I am going to write now to my
dear mistress, and, as you return to-morrow, you must take
that letter and deliver it. God bless you, dear uncle!
God's peace be with you! .So no more from your poor
affectionate niece,
Margaret Catchpole.
"Bury Gaol, August 9th, 1797.
 To Mr. Leader, Six Bells Inn, Bury.
 To Mrs. Cobbold.
 Honoured Madam,
 My trial is over, and I dare say my dear master has
already told you the fate of your unhappy servant. He
cannot, however, tell you what I can, and what will better
please your good heart than the account of my trial,
namely, that I am not so disconsolate as many persons
may think I am. No; God be praised, and thanks to
those dear friends who visited me in the Ipswich gaol;
and chiefly thanks to you, among them, my dear lady; my
heart is consoled with the prospect of soon seeing better
things than this wicked world can show me. Oh! my dear
lady, I hope to see you among those bright shining spirits
who live for ever in harmony and love. Oh! how happy
shall we then be, free from fear of pain or grief! I have
just been reading that beautiful passage, where it is written,
' God shall wipe all tears from their eyes, and there shall
be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying; neither
shall there be any more pain.' Oh! what a different
world must that be to this; and what should make us
grieve to leave this world? It is only the fear of future
wrath that can prevent our joyfully looking up to heaven
through the valley of death. And, dearest lady, if such
a wretched being as I am can hope in that Saviour who
died for me and all the world, surely, you, dear lady, must
have a bright, a pleasant prospect, before you. Heaven
bless you, for all your goodness to me in the days of my
xuAJiGA^ET CATCIiPOLE. 255
prosperity, but more for your Christian charity in the day
of my adversity! The judge, who really, I think, reminded
me of you, told me I had been well instructed; I wish he
knew you, dear madam, and he would then he assured of
it. Thank my kind master for his goodness to hi3 un-
worthy servant. I had no hope of mercy from the first,
and the judge told me not to trust in any such idea in this
world. He spoke much less severely than I expected;
but I was prepared for his condemnation, and I am now
preparing my mind for the day of execution. I find great
comfort in the Scriptures, because I have no secret pangs
of unconfessed guilt, or any wish in my heart to cover or
palliate my offences. My trial is over, and the same God
who sustained me through it, will, I hope, preserve my
spirit faithful to the last. Every moment seems valuable
to me, dear lady, now that I know them to be so soon
numbered; and I scarcely like to lose one even in sleep.
Nature, however, is weary with fatigue and anxiety, though
my spirit seems so wakeful. If I go to sleep, it will be in
prayer for you and all my friends. That God may bless
you and all your dear family, is the heartfelt desire of your
unfortunate, though ever grateful servant,
 Margaret Catchpole.
"Bury Gaol, August 9th, 1797.
 P.S.—My good uncle Leader will bring this, of whom
you can ask any particulars, as he was in court during my
trial.
On the 11th of August, a letter arrived from the Home
Office, in London, giving full powers to the judge to exer-
cise the prerogative of mercy in her case, as he might see
fit. The judge was not in court at the time, but in his
own rooms. He sent immediately for the sheriff and the
prosecutor, Mr. Cobbold, and explained to them the pur-
port of the letter he had received. He thought, however,
that some punishment should mark the sense of crime.
He therefore commuted the sentence of death for the
shortest period ot transportation for seven years; and he
signed the necessary document for such purpose. He
intimated that that period might be shortened by the good
conduct of the prisoner in gaol; for as there was great
difficulty now in sending prisoners to the now settlement.
256 Ula'lUJKX OJT
her portion of confinement would most likely be spent in
the Ipswich Gaol. The judge added, that the woman
appeared to be a most seusible creature; and he made
many most minute inquiries concerning her education and
habits. He said that she had conducted herself during
her trial in a very becoming manner, and he hoped that her
punishment would end with half the term of confinement.
This would depend upon the representations of the visiting
magistrates.
CHAPTER XXIV.
the reprieve and removal.
The feelings of Margaret Catchpole under the new circum-
stances which now awaited her, will be best explained by a
letter written by her to Mrs. Cobbold immediately after the
communication of the happy tidings, and her consequent
removal to Ipswich Gaol.
 Ipswich Gaol, Sunday Evening, August 13th, 1797.
 Honoured Madam,
"You have heard of your poor servant's reprieve. I
had no time to write you word yesterday, because of thf
bustle of our return, and the general congratulations of the
prisoners. Mr. Ripshaw has permitted me to have pen,
ink, and paper, this evening, and I hasten to write my
heart. Good Mr. Sharp has been warning me against
too great exultation in my change, and very kindly says
to me in words of truth; ' Sin no more, lest a worse thing
come upon thee.' This was his subject in the chapel to-
day. I certainly do, even now, feel very different to what
I did when I wrote to you last, dear lady, from Bury. I
had then made up my mind to die, and hoped to live for
ever. I now make up my mind to live; but I hope not to
die for ever. No, dear lady; if I thought that life being
granted to me now was only to make my future dangers
greater, I should grieve that I did not rather suffer before
this time
MARGARET CATCHEOLE. 257
"Life is sweet and to be desired, wliilst the hope of
becoming good, and doing good in our time, exists. God
grant that such hope maybe realized in my life! Oh!
my dear lady, if by living I could only imitate you more
nearly, I should then be full of hope. I feel, however,
that temptation will assail me, when I leave this place and
enter again into the world. Here I am well taught and
well guarded against many temptations. I have many
dear friends too, who take such an interest in me, that I
am afraid of being vain, though God has shewn me I
have indeed nothing to be vain of, except it be of such
as you, dear lady, who take notice of such a creature as
myself.
 Oh! what a happy Sabbath-day has this been to me!
I am so thankful that my heart can sing psalms all the
day long. I am very grateful for this paper and pen, that
I may he able to speak to you, my dear madam, in this
way. You taught me to read and write, and these are my
great recreations. Pray lend me some good books to read,
and if you would let me see some of your own dear writing,
it would be a great blessing to me.
 I have now seven years' confinement to look forward
to. Oh! that I may greatly improve my time! Beneath
your help, what may I not gain in my prison! It may be
eome weeks before I see your dear, loved face, as I hear
that you are very near increasing your family. I would
not have you come into this place at such a time on any
account. But, as I am bo near you, a word or a message,
just to let me know that you, my master, and family are
well, would lighten my burden.
"Mr. Piipshaw has promised that 1 shall have plenty of
employment. Work of. any sort, you know, dear lady, is
always agreeable to me. To be doing nothing is death
me. He tells me, moreover, that if I conduct myself well,
he will not fail to represent my case to the magistrates for
a shortening of the period of my captivity. I received some
hint of this from the chaplains at Bury. You may be sure,
dear lady, that I will do all I can to serve Mr. Kipshaw!
and to merit the recommendation of the magistrates. I
hope your dear children are well. I never was so happy
as when nursing Master Boland; I hope I shall see him
soon again.
 Pray, dear madam, give my duty to my master, and
17
258 history of
to the young ladies and gentlemen; and accept the same
from your ever grateful servant,
"Margaret Catchpole.
Margaret was true to her good intentions. She became
very industrious and trustworthy in the service of Mrs.
Ripshaw, the governor's wife; and made herself useful
in every possible way to her new mistress. In fact,
she became an invaluable person in the gaol. She exer-
cised a moral influence over those of her own sex who
were inmates of the prison, such as no matron could hope
to attain.
Her father and brother often came to see her, and occa-
sionally they brought her a luxury which reminded her of
the days of liberty— a harvest cake. *
The reader will not be surprised to learn that Margaret
still, sometimes, asked after Will Laud. Her brother could
give her but an indifferent account of what he heard of him;
one question, however, of most vital import to the still
lingering hopes of poor Margaret, namely— Is he single
still? he could answer in the affirmative. As a set-off
against this, she learned that he was still deeply engaged
in smuggling transactions.
In the winter of 1797, Margaret lost her father, who was
taken off by a bad fever, which at that time raged fiercely
in the neighbourhood.
The following letter to her brother Edward speaks her
feelings on this event;—
 Ipswich Gaol, December 21st, 1797.
 Dear Edward,
"My sins appear to me doubly great, because they have
prevented my fulfilling my duties to my dear father in his
illness. They oppress me, because, but for them, I should
have found such comfort in being able to wait upon him.
Oh that I had wings to fly from this place to Nacton! if
only for once to be present at the last duties we can any of
us pay to those whom we love. But I cannot come, so I
send you this letter. My tears fall upon it, whilst I write
it. He was such a dear good old man to us all. Can I
ever forget him£ Never! You and he both stood near
me upon my trial.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 259
 Ah! Edward, I do think my ill-conduct has killed
him. He was always so fond of me, that I think he has
never recovered the shock of that day. Yet he seemed
well, and rejoiced to see me, with the hope of happier and
brighter times. But he is gone, and all our grief, dear
brother, will be useless. If we continue to walk in the right
path, we shall meet him hereafter. We shall go to him;
he cannot come to us. Yet, I wish I could join you in the
churchyard; but I may not leave the prison for one moment.
It is an indulgence no prisoner is allowed. Mr. Ripshaw
has promised me that I shall have the afternoon of to-mor-
row to myself, which I shall employ in reading, and think-
tng about the burial service.
 Dear old man! he promised to spend Christmas-day
with me in my cell. He is in a happier place, where joy
and peace will make every day his Christmas. I shall
think of you to-morrow at two o'clock. Do you remember,
Edward, the evening of our mother's funeral9 Do you
remember the stranger's visit, and that stranger our bi other
Charles? This melancholy time reminds me of him. You
will have a dreary home now. Oh that I had power to
make it happier!
 I am glad the Cracknells are still near you, and that
they are kind to you; though their misfortunes and mine
have kept pace with each other. Never mind, Edward,
what cruel people say to you about their prophecies con-
cerning my downfall. They only tell you these things to
aggravate you. The time may come when they will im-
pudently say, they prophesied my rise and progress in the
world. I hope better days are coming.
"You must come and see me as soon as you can; for
I feel at this time very low and sorrowful. So my dear
brother, do come and see me, when you are able to spare
the time. Pray for me, and I will not cease to do so
for you. My dear mistress has promised to send this by
an especial messenger. How kind of her to think of one
SO unworthy as your affectionate sister,
"Margaret Catchpole.
In the spring of 1798, Edward Catchpole, finding the
notoriety his sister had obtained occasioned Inm much
annoyance, left the neighbourhood of Ipswich, and went
into Cambridgeshire, where he obtained a situation as
260 HISTORY OF
shepherd, and was always a respectable character. Poor
Margaret felt this loss keenly, though a letter from him
now and then cheered her spirits.* Her kind friends in
Ipswich made her many little presents, which she treasured
up against the time she should go out. She hoped it might
he in three years. Inquiries were frequently made con-
cerning her conduct, which was uniformly orderly and good.
• All traces of Edward Catchpole having been lost, the author is
obliged to Henry T. Bourne, Esq. of Alford, in Lincolnshire, for
making known to him, since the publication of the work, the circum-
stances which are here briefly narrated.
Edward Catchpole went into Lincolnshire, and resided some time
at Sutton-in-the-Marsh. He was always fond of the sea, and for
some years became mate of the Argus revenue cutter. In this vessel,
he was present at the rescue of an English coal brig, from the Star,
French privateer; and having put men on board the brig, sufficient
to carry her into port, he pursued the privateer, brought her to close
quarters, and having only twenty-seven men on board the cutter, he
was overpowered, and at ten o'clock at night compelled to surrender,
as the privateer had eighty-six men against him.
This was on the 18th September, 1807. He was made prisoner,
and having spent seven years in confinement, he made his escape,
and reached home in safety.
He was afterwards appointed chief officer of the coast-guard, at
Sutton-in-the-Marsh, in the county of Lincoln. Though a very
brave man, and a steady officer, he did not appear to have any very
serious notions of religion, until he was compelled by a serious
wound to keep at home. It was the blessing of God to him, and
others, that this accident happened to him, for his mind appears to
have been awakened to a deep sense of his past sins, and his soul
very much aroused to inquiry, by the kindness of an excellent neigh-
bour, who dressed his wounds for him, and did her best endeavours
to pour in consolation upon his broken heart.
He became sensible of his need of a Saviour; and never after for-
Book the help he found in his necessity, but became useful and ex-
emplary, and even the means, by the blessing of God, of saving
others of his comrades and companions. He died on the 17th of
December, 1836, after affording to all around him, a Christian ex-
ample of patience under suffering affliction.
He was interred in the churchyard at Sutton, and a stone at thft
head of his grave contains the following inscription:—
IN MEMORY or
EDWARD CATCHPOLE,
A NATIVE OF IPSWICH,
IN THE 'COUNTY OF SUFFOLK,
AND LATE CHIEF OFFICER OF THB
COAST-GUARD
STATIONED AT THIS PLACE,
WHO DIED DECEMBER THE 17TH, 1836,
AGED 58 YEARS.
MARGARET CATCHPOLH. 261
s5he was the most useful person that Mrs. Ripshaw ever
had in the prison.
Margaret never made use of one single shilling of that
money which Laud had thrown down for her. She always
thought that the time would come when it might be claimed;
and looked upon it as a sort of confidential deposit, for which
she was answerable. No individual could have acted with
more scrupulous and faithful regard.
Time swept on, and Margaret had spent two years of
good conduct in the Ipswich gaol. The magistrates had
told Mr. Ripshaw they should recommend her at the Mid-
summer assizes, when she was mentioned in high terms to
the Lord Chief Baron. But the crime of horse-stealing
still continued, day by day, to be a growing evil; and, as
if Margaret was made to feel the consequence of others'
crimes, no mitigation of her sentence was yet granted. It
had been injudiciously told her by some friend, who, no
doubt, meant it kindly, that an application had been made
to the judge for the shortening of the period of her im-
prisonment. This made her feel very anxious; and it
proved a great disappointment to her when she found that
the interest made in her behalf was ineffectual. Her mind
Was unhinged, and her spirit grew restless, anxious, and
oppressed. Her mistress observed these symptoms with
concern, and dreaded a return of that irritability which had
formerly rendered her so miserable.
But where was William Laud? At his old trade. He
was deeply concerned in that affair at Dunwich, where
William Woodward and Benjamin Lawsey, two boatmen
belonging to his majesty's Customs at Southwold, were
beaten and thrown into the sea; and the government of-
fered one hundred pounds reward for the apprehension of
any one of the offenders. Forty empty carts were seen by
these two men, standing ready for a run, with horses and
men in a lane at Dunwich. The reward was offered in the
county newspapers of the date of March 2d, 1799.
Such a system of open fraud was carried on along the
whole coast of Norfolk and Suffolk about this time, that
the revenue of the kingdom began to suffer severely in the
customs. In the month of March of the second year of
her imprisonment, Mr. Gooch, officer of excise at Lowes-
toft, and Mr. Burdell, of Aldborough, seized 880 gallom of
gin, belonging to Will Laud and his company; and the evi-
2c2 history of
den. q brought the affair so clearly home to him that he was
taken up and sentenced to be imprisoned one year in the
Ipswich gaol, and to pay a fine of one hundred pounds to
the king. His property was seized and confiscated; smug-
gled goods were found upon his premises, and he became a
penniless bankrupt, and an inmate of that very prison where
the devoted Margaret was suffering on his account.
CHAPTER XXV.
the escape.
Margaret had not heard of the capture of Laud; and he,
even in his then degraded condition, looked upon it as a
thing not to be desired that she should hear of. She had
been engaged in washing for Mrs. Ripshaw. At that time
the large linen-horses belonging to the gaol stood in the
passage between the debtors' and felons' yards. Margaret
had occasion to remove those horses into the drying-ground.
For this purpose she had to pass through the governor's
apartment into the thoroughfare between these two yards.
A strong palisade of oak, with sharp tenter-hooks on their
tops, stood on each side of this stone passage, leading from
the turnkey's lodge to the governor's rooms at the centre
of the prison. As Margaret was in the act of removing
one of these horses, she saw a sailor standing by the wall
on the debtors' side. A sailor in prison would interest her
at any time; but this sailor looked so very like Will Laud
that she stood still with astonishment. He evidently saw
her, and as he approached toward the place where she stood,
her heart was convulsively beating, and a tremor came over
her limbs. He came nearer; it was Laud. She saw him
again after the lapse of years; him whom her earliest and
warmest feelings had acknowledged as her lover. She had
never in her heart deserted him for an hour; yet he had
hardly ever been constant to any thing. He approached,
however, and Margaret, pretending to be engaged in remov-
ing the linen-horses, felt her hands and feet tremble ex-
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 263
ceedingly. She heard the well-known voice, which sounded
like music in her ears, say, "Margaret, i3 that you? How
are you, Peggy? She tried all she could to summon
courage to speak, but her heart was so full, her brea3t
heaved so rapidly, that she could not utter a word; tears
stood in her eyes, and she tried to smile through them;
but, in the act of lifting one of those great horses off the
pegs, her hands and knees could not support the weight,
but down fell the horse upon her, and cast her, with con-
siderable force and clatter upon the stone flag pavement.
The noise of the fall brought out the governor and the
turnkey at the same moment, who, both concluding that the
weight had overpowered her, ran to her assistance, whilst
the sailor, well knowing he could be of no use, walked
quietly away. No one in the gaol knew that he was Mar-
garet's lover. She was carried into the governor's house.
The turnkey said he had often removed the horses, con-
sidering they were too heavy for a female to lift, though
they were frequently carried by them. Margaret told Mr.
Ripshaw that the over-exertion had for a moment produced
a dizziness in her head, and a sudden faintness came upon
ber before she fell. She dreaded, however, lest any one
should imagine the real cause of her accident. Her friend,
the surgeon of the gaol, Mr. George Stebbing, was sent
for; and when he saw her he bled her, considering that she
bad received some internal injury. It was a good thing he
did so, for it reduced her to such real weakness as confined
ber some days to her bed, and afforded time for reflection.
Mrs. Ripshaw had promised Mrs. Cobbold, that if Mar-
garet should be ill at any time she would let her kuow it,
and she now fulfilled that promise. She sent her a note to
tell her how the accident occurred, and how she was. Mrs.
Cobbold came immediately, and found her in an unaccount-
able state of agitation. She at once asked Margaret if
anything particular had occurred, but she elicited nothing
satisfactory.
No one in the gaol except Margaret knew Will Laud, and
no one took any particular notice of him but her. A letter,
which was afterwards found upon his person, shews how truly
that poor girl had loved so unworthy a man. Opportunities
of Occasional words were at different times offered and seized
upon by them, though these were few and far between. Ey
those, however, Margaret learned th he was a ruined man,
264 history of
sentenced to a year's imprisonment, and to pay a fine of one
hundred pounds to the king; that in all probability his con-
finement might be for years, as everything he possessed
had been confiscated; his boats, ships, and stock, had been
seized; and yet imprisonment was to continue till the penalty
was paid.
The letter which Margaret wrote to him about this
period, and contrived to give into his hands, showed how
deeply she entered into his past as well as present feelings,
and is a noble specimen of her devoted affection:—
"Felons' Cell, Jan. 10th, 1800.
"Dear William,
"You may guess my surprise to hear you say that John
Cook knew nothing about you; that he invented a lie to
get me to steal the horse. This accords, however, with
my beloved mistress's opinion. Oh! how glad I am that
I did not let out the secret that I had money of your3 in
hand! I should hnve lost everything if I had. He, a
villain, induced me to go to London, with the hope of
seeing you at the Dog and Bone, Lambeth. He told me
that you were hiding from the fear of arrest, and had con-
fided to him your place of safety. He even showed me a
letter purporting to come from you. Oh! what an artful
villain!—what punishment he deserves!
"But, dear William, make yourself easy about the fine.
I will send for my uncle Leader before the time of your
imprisonment expires, and the hundred and thirty pounds
shall be given up to you. He shall pay the fine for you,
and shall give you the remainder. You will own now that
I am trustworthy. Oh! how happy I am that I did not
make away with it, nor suffer others to do so! I kept it
for you, and it comes into use at the moment it is most
wanted. Nobody need know how it is disposed of; only
remember your poor Margaret, that she longs for the
shortening of her confinement, that she may join herself
with your fortunes wherever they may be.
"You will soon regain your liberty. I may have to
complete my seven years here. But will you be faithful
and wait for me? You promise fairly. You say you will
live at Sudbourn, and try to get an honest living. Every
hour of the day I am thinking about you; and at night I
dream sometimes that I am sailing upon the ocean with
MARGrARET CATCHPOLK. 265
you; sometimes that I am living with my father and
brother. But dreams are deceitful. I hope you will never
prove such to me again. I am willing to join my fate to
yours whenever I obtain my release. Pray God that may
be soon. Oh! that it could come on the day of your own
release! but come or not then, believe me ever
"Your affectionate
"Margaret Catciipole.
Not long after the date of this letter, application was
made to the Secretary of State for her pardon; but, unfor-
turiately for her, the same causes which had operated
against her before still prevailed. The crime of horse-
Btealing was at this date at its highest pitch, and depre-
dators of this kind became so bold, that it was thought
necessary to give a positive denial to the application in
Margaret's favour. The prospect of her release, therefore,
did not appear a bright one, and every month seemed to
make it less probable.
The time for the departure of Laud out of prison now
drew nigh, and Margaret wrote to her uncle, requesting
him to come and see her, which he did; and she then gave
him full powers to withdraw the 130 guineas from Mr.
Smith, and requested him to pay £100 into the hands of
Mr. Ripshaw on a certain day; namely, the 5th of March,
the day previous to Laud's term of imprisonment expiring.
Mr. Leader was well assured that she would never draw
the money, except to restore it to Will Laud. He asked
her the plain question. She gave him an honest answer.
She told him that Will was then in prison, and that his
liberty depended upon the punctuality of the payment.
Her honesty with her uncle saved her from detection, for,
in all probability, had not Mr. Leader had more prudence
than she had, it might have been suspected by the gaoler.
He at once suggested that Mr. Smith, who was not known
to have any connexion with her, should be requested to pay
the fine to Mr. Ripshaw, in behalf of the prisoner. It
struck Margaret, the moment it was mentioned, and she
felt surprised that the hurry and anxiety of her own feelings
should have so greatly blinded her as to leave her destitute
of common prudence in this matter.
It was on the 3d of March, in the year 1800, that
266 HISTORY OF
Margaret was destined to undergo the severest temptation
she had ever yet experienced. She had been employed in
washing for the prisoners, and was engaged hanging out
the linen in the passage on one of the clothes-horses used
for that purpose, when she was accosted from the debtors'
side in a well-known voice, "Margaret! what a capital
ladder one of those horses would make, if set against the
wall!
She turned round, and there stood Will Laud. Cau-
tiously she looked along the passage to see if any one was
near. She pretended to be busily engaged; at the same
time she said,—
"Ah, William! I understand you. I wish I could make
my escape with you, and I would; but I fear the thing is
too difficult.
"You might manage it, Margaret, when the governor
goes to Bury with the prisoners.
"How. William! How?
"You have the horse, and you have the linen line. Look
around the wall, and see if you cannot find a place of
escape. You must be tired of your captivity. I owe my
liberty to you; and if I can once get you out of this place,
no power on earth shall separate us again.
"But where should I go, William, if I got out?
"To my sister's at Sudbourn, Lucy Keeley. I will tell
her to expect you.
"That would do. I will look round and see if it can be
done. On the 19 th or 20th of this month, Mr. Ripshaw
goes to Bury with the prisoners. On Monday the 24th,
and Tuesday the 25th, are our two great washing days.
It must be one of those nights. Will you be waiting for
me at the end of the lane, near St. Helen's Church?
"I will be waiting for you, never fear. I will have a
sailor's jacket and hat to disguise you in.
 Well, the trial is worth the risk. 1 will confide in you
once more, Laud; but if you deceive me, then, indeed, I
care not what becomes of me. But I will trust you. Go!
—There is some one coming.
Laud departed, and Margaret busied herself with the
linen. That day she had many things given her to mend.
She contrived also to get a candle, under the pretence of
working late. And such was the confidence which was
placed in her, and such the quantity of work she performed,
MARGARET CATCHPOLE,  267
that she was trusted beyond any othor prisoner in the
house.
Margaret knew nothing of the penalty the law would
compel her to pay for breaking out of prison. She knew
nothing of the bond by which the gaoler was bound, in case
of the escape of any of his prisoners. She saw but her
lover and her liberty, and did not suppose it any great
offence, even if she should be detected in the attempt.
Her uncle Leader paid her a visit on the 5th, and gave
her the thirty guineas, telling her that the hundred guineas
were lodged in the hands of Mr. Ripshaw for the discharge
of Will Laud.
"I will give William this money myself, thought
Margaret; but she breathed not one word of her intended
escape to her uncle; and the good man left her with the
conscious happiness, that let her term of confinement be
what it might, she had been instrumental in procuring the
release of her lover.
It was a proud day for Margaret, that 6th of March7
1800. From the felons' side she could see her lover depart
out of gaol in company with Mr. Ripshaw. She saw him
go to the turnkey's lodge; and with a heart at the same
time bounding with the hope of liberty, she walked quietly
round the felons' yard, looking anxiously up at those long
spikes to see where the wildest place could be found for
her to get her body through. That very hour she dis-
covered a place where one of the spikes had been broken
off. She looked at it and sighed. She was very thought-
ful about it. It dwelt upon her mind night and day, till
she had fully resolved to make the attempt at that very
spot.
At night, and early in the morning, she was at work
for herself. Out of one sheet she contrived to make a
smock-frock, such as shepherds wear over their clothes.
Out of the other she made a pair of sailor's trousers.
These she laid upon her bed in such an ingenious manner,
that no one going into her cell would discover any differ-
ence in the usual make of it.
Anxiously did she watch the hours for the departure of
Mr. Ripshaw with the prisoners for trial at Bury. In the
very cell next to her own was a felon to be taken away.
The anxious time came, and Margaret saw the governor
and prisoners take their departure.
268 HISTORY OF
Meantime, Laud, directly he left the gaol, went to hia
sister's house at Sudbourn. He reached that place the same
night. He told his sister who it was that had paid the
fine for him, and thus completely won her heart for Mar-
garet. His plan was fixed to get off with Margaret in a
smuggler's boat, and get a cast to Holland, where he in-
tended to marry and settle. He told his sister his plan,
and she approved it, and promised to receive Margaret.
He was not long in ascertaining what boats were expected
on the coast. He had an interview with one David Shaw,
the master of a cutter belonging to Captain Merrells, and
with him came to an understanding that, some day after the
25th, when wind and weather should suit, he should send a
boat ashore for him. A red handkerchief tied round his
hat should be the signal that he was ready. He told him
that he should be accompanied by a friend, whom he wished
to go over the water with him. All these things were ar-
ranged, and, as far as they went, were in some sense ho-
nourable. In the meantime he promised to assist In
landing any cargoes along the shore. And this part of the
contract he performed.
On the 19th of March, Mr._Ripshaw, with seven pri-
soners, departed for Bury. The business of the assizes
began on Thursday, the 20th, and did not terminate until
that day week, the 27th. On Monday and Tuesday the
wash took place. On these occasions the female convicts
are all locked up in one large room, from seven o'clock in
the morning until seven in the evening; their food being
brought to them in the washing-room. At seven in the
evening they all go into the felons' yard for exercise and
air. They usually give their signal that the wash is finished
by rapping at the door about seven o'clock. This evening,
Tuesday, the 25th, Margaret contrived by various means
to prolong the wash till nearly eight o'clock, and as she
had some kind of acknowledged authority and influence
among her fellow-convicts, she insisted upon the signal not
being given till the work was completely finished; so that
at eight o'clock it was quite dark. They were let out of
the room into the felons' yard at that time for one half
hour. Some were accustomed to saunter about, or to have
a game of romps. Some, when the season admitted, would
weed the flower-beds; for Mr. Ripshaw was a great fancy
florist, and used to raise the best ranunculuses, carnations,
Margaret catchpole. 269
and polyanthuses, of any person in the town. His garden
adjoined the felons' walk, and was only separated from it
by a very low paling. Margaret had continual access to
the garden, and used to take considerable1 interest in the
culture of the plants.
She was greatly disappointed to find that all the linen-
horses stood on the stone area, between the debtors' and
the felons' yards. She had hoped that they would have
been carried by the turnkey to the drying ground, in the
garden, as usual, ready for the linen in the morning.
Owing to some cause or other, they were not there that
night.
This was a sad disappointment, for she had made up her
mind to escape that very night. Could she be suspected?
Had any body betrayed her? No, it was impossible. As
the turnkey passed the palings she cried out to him, "You
have not put out the horses for us to-night?
"No, Margaret, he replied, "we have all been too busy
cleaning the cells and yards; but they shall be put out the
first thing in the morning.
The reply was both satisfactory and unsatisfactory. It
convinced her she was not suspected; but declared that she
must expect no help from the linen-horses. She was glad,
however, to see that the lines were on the posts for the
coarse linen, and the crotches, or props, in their proper
places.
She looked around for something to help her. The gaol
wall was nearly twenty-two feet high, and the chevaux-de-
frize three feet from the point of one revolving spike to its
extreme point. What could she get to assist her? At one
time she thought of pulling up a portion of the paling for
a ladder. She tried her strength at it, but it was too much
for her. She then turned her eye upon a large frame,
which was used for the flower-beds. It covered a long bed,
and the awning usually placed upon it to keep the sun off
the flowers in the summer was not there. She tried her
strength at this, and lifted the legs upon which it stood
about a foot upwards. This she resolved to make her lad-
der. She looked up at the narrow spot where the iron
epike had been broken, and which was close to the shoulder
or prop of the chevaux-de-frise. Hope beamed brightly
upon her as she thought of her liberty. Margaret resolved
to make the attempt at midnight. At half-past eight the
270 history op
convicts all went in to supper, and afterwards ietired to
their cells. But Margaret, the moment she reached hers,
contrived to slip out of it again, with the things she had
made for her disguise, into the adjoining one, which stood
open; and she crept under the bed of the felon who was
gone to Bury for trial. She had, as usual, closed her own
door, and lay anxiously waiting in her hiding-place the
turnkey's approach. She heard him coming along, and
asking the several prisoners, as he came, if they were in
their cells. They answered his summons, and then she
neard them locked up; and now came the challenge to her
own door.
"Margaret, are you there?
She put her lips to the wall of the cell where she was,
and answered, "Yes. It sounded exactly as if she was
in bed in her own cell; and to her great joy she heard the
key turn in the iron lock, and the bolt shoot into its place.
She breathed for a moment freely, but the next moment
she experienced such a sudden revulsion as few could have
borne without detection. To her confusion and dismay,
the turnkey entered the very cell where she lay concealed
under the bed. He walked up to the iron-grated window,
and, as usual, the casement stood open for the benefit of
air through the passage, and, in a soliloquising manner,
said, "Ah! poor Sarah! you will never sleep upon this bed
again!
In breathless agony did Margaret dread two things
equally fatal to her project. One was, that he should hear
her breath in the stillness of the night, and discover her;
the other, that he should lock the door upon her. She
knew that it was not usual to lock the doors of those cells
which contained no prisoners, but she dreaded lest the same
absence of mind which made him saunter into Sarah Lloyd's
cell should make him lock the door. What a state of sus-
pense! How did her blood course through her frame! she
could hear her heart beat! She was presently relieved from
her suspense, for the turnkey, having completed his duty iu
locking up all his prisoners, quietly departed out of the cell,
and left the door, as usual, standing wide open. Never was
relief more opportune or welcome than this to her over-
charged heart. The clock struck the hours of nine, ten,
and eleven, and Margaret had not stirred. She now rose,
took her shoes in her hand, and her bundle under her arm;
KAUGAUET CATCTTPOLE. 271
she then managed to tie it up with an apron-string over her
shoulders, and, with the slightest tread, stole along the
stone passage. A mouse would scarcely have been dis-
turbed bji her as she descended the front of steps that led
to the felons' yard.
To her great comfort she found the door unbolted; for
the turnkey, having locked every one up, saw no necessity
for bolting the yard door. Silently she opened it; it creaked
so little, that the wind prevented any sound reaching be-
yond the precincts of the door. She made her way to the
flower-stand in the governor's garden, lifted the frame out
of the ground and set it up endways directly under the
broken spike. It reached a little more than half way up
the wall, being about thirteen feet long. She then went
and took the linen line off the posts, and made a running
noose at one end of it. She then took the longest clothes-
prop she could find, and passed the noose over the horn of
it. She mounted the frame by the help of the prop, and
standing upon it she lifted the line up and passed the noose
over the shoulder of the chevaux-de-frize, then, pulling it
tight and close to the wall, it slipped down the iron and
became fixed.
Now came the greatest difficulty she had ever overcome
in her life. She drew herself up by the line to the top of
the wall, and laying her body directly upon the roller where
the spike was broken, with the help of one hand grasping
the shoulder of iron, she balanced herself until she had
pulled up all the line and let it fall down the other side of
the wall; then, taking hold of the rope with both hands,
she bent her body forward, and the whole body of spikes
revolved, turning her literally heels over head on the outer
side of the gaol wall. Was there ever such a desperate act
performed by any woman before? Had not the fact been
proved beyond all doubt, the statement might be deemed
incredible. But Margaret Catchpole did exactly as here
described; and after the oscillation of her body was over
from the jerk, she quietly let herself down in perfect safety
on the other side.
Just as she alighted on the earth St. Clement's chimes
played for twelve o'clock. It was a gently sloping bank
from the wall, and a dry fosse, which she crossed, easily
climbed over the low wooden palings against the road, and
made her way for the lane against St. Helen's church.
272 HISTORY OF
There she found Will Laud in readiness to receive her,
which he did with an ardour and devotion that told he was
sincere.
They fled to an empty cart-shed on the Woodbridge road.
Here Laud kept watch at the entrance whilst Margaret
put on her sailor's dress. She soon made her appearance
on the road with her white trousers, hat, and blue jacket,
looking completely like a British tar. They did not wait
to b8 overtaken, but off they started for Woodbridge, and
arrived at the ferry just a3 the dawning streaks of daylight
began to tinge the east. Their intention was to cross the
Sutton Walks and Hollesly Heath to Sudbourn. Unluckily
for them, however, who should they meet at the ferry but
old Robinson Crusoe, the fisherman, who, having been
driven round the point at Felixtow, was compelled to come
up the Deben to Woodbridge for the sale of his fish. The
old man gave them no sign of recognition, but he knew
theru both, and, with a tact that few possessed, saw how the
wind blew. But without speaking to either of them, he
proceeded with his basket to the town.
At this they both rejoiced, and as they took their journey
across that barren tract of land, it seemed to there like
traversing a flowery mead.
*4ARGARET CAi'CUPOL©*
273
CHAPTER XXVI.
pursuit and capture.
The morning after Margaret's escape the turnkey was
alarmed by the call of the gardener, who came early to the
prison to prune some trees in the governor's garden. He
told the turnkey there was a rope hanging down the wall, as
if some one had escaped during the night. They soon dis-
covered the frame against the wall; foot-marks along the
heds, and the linen crotch, all told the same tale. The
turnkey then ran to the men's cells, and found them all
bolted. He did the same to the women's, and found them
likewise fastened just as he left them the night before. He
then examined every window. Not a bar was moved. He
did this without speaking a word to any one. At the usuaL
hour he called up the prisoners, and marched them out of
their cells. Margaret's was the last, at the end of the pas-
sage. When he opened it, no one answered his summons..
He walked in; no one was there. The bed had not been,
slept in, and was without sheets. He then made Mrs.
Ripshaw acquainted with the facts. Astonishment and:
alarm were depicted upon her countenance. Her husband's
absence made the circumstance the more distressing.
Search was made in every part of the gaol, but no trace
of Margaret could be found. The women with whom she
washed the day previously all declared that they knew
nothing of her escape. They declared that they saw her
go before them to the farther end of the passage to her
own cell. But how could she escape and lock the door ?
The turnkey was quite sure he had secured her in her own
cell, for that he went into the one adjoining after he had,
as he supposed, locked her up in hers. It came out, how-
ever, in the course of inquiry, that he remembered her
asking him about the horses not being set out for the wash.
And the women declared that Margaret had been very
is
274 HISTORY OK
peremptory about not giving the signal before eight o'clock.
These things seemed to indicate a design to escape, and
carried some suspicion of the fact.
Mrs. Ripshaw, however, was not satisfied, but sent a
swift messenger on horseback to Bury St. Edmunds, with
a note to acquaint her husband with the circumstances..
Mrs. Ripshaw also wrote to Mrs. Cobbold, in the greatest
agitation, begging of her, if she knew where she was, to
give information of it, as her husband and two sureties
were bound, under a penalty of five hundred pounds each,
to answer for the escape of any prisoner from the gaol.
Such a stir was created in the town of Ipswich by this
event as was scarcely ever before witnessed. People
flocked to the gaol to see the spot whence Peggy had made
her escape, and many were the reports falsely circulated
concerning her.
It is not easy to describe the grief and consternation
which was truly felt by Margaret's dearest and best friend.
She knew the consequences of this rash act; that, if she
was taken, it was death, without any hope of reprieve.
She ordered her carriage, and went to the gaol, and was
as much, or even more astonished than the inmates of the
prison could be. She soon convinced Mrs. Ripshaw that
she had not the slightest idea of any such intention on the
part of her late servant, neither could she tell where she
was gone. She made inquiries whether she had been seen
talking with any of the male prisoners; but no clue could
be gained here. Mrs. Cobbold was one of those whose de-
cided opinion was, that she must have had somebody as an
accomplice; but every soul denied it. This lady returned
home in the greatest distress and uncertainty. Messengers
were dispatched to Nacton, to Brandiston, and even into
Cambridgeshire, to inquire after her.
When Mr. Ripshaw returned from Bury, he found some
of the magistrates in the gaol. He had formed a very
strong opinion in his own mind, and requested the visiting
magistrates to examine the turnkey immediately. He was
summoned, and examined before Colonel Edgar, Mr. Gibson,
and Mr. Neale, and closely questioned. His answers were
not deemed satisfactory.
The magistrates remanded him for a time, and conversed
together upon the subject. They were of opinion that some-
body must have bribed the man, and that he must have lei
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 275
her out, and have put the things as they were found, as a
blind to turn suspicion from himself.
He was again summoned, and given into custody, on
suspicion of having assisted the prisoner's escape.
In the meantime, every exertion was made to discover
the prisoner, hut without any success. The following hand-
bill was printed and circulated in every direction:—
"fifty pounds reward.
"Whereas, on Tuesday night, the 25th of March, or
early on Wednesday morning, Margaret Catchpole, a female
convict, confined in the Ipswich gaol, made her escape there-
from, either by scaling the wall, or by the connivance of the
turnkey, this is to give notice, that the ahove reward shall
be given to any person or persons who will bring the said
Margaret Catchpole to Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler; and one-
half that sum to any person or persons furnishing such in-
formation as shall lead to her apprehension. And notice
is hereby given, that any person concealing or harbouring
the said Margaret Catchpole shall, after this notice, if de-
tected, he, by order of the magistrates, punished as the
law directs.
"N.B.—The prisoner is a tall and dark person, with
short hair, black eyes, and of intelligent countenance. She
had on the gaol dress, and took away with her the two
sheets belonging to her bed.
 Ipswich Gaol, March 28, 1800.
This notice was circulated far and near, and furnished
topics for conversation throughout the county.
It so happened that some of the servants of Mrs. Cobboltf
mentioned the subject of the reward to the old fisherman,
Robinson Crusoe, as he stood at the back-door with hia
basket of fish.
"Well, Robin, have you heard of the reward? Have
you heard of Margaret's escape from the gaol!
' No; hut I think I have seen her,1 or the foul fiend has
played me one of his shabby tricks.
"Seen her, Robin! Where?
"I saw that fellow Laud, and somebody very like her,
go across the Sutton Ferry t-tgether, Che deceive
276 ~~HISTORY*OP"~
anybody else, but tbe foul fiend shewed her to me, though
she was in a sailor's dress. I told your mistress, long ago,
that no good would come of Margaret.''
This news reached the parlour, and was soon commu-
nicated to Mr. Ripshaw, who quickly had an interview
with Mrs. Cobbold, and from her he learned the intimacy
existing between Will Laud, his late prisoner, and Margaret,
and could not doubt that he had assisted in her escape.
He soon ascertained the probable bearings of Laud's desti-
nation, and lost no time in prosecuting the pursuit. He
went off for Woodbridge and Sutton Ferry directly. The
ferryman corroborated the testimony of old Colson as to
two sailors, a slight one and a stout one, passing over the
river in his boat, on the morning of the 26th. They went
off directly, he said, for Eyke. Thither the gaoler pur-
sued his course, and thence to Sudbourn.
He found out that two sailors had been seen in that
neighbourhood such as he described them, and that they
lodged at Mrs. Keeley's. He took a constable along with
him to the cottage, and at once demanded his prisoner.
The woman at first denied all knowledge of the persons he
sought, but, after threatening her with taking her off to
gaol at once, she confessed that her brother and Margaret
were down on the coast, waiting for a boat to carry them
off to sea; she even confessed that Margaret slept with her
only the night before, and that a report having reached
them of the reward offered for her capture, she had put a
smock-frock over her sailor's jacket, and was assisting
Keeley, her husband, in keeping his flock upon the marsh
saltings.
The constable of Sudbourn and Mr. Ripshaw went
immediately for the saltings. They met Keeley, the
herd, returning with his flock, to fold them upon th
lows; but no one was with him. He was a shrewd, si
surly fellow, and in a moment understood what was in
wind.
Mr. Ripshaw began the attack.  Constable, take that
man into custody.
"Where's your warrant, Mr. Gaoler? 'Old birds are
not to be caught with chaff.' Now, then, your warrant
for my apprehension, and I am the man to go with you.
Come, shew me the warrant at once; or, you no sooner
lift your hand against me than I will shew you what resist-
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 277
Mice is, and you shall take the consequences of an assault
upon my person.
The fellow stood with his brawny limbs displayed before
them, and his two fierce, rough-coated, short flap-eared
dogs wagging their stumps of tails, and looking earnestly
in their master's face, to see if he gaye the signal for them
to attack either, or both the gaoler and the constable; It
was clear that they must go upon another tack.
The shepherd gave a shrill whistle to his dogs, and on
they dashed, driving the sheep towards the fold.
They proceeded directly along the shingled hardware to
the beach, or rather to the shore of the river-side, which in
those parts much resembles the seashore. The revenue
cutter's boat was then going across the stream of the Aide;
they hailed it, and the officer in command ordered his men
to return.
It was young Barry who came on shore from the boat,
and he immediately walked a little way apart with the
gaoler, who explained to him the nature of his business;
and painful as its connexion with Margaret Catchpole made
it to Barry, his sense of duty compelled him to render the
assistance required. Accordingly, they were soon seated
in the stern of the boat, and were rowed by his men towards
the spot, where, on the main shore, Laud and Margaret
stood, anxiously watching the approach of a boat from a
vessel on the sea.
There they stood, not only unconscious of approaching
danger, but congratulating themselves upon the prospect of
a termination of all their troubles. Joyfully did they watch
the boat coming over the billows of the sea, not seeing the
other boat approaching them from the river. A few mi-
nutes more, and they would have been beyond the reach of
gaolers and of prisons.
Neither Laud nor Margaret saw them until they came
down upon them, headed by the gaoler, whose voice Mar-
garet instantly recognised. With a wild shriek that made
the welkin ring, she rushed into the sea, and would at once
have perished, had not Laud caught her, as a wave cast
her back upon the beach, and suddenly deprived her of
sense and speech.
He stood across the seemingly lifeless body of that devoted
girl, and with a pistol in each hand cocked, and presented
278 HISTORY OF
to the foremost men, the officer and the gaoler, he ex-
claimed, "Let us go—^we are not defrauding the revenue
—you have no business with us!
 You may go unhurt, replied the gaoler, "if you will
deliver up the body of Margaret Catchpole. I must and
will have her in my custody.
"If you do, Mr. Ripshaw, it shall be at the peril of your
life, or the cost of mine. The first man who approaches to
touch her shall be a corpse, or he shall make me oy
There was such determination in his words and
that every one saw he would not flinch. It was
moment for young Barry; he wished to save t
Laud; he did not wish to risk that of any of his .
stepped forward, and said,—
"Will Laud, let me entreat you to give up the pe.
of Margaret Catchpole; she has escaped from the custo^
of the gaoler, and is under sentence of transportation. I
promise that you shall depart in safety, and that she shall
take no hurt. Do not force me to shed blood—we must
take her!
The next instant two pistols f!
stretched upon the sand. He had
missed him, and the next moment,
was compelled to fire in return. Ti
tended only to have disabled his arm,
heart and killed him on the spot. So en
a man who, only in the few latter days of n
steadily resolved to act fairly by the woman wn
voted her life to him, and to follow some honourabi
pation in a foreign land. Poor Susan's words at last pi v.
true: "Margaret, you will never marry William Laud.
The bodies of Laud and Margaret were both carried by
the sailors to the preventive-service boat, and laid upon the
men's cloaks at the bottom of it. After a while, Margaret
began to revive, and her awakening dream was, that she
was on board the smuggler's boat, which wni coming to
meet them. But the men in that boat f ir-
ful odds against them, had only rest
the fatal result which took place, a
steered for their own vessel.
Margaret looked wildly round he
upon the sailors. She whispered, '
MARGARET CATCHfOlE. 279
Saw something lying in a line with herself upon the same
cloaks, but could not distinguish anything but a sailor's
dress: she heard a voice at the helm which was familiar to
her; she recognised it to be Barry's; she lifted her head,
and saw the banks of the river on both sides of the water.
The truth seemed to flash upon her, for she fell backwards
again, fainted away, and became insensible.
She and her lover were conveyed to the Ship Inn at
Orford. The sailors who carried her, sensible of the de-
voted heart of the poor girl, seemed oppressed with heavi-
ness, and could not refrain addressing one another, in their
own peculiar style, upon the bad job of that night. Mar-
garet became too soon and too fully acquainted with her
situation. She shed tears of the deepest agony; her mind
was distracted, and without consolation. She did not speak
to anyone; but between sobs, and groans, and lamentations
upon her loss, she seemed the most melancholy picture of
human woe. By what she had heard from some of the pity-
ing sailors around her, she understood that it was young
Edward Barry who had shot her lover. When he came into
the room where she was seated in an arm-chair, with her
head resting in an agony upon her hand, he went up to
speak to her. She lifted up her hands, turned her head
aside, and exclaimed—
"Begone, wretch! Did you not voluntarily promise you
would never hurt him?
"And so I would, Margaret, if he would have permitted
me to do so. But he would not. He first fired at me, and
then I returned it; but only with the intention of disarm-
ing him.
"You have done a noble deed, and one which will im-
mortalise your name, one which will form a source of happy
reflection to you hereafter, most noble man of war! You
have killed a harmless man, and have taken captive a poor
fugitive female! Happy warrior! you will be nobly re-
warded!
"Do not reproach me, Margaret, but forgive me. I
have only done my duty; and, however painful it has been,
you would not reproach me, if you did but know how much
I really grieved for you.
 Your grief for me will do me about as much good aa
280 uiaroFv c?
mine will poor William! and here Margaret burst into a
flood of tears, which words could not in any way repress.
A post-chaise was ordered to the inn-door, and Margaret,
apparently more dead than alive, was placed within it, and
the gaoler taking his seat beside her, they were conveyed
immediately to Ipswich.
She was once more confined within those walls which
she had so recently scaled; she made no secret of the
manner in which she had effected her escape; she fully
confessed her own work, and perfectly exonerated every
other person in the gaol.
It was well for the poor turnkey that she was captured.
He was immediately released from confinement, and re-in-
stated in his office.
Margaret was now kept in almost solitary confinement,
to mourn over her unhappy lot, and to reflect upon the
death of one whom she had loved too well.
margaret catchpolr.
281
CHAPTER XXYII.
second trial, and second time condemned to death.
After the arrival of Margaret at the Ipswich gaol, several
magistrates attended, at the request of Mr. Ripshaw, to
take the deposition of the prisoner. She was summoned
into the gaoler's parlour, or, as it was more properly called,
the "Magistrates' Room. The depositions of Mr. Rip-
shaw and of the constable of Sudbourn, were first taken
down. The nature of the offence was then for the first time
explained to Margaret, and its most dreadful consequences
at once exposed. She was taken completely by surprise.
She had no idea that, in doing as she had done, she had
been guilty of anything worthy of death, and made no hesi-
tation in telling the magistrates so. She told them, more-
over, that her conscience did not accuse her of any crime
in the attempt, and that she thought it a cruel and bloody
law which could condemn her to death for such an act.
"But are you aware, said Mr. Gibson, one of the
visiting magistrates, "that you have broken that confidence
with Mr. Ripshaw which he placed in you, and that you
subjected him and his sureties to the penalty of five hundred
pounds each, had he not recovered you, and brought you
back to prison?
 Had I been aware of such a thing, I should then have
thought myself as bad as if I had stolen the money, and
should, indeed, have broken the confidence which, with
such a knowledge, would have been placed in me, but I
knew nothing of such a fact. My master, Mr. Ripshaw,
was always kind and indulgent to me, and my mistress the
same, but they never_ hinted such a thing to me. I waa
282 HISTORY OF
not aware that, with regard to my personal liberty, there
was any bond of mutual obligation between me and my
master. I was always locked up at the usual time, and it
never was said to me, ' Margaret, I will rely upon your
honour that you will never attempt to escape.' No promise
was exacted from me, and I did not think that it was any
breach of confidence to do as I have done.
"You do not consider that you might have ruined an
innocent man; that the turnkey was actually committed
upon suspicion of having connived at your departure, as
nobody would believe that you could have done such an act
of your own accord.
 I might not have done it of my own accord, though I
certainly did it without the assistance of any human being.
He, alas! is dead who persuaded me to it, though I confess
it did not require any very great degree of persuasion; and
I fear that, were he living now, I should almost attempt
the same again.
 There you speak contemptuously, and in a very unbe-
coming manner, young woman.
 I did not mean to be disrespectful to you, gentlemen,
especially as you are so kind as to explain to me the nature
of the law. I only meant to express my own weakness.
But may I ask what law it is that makes the act I have
been guilty of so felonious as to deserve death?
"You may ask any question you please, but you must
not add defiance to your impropriety and guilt. You are
sensible enough to be well assured that the magistrates
here present are not your judges. They have a duty to
perform to their country; and they consider it a privilege
and an honour that their sovereign places them in the situa-
tion of such an active service as to send prisoners before'
the judge; that such as transgress the laws, and render
themselves unfit to enjoy rational liberty, should be punished,
as men not worthy to be members of a well-organised and
civilised community. By the law of the land you live in,
you have once been condemned to death for horse-stealing.
By the mercy of your king, you have had a reprieve, and
a commutation of that sentence of death for transportation
for seven years. The period you have spent in gaol is part
of that sentence. Now understand the law:—
 'Any prisoner breaking out of gaol, if he resist hia
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 283
gaoler, may be killed on the spot, in the attempt of the
gaoler to restrain him. And any person breaking out after
sentence of death, shall be considered liable to that punish-
ment for his original offence, which had been commuted,
and shall suffer death accordingly. If he escape through
the door of his prison, when left open, it shall not be felony,
because it is the negligence of the gaoler; but if he break
out, after proper caution exercised for his security, either
by force in the day, or by subtlety in the night, then it
shall be felony.'
 Such is the law; and though in your case, young
woman, you may not consider it just, yet when you reflect
upon your example to others, you will see it in a different
light. If every prisoner should go unpunished who broke
out of prison what continual attempts would be made to
escape! I am truly sorry for your case: but the law is
made for offenders; and it is our duty to send you to Bury
again for trial. In the meantime, the gaoler will be upon
the alert, and take good care that you do not commit the
same offence again.
Margaret thanked Mr. Gibson for his explanation. She
felt very sorry, she said, if she had offended any one, and
hoped they would forgive her ignorance and unintentional
offence.
She was fully committed to take her trial for the second
offence. Mr. Gibson was much astonished at her presence
of mind and singularly acute understanding, as well as ap«
propriate and becoming form of speech, which she used as
Daturally as she felt it. His words to one deeply interested
for Margaret were, "What a pity that such a woman should
not know the value of her liberty before she lost it!
The reader knows the reason why Margaret broke out
of prison, and has seen how she became a second time
amenable to the laws. He will observe, that it was from
her acquaintance with that desperate man, who had been
the cause of misery to her and her family, from the first
days of her acquaintance with him. But he was now dead.
The cause was removed, and with it died every wish of her
heart for life and liberty.
But it was not the place that made Margaret so un-
happy. It was the void occasioned by the having no one
now to love, that made her feel as if no one in the world
284 &istory of
loved her. In this she was greatly mistaken; for though
her offence had occasioned much condemnation among those
who were interested in her, yet they were not so lost to pity
and compassion as not to feel for her sufferings. Among
the foremost of those friends was her former mistress, who,
in the true sense of the word, was charitable.
As soon as she heard that Margaret was retaken, sho
saw at once all the dreadful consequences which awaited her,
and knew that she would require more than double atten-
tion and care. Her first step was an application to a magis-
trate (Mileson Edgar, Esq., of the Red House), for an order
to visit Margaret in prison, and the application was iinme-
diately granted in the following letter from that gentle-
man;—
"Red House, May 10, 1800.
"My dear Madam,
"Any request that you would make would be sure to
meet with prompt attention from me, because I am well
assured that you would not make one which I could not
grant, and which, when granted, would not give me plea-
sure to have attended to. Herewith I send you an order
to Mr. Ripsliaw to admit you to visit Margaret Catchpole
during her confinement in the Ipswich gaol. What an ex-
traordinary being she is! a clever, shrewd, and well-behaved
person, yet strangely perverted in her judgment! She ac-
tually cannot be persuaded that she has offended against the
laws of her country. You will, I trust, my dear madam,
by the exercise of your influence and judgment, convince
her of her folly. I am truly glad that you intend going
to see her; for next to the pleasure derived from granting
your request is the comfort I derive from the prospect of
great benefit therein to the prisoner.
 Believe me, my dear madam,
"Ever yours sincerely,
"Mileson Edgar.
 To Mrs. Cobbold, St. Margaret's Green, Ipswich.
MAKGAKET CATCHPOLE. 285
The visit was soon paid to poor Margaret in her cell, and
it was one of deep interest and importance, inasmuch as it
paved the way for a better frame of mind, and deeper humi-
lity, than this wretched young woman ever before felt. On
this account we shall record the particulars of the interview
in detail, as related by the lady herself.
When Mrs. Cobbold entered the cell, Margaret rose and
curtsied respectfully, and the next moment the big tears
rolled down her cheeks, and her chest heaved with convul
sive emotion, as if her heart would break. The gaoler
placed a chair for the lady, and retired to the end of the
passage. For a long time nothing could be heard but the
occasional sobs of the prisoner. At length she spoke:—
 Oh! my dear lady, how can you look upon me? You
are good to come and see me; but indeed I feel as if I was
not worthy you should come. I never dared to ask it of
you. I had scarcely any hope of it. It is only your good-
ness. I am a poor, ill-fated being, doomed to sorrow and
despair!
 Margaret, I came to see you from a sense of duty to
God, and to you too: I came to try and comfort you; but
how can I give consolation to you if you talk of your being
ill-fated and doomed to despair? Do not say that the doom
of fate has anything to do with your present situation. You
know as well as I do, that unless you had misconducted
yourself, you might have been as happy now as you were
when I saw you after your return from Bury. Put your
sin upon yourself, and not upon your fate. You know the
real cause of this unhappiness.
"Ah! dear lady what would you have done if you had
been me and in my place?
 I might have done as you did; but I do think, Margaret,
knowing what a friend I had always been to you, that you
might have placed confidence in me, and have told me Laud
was in prison. I observed that you were much disturbed,
and not yourself, when I last came to see you, but I could
not divine the cause.
 I was afraid to tell you, madam, lest you should per-
suade me to give up my acquaintance with him, and I had
learned much more to his credit than I knew before.
 And so, by following your own inclination, you have
brought your lover and yourself to an untimely death. Oh,
286 aiaruKr OF
Margaret! had you confided in me, I should have persuaded
you to have tried him until you had obtained your discharge
from prison; then, had he been a respectable and altered
man, I should have approved of your marriage.
 But think, dear lady, how constant he had been to me
for so many years! Surely his patience deserved my con-
fidence.
 And what good did you ever find it do you, Margaret?
Look at the consequences.
 I could not foresee them. How could I then look at
them?
 Though you were so blind as not to foresee the conse-
qilences, others, with more reflection and forethought, might
have done so for you; and, assuredly, had you hinted the
matter to me, I should have prevented what has happened.
 I wish indeed, now, that I had done so. I suffer most
severely in my mind, not from the fear of punishment, but
because I have been the cause of William Laud's death.
 And he will have been the cause of your own, Margaret.
Had he not persuaded you to break out of prison, he would
not have been killed. He knew the penalty was death to
you if you were caught, and he has met that very end to
which he has now made you liable. Had he loved you law-
fully and honourably, as he ought to have done, he would
have waited for your free and happy discharge.
 But it seems to me, said Margaret,  so very strange,
something so out of justice, to condemn a person to die for
that which does not appear to her to be a crime. I cannot
see the blood-guiltiness that I have thus brought upon my-
self. In God's commandments I find it written, ' Thou shalt
not steal.' I stole the horse, and I could see that I de«
served to die, because I transgressed that commandment;
but I do not find it said, 'Thou shalt not escape from
prison.'
"Now, Margaret, your own reasoning will condemn you.
You acknowledged that you deserved to die for stealing the
horse. Now, consider the difference between the sentence
you were actually prepared to submit to and the one for
which it was in mercy changed. Though justly condemned
to death, you are permitted to live and undergo a compara-
tively mild punishment, yet you cannot see the duty of
submitting to it. You should have endured the lesser
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 287
punishment without a murmur. You appeared to receive
the award of it with such thankfulness that it made all
your friends rejoice for you. But how deep is their pre-
sent sorrow! What will the judge say to you now when
you are placed before him? Religion teaches you submis-
sion to the constituted authorities of your country; and you
ought to think with humility, as you once did, that, like the
thief on the cross, you suffer justly for your crimes. To
my mind, Margaret, you have no excuse whatever. It may
be all very well for romantic ideas of fancy to make your
lover the excuse; but you were not at liberty to choose to
roam over the sea with him until you could do so with a
free conscience.
 It is not for me, dear lady, to say a word against your
reasoning. I did not look upon my crime in this light.
"You must learn to look upon your crime as one which
has done injury to society. Which of your friends, who
interceded for you with the judge, and gave you so good a
character, can now intercede for you again? I am per-
suaded, Margaret, that the judge himself will think his
former mercy much misplaced, and that you will meet with
severity and reproach at his hands.
 Dear lady! who can give me comfort? Laud is dead,
my father is dead, my brother is at a distance, and will
probably be so ashamed of me that he will never come to
see me again. To whom, then, can I look for help? You,
my dear mistress, must be hurt at my conduct, and all my
friends likewise. I do not deserve their compassion, and
yet I never wanted help so much. Oh! who shall comfort
me now?
"You shall have all the consolation I can give you; I
will pray for you continually; I will lend you such books to
read as I think may assist you; and were we not now about
to remove from St. Margaret's Green to the Cliff again,
and in the midst of much bustle, I would come to see you
much oftener than I can now do. My family is increasing,
and your master says he must return again to the brewery
and to business. But I will come and see you many times,
and when I cannot come I will write such instructions as,
if you pursue them diligently, may, with God's blessing,
promote your everlasting benefit. I am glad that you are
sensible of your sins. This will go some way towards your
288 HISTORY OF
deriving consolation from the Word of God. Attend to the
precepts of the chaplain, who is a good man, and under-
stands your disposition as well as I do. I shall often com-
municate with the Rev. Mr. Sharp concerning you. You
must indeed be very, very humble, before you can obtain
that sweet peace of mind which you once possessed. It
will come to you again, if you are sincerely penitent and
resigned, but not without.
"You are a dear friend, madam, to the poor destitute,
and the only one now left me upon the earth. Oh! how,
dear lady, can I be worthy of such kind consideration?
Forgive me! oh, pray forgive me!
 Margaret, I wish the law could as freely forgive you
as I do, but you must not expect it. You must fortify
your soul with religious consolation alone. Everything
else will fail. You must think of far greater love than I
can show to you, Margaret; love that has endured inex-
pressible anguish for you; love that has laid down life for
you; and that will teach you how to die. You must
think of your Saviour's love—free, unsought, undeserved
love. Oh, the depth of His riches! Who can estimate
them as he ought? You must look up to Him during
every moment of your short existence, and be never weary
of praying to Him for forgiveness. But I must now leave
you, Margaret. It shall not be long before I see you
again. God bless you! Good-bye!
Margaret could not speak, but she knelt down and
prayed inwardly.
For the next three months Mrs. Cobbold became a fre-
quent visitor at the gaol, and found that Margaret made
the best use of her time between the period of her com-
mittal and her trial. How instructive are the minutes of
her progress, which that lady made, during that most
engaging period! and how blessedly employed wa3 the
enlightened mistress in communicating light to her poor
benighted servant! It was now that she made amends, in
her own heart, for that too common error among all who
exercise power and authority: the neglect of the spiritual
welfare of their dependants. She applied her powerful
faculties to the strengthening and refreshing of her ser-
vant's mind, by humbling herself with her before God.
And well was she repaid for this exertion. Abundant was
margaret catchpole. 289
the reward to herself in obtaining that experience in the
ways of godliness which strengthened her own faith and
increased her charity.
Margaret's mind underwent a complete change. She
might be truly said to be a resigned and patient Christian;
one who, from that day to her latest moments, never lost
the influence of those purest principles and most blessed
hopes which were then instilled and rooted in her soul.
On the 1st of August, the day previously to her depar-
ture for Bury, Margaret received the following letter from
her excellent mistress:—
 Cliff, Ipswich, August 1, 1800.
 Margaret,
"I cannot come and see you, as I had intended this
day to have done, having been so unfortunate as to sprain
my ankle in getting out of my carriage on to the stone
step at the Cliff. But I am so full of thought about you,
that my painful foot shall not prevent my willing hand
writing to you a few words before you depart. It may be
good for you and me that this accident has occurred,
however much it may seem our present privation. It may
teach us that we never can command events, or tell what
a day may bring forth. It may so happen that this letter
may do you more good than my visit; if so, I shall not re-
gret the pain I suffer, since I shall have the consolation of
its seeming evil being productive of some good. Oh, how
I wish that we could look upon all events in the same man-
ner, and be persuaded that all things ' work together for
good to them that love God!' Let us (i.e. you and I) be
thus persuaded. It will prevent us experiencing any pre-
sent mortification in the impossibility of our seeing each
other at this time.
 I would first speak to you about your conduct at the
trial, and my pen does that which my tongue would do. '•
Do not attempt in any way to defend your conduct. Be-
ing fully convinced, by God's grace, of the criminality of
your act and deed, let no legal sophistry whatever induce
you to plead not guilty. In a court of justice, you should
stand before man in the same way as you would before
your Maker, without any covert deceit, any desire to make
a bad case appear a good one.
290 HISTOET OF
 Satan is sometimes transformed into an angel of light,
He is so eloquent, so engaging, so bold, so devoted, so
earnest, so intelligent, so interesting, so persuasive, that a
lie comes from him with such apparent grace, that the
sons of God are almost deceived by his transformations.
But let not any one persuade you to take advantage of his
services. Truth, Margaret, needs no fiction to defend it;
for 'whatsoever loveth and maketh a lie' shall never enter
into the city of truth. So do not suffer any one who calls
himself your friend to persuade you to trust to fallacies.
You know yourself guilty. Conduct yourself as a person
conscious of your guilt before God and man. I shall not
deceive you. The penalty of your crime is death; and
you do not forget the argument that I used upon a former
occasion, ' that if a man owns himself justly condemned to
suffer death, and has mercy shown to him by giving him
a lesser punishment, his duty is to suffer that lesser punish-
ment with the same resignation as he would death. And
if he fail in this duty, he justly deserves the former punish-
ment.' So do you justly deserve sentence of death for
your present or late sin. And you will be condemned to
die!
 Be prepared for much severity at the hands of your
offended judge. I say, be prepared; for unless he should
know as much of you as I do, he will think you one of the
worst persons alive, and therefore only fit to be made a
public example of by a violent death. I know you, how-
ever, Margaret; and though I believe that if you were
now restored to liberty you would be a Christian servant,
and never more be a guilty slave of sin, yet your judge
cannot know this. Indeed, scarcely any of the magistrates
know this. It is, therefore, best to be prepared for a
severe trial. Do not attempt to call any one to speak to
your character. It will be of no use. The representations
made by the magistrates at the last assizes will be suffi-
cient testimony up to that time; and, since then, you
cannot say that you deserve any defence. You must not
expect any mercy, but prepare yourself not only to receive
sentence of death, but prepare yourself to die.
 If a prisoner who knows himself to be guilty does not
prepare himself to die before the sentence of death is passed
upon him, his is a very dangerous state, since the period
MARGAJtET CATCHPOLE. 291
is so short between condemnation and execution that he
must he very much distracted.
 You have read through ' The Christian's Consolations
against the Fears of Death,' and you tell me that your
mind has been greatly strengthened by the piety expressed
in this good old book. I agree with you that it touches
upon every source of consolation which a Christian man
can contemplate. It meets almost every case. But it
does not exactly contemplate a female convict, like your-
self; and on this account I would add a very few words of
advice to you upon this subject.
"To die a Christian, and as a Christian ought to die, is
to have no desire whatever but for the kingdom of God.
You suffer justly for your crimes; and you must not let
any one deceive you into any false idea of your own
worthiness to live. The penitent malefactor on the tree
rebuked the boldness of his brother, who railed upon the
Saviour of the world, and used these words of reproof,
* Dost thou not fear God, seeing thou art in the same con-
demnation? And we indeed suffer justly; but this man
hath done nothing amiss.' Then he prefers that humble
prayer, which should ever be yours, Margaret, up to your
latest moment, ' Lord, remember me when thou comest
into thy kingdom!' How infinite in mercy is the Lord!
How loving! how pitiful! how generous to the poor
wretch at the moment of his late repentance! We cannot
tell, Margaret, how late that repentance was. He might
have been convinced of his guilt long before he was lifted
up to die. In prison he might have heard, as you have
done, of the great, the good, the only Christ. So that
men do wrong to take even this example for the success
of a death-bed repentance at the last hour. We cannot
tell when our last hour may be. Our first should be one
of repentance as well as our last. And the whole desire
of our lives should be, to be remembered in the kingdom
of Christ. The blessed words of our Saviour must have
taken away the sting of death from the faithful heart of
the penitent; ' This day shalt thou be with me in paradise.'
 I conceive that we are justified in taking these words
to our own selves in our contemplation of death, and in
considering thena as the most blessed words that can be
used, to destroy the power wliich the King of Terrors often
292 U1STOKY OF
raises in the minds of weak and sinful mortals. If you
are truly penitent, justly sensible of all your sins, and are
fully convinced of the meritorious sacrifice which God has
once made for your sins and those of the whole world, I
see no reason why your faith should not be so fully fixed
on these blessed words as to let them be the hope of your
heart. It is almost impossible for the true penitent to beg
to be remembered in the kingdom of Christ without expe-
riencing comfort from the Saviour's words, ' This day shalt
thou be with me in paradise.'
 Death frees us from the dominion of sin; that is, if we
die in Christ. We are then with Him in Paradise, in that
state of innocency in which Adam was before he was driven
out of the garden of Eden. Our spirits know no fear,
since we are in love; and 'perfect love casts out fear, be-
cause fear hath torment.'
"Your judge, Margaret, will probably tell you to make
good use of the short time you have to live. I not only tell
you this, that you may be fortified against your sentence of
death, but that you may prepare yourself for entering upon
another and a better life. I am glad to find, by my friend
the chaplain, that you have diligently applied your whole
strength to the Word of God, and have found how weak,
how wicked, how lost you have been all the days of your
life. I hope to be able to come and see you, with him, after
your return from Bury, and to partake with you of spiri-
tual refreshment. Till then, my poor servant, I can only
pray that you may be rich in grace, strong in faith, humble
in heart, devout in prayer, lowly and contrite in spirit,
watchful against all temptation, in love, in peace, in charity
with all, praying for all: for your judge, jury, and fellow-
prisoners.
 Oh that your end may he as you wish it, a warning to
all your sex, and especially to those in your situation of life,
never to let passion get the upper hand of virtuous prin-
ciple! That God may fortify you with his Spirit, cheer you
with his Word, and comfort you in death, is the earnest
prayer of your former mistress
 And present friend,
"Elizabeth Cobbold.
* To Margaret Catcbpole.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 293
Margaret fed upon the contents of this letter, and fol-
lowed the advice given her; and with what effect will he
hest seen by the account preserved of her second trial.
She went to Bury on the 2d of August, and on the 3d
was conducted to the same court, and appeared before the
same judge, as she had done upon her first trial three years
before.
The Lord Chief Baron Sir Archibald Macdonald was
this time accompanied by Sir Beaumont Hotham. The
juries for the county and liberty were the following honour-
able gentlemen:—
FOR THE COUNTY.
Lord Viscount Broome.
Charles Berners, jun.
B. G. Dillingham, Esq.
P. J. Thelluson, Esq.
George Wilson, Esq.
Matthias Kerrison, Esq.
Wolfran Lewis, Esq.
Mileson Edgar, Esq.
John Cobbold, Esq.
Edward Studd, Esq.
Anthony Collet, Esq.
Joseph Burch Smith, Esq.
John Farr, Esq.
John Dresser, Esq.
William Philpot, Esq.
James Reeve, Esq.
Edmund Barber, Esq.
James Stuttur, Esq.
FOR THE LIBERTY.
Sir T. C. Bunbury, Bart.
Sir T. C. Cullum, Bart.
Sir Harry Parker, Bart.
Barnard E. Howard, Esq.
N. Barnadiston, Esq.
Nathaniel Lee Acton, Esq.
Capel Lofft, Esq.
John Mosley, Esq.
Joshua Grigby, Esq.
William Mannock, Esq.
John Wastell, Esq.
Robert Walpole, Esq.
Richard Cartwright, Esq.
Thomas Cocksedge, Esq.
Thomas Mills, Esq.
James Oakes, Esq.
Thomas Gery Cullum, Esq.
Abraham Reeve, Esq.
George Archer, Esq.
William B. Rush, Esq., Sheriff.
The usual forms of the court having been gone through,
Margaret Catchpole was again placed at the bar. Mar-
garet was dressed, as formerly, in a plain blue calico dress.
She appeared pale and tbin, but perfectly free from any
of that emotion which she formerly exhibited. There wa3
a calmness of deportment without the least obduracy, and
294 HISTORY OF
no obtrusive boldness nor recklessness. She did not look
round the court with any of that anxiety she formerly ex-
hibited, as if she wished to see any one there who knew
her. She knew that Will Laud was gone, and that neithel
her father nor her brother was there. She was quite in-
different to the public gaze, and with her eyes cast down
upon th6 bar, she saw not that piercing glance which the
judge gave her as she took her station before him, though
•very person in court noticed it, and looked at the prisoner
to see if she did not quail before it.
The indictment having been read aloud, once more the
clerk of the court addressed her in these terms:—
 How say you, prisoner at the bar, are you guilty or
not guilty?
Margaret lifted up her dark eyes once more, and looking
her judge calmly in the face, said—
"Guilty, my lord.
There was a perfect stillness in that crowded court, while
the judge now addressed her in the following terms:—
 I cannot address you, prisoner at the bar, in the same
strain I formerly did, since I am persuaded that you are
hardened in your iniquity. I pitied you at that time for
your youth; but though young in years, you are old in
crime. I considered you then a person who, if you had the
chance, would form, for the remainder of your days, an
estimable character. In this, however, I have been greatly
deceived, and I now look upon you as a person whom I be-
lieve to be dangerous to the morals of others, and therefore
unfit to live. You have shewn your sense of the past mercy
extended to you by your bold and daring conduct in break-
ing out of prison. I had fully intended to have obtained
your discharge from the Ipswich gaol at these very assizes*
had I heard the good report I received last year confirmed.
You may judge, then, of my surprise and indignation when
I heard of your escape from the gaol.
 So bold a woman would make a very bad companion
for any man. She who, after receiving pardon for her past
erimes, in the merciful permission to live when condemned
to death, will again be guilty of setting a bad example to
all, instead of a good and reformed one: she who will set
at defiance the laws of her country, and be so bold as to
break out of prison before the ceriod of her confinement
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 295
had expired, shews such a disregard to all past and present
mercies that she is not worthy to live.
"You have, I understand, been the occasion of sudden
death iu one man, ?nd might have involved others in your
guilt. The turnkey of the gaol might have been severely
punished for your delinquency. Your gaoler, whose duty
it is to attend the prisoners to Bury, and of whose absence
you took such a shameful advantage, might have suffered a
heavy fine. You had very nearly eluded his activity, and I
consider that great credit is due to him for the manner in
which he recovered you and has brought you to justice.
The magistrates of this county have very properly ap-
plauded his zeal; and I consider it a fortunate thing for
society, that you are not this moment at large in any part
of his Majesty's dominions.
 I will not waste words upon a person so ungrateful as
you are. What can you possibly have to say why sentence
should not be passed upon you? You may say anything
you have to say. It cannot be anything good, or in the
least mitigate the severest penalty of the law. Have you
anything to say, prisoner at the bar?
There was such a still silence in the court at this moment
that the scratch of a pen might have been heard. The
barristers all looked up at the prisoner. Every eye was
fixed intently upon her pale face, as she looked up and
made such a composed reply to the Lord Chief Baron's
speech, that one of the most eminent barristers of that
day, afterwards as eminent as a judge, declared it to be the
most able and impressive he had ever, under such circum-
stances, heard. She spoke with perfect ease, and apparently
without the slightest tremor, and was heard all over the
court.
"My lord, I fully expected that your lordship would
condemn me severely for my present offence. I expected
severity; but I did not think that I should receive the
language of judgment without mercy from one whose former
kindness touched my heart. As to my being a hardened
offender, I humbly hope that in this respect your lordship
is mistaken. I have committed two offences against the
laws of my country. The first I acknowledged, not without
a sense of its guilt; the second, when I committed it, I was
quite unconscious of the light in which the law viewed it.
296 HISTORY OF
and I thought it no crime at all. Had not tne arguments
of one wise as jour lordship, and a far dearer friend to the
prisoner, convinced me of its enormity, I had this day stood
before the court and felt myself condemned as an innocent
person. Thank God, such is not the case! and your lord-
ship's accusation of my being a hardened offender is with-
out foundation.
"At this moment of condemnation you refer to your
intention of obtaining my discharge at these assizes. At
such a time as this, the expression of such an intention
might have produced extreme bitterness in my heart, did I
not know, that before the last assizes, your lordship received
a memorial, signed by all the magistrates who visited the
Ipswich gaol, praying for my discharge on account of
exemplary conduct up to that time. Had you, then, my
lord, attended to that prayer, the offence for which I am
now to suffer the severity of the law would never have been
committed, the life of the man whom it was my fault to
love would have been spared, and I should not have had
the anguish of being compelled to speak as I now do, nor
this court the pain of hearing me. The bitterness then
which your reference to my intended discharge would have
given me must remain with your lordship, not with me.
You may be well assured, my lord, that I am not hardened,
but penitent. In the twinkling of an eye I shall meet your
lordship at the tribunal of perfect justice, where we shall
both be prisoners at that bar where we shall require, and,
I hope, shall find mercy.
"You could not imagine what I should say, and what I
do say is not meant as a defence of my improper act, but
only injustice to those who may wish me 'God speed' in
this court, and who might think from your lordship's lan-
guage that I was insensible to theirs or your lordship's
past kindness. The day will come, and not long after my
departure hence, when your lordship will be convinced that
your opinion, now expressed, was not such as the circum-
stances of my case warranted or called for. Your lordship
will then clearly see, that through ignorance, and prompted
somewhat beyond the bounds of reason by the force of
gratitude to one whom I too dearly loved, I was induced to
attempt to gain that liberty which I then felt could only be
pleasant in his company.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 2&7
"Your lordship will, I hope, send me soon to the enjoy-
ment of a liberty with which no laws of man can interfere.
I call no persons to speak to my character since the period
when your lordship received the testimony of the gaoler,
chaplain, and magistrates of the Ipswich division. I
humbly beg pardon of you, my lord, and of all this court,
if I have said anything which may seem disrespectful to
you or any persons present; and I now await your lord-
ship's sentence.
After Margaret had finished speaking, all eyes were
turned towards the judge. The barristers who were pre-
sent whispered together, and his lordship caught the sounds
of words like these: "Admirable answer! "Sensible
speech! Able reply! which made the colour come into
his face, and it required some degree of judicial self-posses-
sion to disperse it. He soon resumed, however, his wonted
dignity and calmness, and proceeded to pass sentence upon
the prisoner, prefacing the awful terms with these words:—
"Prisoner at the bar, I am glad to say that my opinion
may he altered with regard to your hardened state; I may
lament, also, that the prayer of that petition made in your
behalf was not sooner complied with, as you expected it
would have been. This will not, however, excuse your
crime. It might be sufficient to establish the propriety of
your conduct up to that time, but your subsequent act
completely cancelled that character. You have artfully
attempted to throw the blame, which rests entirely with
yourself, upon me as your judge. Here Margaret looked
at him with piercing scrutiny, but uttered not a word.
"He will not blame himself again under similar circum-
stances, having had such occasion to blame himself for too
great leniency upon your former trial. ' You are sufficiently
sensible to be aware of the short time you have to live, and
of the necessity of making good use of it. I shall add no
more than the judgment of this court, which is 
Here the judge passed the sentence in the same awful
words as he had formerly done.
There were many in that court who felt for the prisoner
more than the finest eloquence could express. She received
the sentence without any of those deep feelings which she
had formerly exhibited; she looked as mildly and quietly
at the judge as if she had only been receiving his advice;
298 HISTORY OF
Bhe curtsied respectfully to him and the court; and then
she firmly receded from the dock, and returned to the care
of the gaoler.
It was observed by several persons of the court, that the
Lord Chief Baron did not rally his wonted cheerfulness
during the succeeding business of the day. Whatever may
he said of the habit of sternness and indifference to the real
promptings of nature, which men who administer the laws
of their country usually entertain (and a judge is seldom-
guilty of any exhibition of human weakness in the act of
condemning a fellow-creature to death), yet Chief Baron
Macdonald most certainly did feel a strange sensation of
nervous sensibility with regard to the unfortunate woman
he had that day condemned. He was more abstracted and
thoughtful upon her case than upon any other which came
before him. He could not dismiss it from his mind with
his wonted consciousness of composure. He continually
reverted to her extraordinary character whenever a pause
in the business of the court afforded him an opportunity to
speak to the high sheriff, and he was heard to say—
 I should like to examine the spot whence this wonderful
woman effected her escape. The more I think of what I
have been told of her, and of what I have heard from her
own lips, the more curious I am to inspect the gaol. If I
have an opportunity before I return to town, I most as-
suredly will do so. I wish I could see that woman, and be
myself incog. I could then judge of some things which
appear to me inexplicable in such a person. Whence does
she gain such powers of speech, such simplicity of manners,
and yet so truly applicable to her situation? There must
he mind and instruction too!
The high sheriff, who was a man of the most humane
disposition, here ventured to tell the judge that many of
the magistrates thought that her life would have been
spared on account of their former recommendation. This
was quite in private conversation, and only came to light
after the business of the assizes was over. Let whatever
influence may have been exercised with his lordship in
behalf of the prisoner, or let it have been simply his own
conviction that mercy would not again be unworthily ex-
tended, before he left Bury her sentence was once more
changed from death to transportation. But this time it
MAKGAKET CATCHPOLE. 299
was for life, instead of for seven years or for any fixed
period.
Margaret received the aftfaouncement of this change
without any expression of joy for herself or thankfulness to
her judge. She regretted that she should have to linger
out so many years of her existence in a foreign land, and
when told of it as an act of mercy, she replied, "that it
was no mercy to her.
300
HISTORY 09
CHAPTER XXVIIL
transportation.
Margaret returned to Ipswich in a very despondent state
of mind; more so, to all appearance, than if her sentence
had not been changed from death to transportation. Her
feelings on this point are strikingly evinced in the following
letter, which she wrote to her mistress soon after her return
to gaol;—
"Ipswich Gaol, August 9,1800.
"Honoured Madam,
"I am returned from Bury, and I regret to say that I
am not to die yet. That day is put off—perhaps that I
may be swallowed up by the sea, or be eaten by the
savages of Botany Bay. I am to look forward to years of
degraded slavery, and to be sent away from my country
and my friends. I am so sorrowful, my dear lady, that I re-
quire more of your good advice to learn to live than to learn
to die. I feel, indeed, as if my judge did it to torment me,
and if I had the opportunity, I should certainly tell him so.
You told me he would he severe; he was bitterly so, but
it made me feel much less grateful to him than 1 did the
first time. Then I thought him like you, dear lady, but I
see no traces of that resemblance now. His words were
tormenting, his manners towards me tormenting, and his
change of sentence is tormenting. I would really have
rather been left to die, though by the hand of the public
executioner, than be as I am, soon to be sent out of the
country to meet a more miserable death. If I never see
margaret catchpole. 801
you more, I stall never forget you. I told the judge that
but for your friendship I should not have been sensible of
my sin. He called me a hardened sinner, and said I was
not fit to live. I wonder, then, that he did not suffer me
to die. Dear lady, I feel so very low, that if you do not
come and see me I shall be miserable indeed. Do—ohl
pray do, if you can! I hope you are suffering less from
the effects of your sprain, and that I shall see you. For-
give your poor servant's boldness and seeming selfishness.
I pray earnestly for you and your dear family. Oh that
I could see the dear Cliff again! So happy was I when I
first lived there, and so should I be now, could I ever hope
to see you there again. To be your servant would be
something worth living for; but to be a slave in a foreign
land! Oh! my dear lady! death would be preferable to
"Your poor servant,
"Margaret Catchpole.
"To Mrs. Cobbold, Cliff, Ipswich.
Her letter was dated on Saturday, the 9th August. It
may be seen in the Ipswich Journal of the 16th of August,
A.D. 1800, that the Lord Chief Baron paid a visit to the
Ipswich gaol on Tuesday, 12th of August.
He arrived on the morning of that day in his carriage,
and was not personally known to the turnkey. He told
the man that he came purposely to inspect the gaol, and
wished particularly to see the spot where Margaret Catch-
pole effected her escape.
"Did you fill the office of turnkey at the time? inquired
the visitor.
"I did, sir, replied the man.
"Then you had a very narrow escape; for, had I been
tho judge to have tried you, I should have been much
inclined to have thought you guilty of connivance in this
matter.
"Then I am very glad, sir, that you are not a judge.
The Lord Chief Baron did not tell him at the moment
who he was.
The turnkey was quite ready to show him the way in
which the escape had been made. He set up the frame
802 HISTORY OF
exactly as he found it on the day of Margaret's adventure,
and showed him the very crotch with which she had fixed
the line on the chevaux defrise. The broken spike on
the roller was pointed out, and he informed the judge of
the trousers and smock-frock which the prisoner had manu-
factured out of the sheets of her bed. After having
examined minutely the place and the frame, and having
heard the full report of the turnkey, he again said—
 What an artful woman she must he to do this, and to
be able to deceive you in the sound of her voice from the
adjoining cell!
"Ay, sir; and had she not confessed this, I should have
been puzzled, up to this hour, to account for her getting
out of her cell, as I swore that I heard her answer from
within, before I locked the door.
"She must be a clever person.
"Yes, sir, I believe she is. She owes a very great deal
to a lady in this town, who has taken great pains with her.
"So I have heard, said the stranger. "I would give
something to see that lady. I understand she is the wife
of the gentleman from whom she stole the horse.
"I wish the lady might call while you are here, sir. It
is not unlikely that she may. Pray, sir, were you in court
at the time of her trial?
"Yes, I was.
"Then, perhaps, sir, you could tell us if it be true that
she answered the judge who addressed her in such a man-
ner as to confuse him. Our folks say that he was com-
pletely set, and felt so much surprised as to be put out by
her speech. I do not, of course, know if it be so, but I
heard two of our visiting magistrates talking about it the
other day, and they seemed to say as much as if it was so.
 It did not strike me to be exactly so. The judge was
certainly surprised at what she said, but I do not think he
was angry with the prisoner. Is the woman in her cell at
this time?
"Yes, she is, sir.
"Will you tell Mr. Bipshaw that I should like to ex-
amine all the cells of the prison?
"Mr. Bipshaw is gone with two prisoners to Ports-
mouth, sir; but Mrs. Bipshaw is within, and I can shew
you the cells.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 80S
The Lord Chief Baron followed the turnkey to the door
of the governor's house, which was in the centre of the
gaol. At this moment the chaplain, the Rev. Mr. Sharp,
came to pay his visit to the prisoners. The gentlemen were
shewn into the parlour, where Mrs. Ripshaw sat, husily
engaged at some of the gaol accounts.
The Lord Chief Baron presented his card to the chap-
lain, who immediately explained to Mrs. Ripshaw who it
was.
"I am come purposely to inspect the gaol, Mrs. Rip-
shaw, and 1 wish to be quite incog, at present. I have
already examined the spot where that extraordinary woman,
Margaret Catchpole, effected her escape; and if you, sir,
addressing himself to the chaplain, "are going to visit her,
and have no objection to my accompanying you, I should
like to be brought in as your friend. You need not ad-
dress me, but I will join you in your duties. I wish to
see this singular woman, if possible, without her recognising
me.
 She is, indeed, my lord, replied the chaplain, "a most
extraordinary person. I have found her, up to this second
trial, not only tractable, hut intelligent and attentive in the
highest degree; but since her return from Bury, she is dis-
appointed and dissatisfied.
"With what?
"With her reprieve for transportation.
"With her reprieve! Does the woman really prefer
death to life?
"Your lordship will be the best judge of that by the
tenor of our conversation, if she should not recognise your
lordship. And should she do so, she would not scruple to
tell you plainly her opinion.
"I do not think that she can possibly recognise me, if I
do not speak to her, and I shall keep strict silence, if I
can.
What a strange alteration do robes and wigs make in
the appearance of men of the lawl Who could recognise
the Lord Chief Baron of our courts of law without the robes
of his office? Counsel are not recognised even by their
clients when they first see them in their rooms without their
wigs and gowns. No wonder, then, that Margaret Catch-
pole should take her judjje for some brother clergyman or
304 HISTORY OF
friend of the chaplain's, when he entered the cell, and
seated himself upon a chair, which the turnkey placed there
for him.
 Well, Margaret, said the chaplain, "I hope you are
a little more reconciled to your prospects than you were
when I saw you last.
"I wish I could say I am, sir; hut my prospects look
very gloomy, and I feel a great deal more anguish than if
I were going to be executed.
"You ought not to do so, Margaret; I consider it a
great mercy that your life is spared.
"Spared! For what, sir? To drag on a wretched life
as a felon, and to live and die, no one knows how or cares,
and then to lie in a felon's grave in a distant land! Here
my body would at least have soon rested beside my friends
and relatives. My sufferings would have been short, and
I think I should have been happy. Oh, sir I pray forgive
my poor broken heart; it will give utterance to the lan-
guage of lamentation. Oh! that cruel judge! He might
have let me die, especially as the bitterness of death had
already passed upon me. But he was angry and displeased
at me for speaking, though he asked me if I had anything
to say! So he resolved that I should suffer the most ex-
cruciating torture by killing me by inches in a foreign land!
Is this mercy, Mr. Sharp?
"You look upon this in an unchristian and too gloomy a
light. You here attribute motives to your judge of a very
improper kind; such as I am fully persuaded never entered
his mind, and never were inmates of his breast. I am per-
suaded his thoughts toward you were those of pity as well
as mercy, and that your change of sentence was meant for
your good and that of others. You have no right to judge
of his motives in so unchristian a light.
"My dear sir, again I say, pardon my speech. I speak
as I feel. Perhaps, with your help, I may feel differently,
but I should then speak differently. Could you, or this
gentleman, feel as I do, and were either of you placed in
my situation, you would think and argue very differently to
what you now do. You sit there, both of you, at liberty
to move from this place to the happy associations of kin-
dred, friends, and home. I grant you, a return to their
society sweetens life, and teaches you to hear your earthly
MAKOrA-KJl/r liAluuirOLE. 305
visitations, whatever they may he, patiently. But let me
ask you how you would, either of you, lihe now to he
afflicted with a long, lingering, painful, bodily disease,
which permitted you only a few moments' rest, and those
troubled and broken, and disturbed by horrid dreams; that,
when you awoke each day, it was only to a sense of increased
pain? How would you like years of such increased agony?
Tell me, would you not prefer a happier, shorter, and
speedier termination of your sufferings than that long dis-
tant one which must come at last after years of weariness
and pain? Yet you find fault with me because I would
rather die now than live many years in all the horrors of
slavery, and then die without a friend near me!
 Still I think you wrong, Margaret. You seem to argue
as if we had a choice of our own in these matters, and forget
that it must be God's will, and not our own, to which we
must submit.
 Is it God's will, or is it man's will, that I should lead
a life of misery?
"This question almost makes me think you impious,
Margaret. It is God's will that you should live, and I hope
for some good: at all events, it is for some wise purpose of
His own, either that you may become an instrument of His
righteousness or mercy in his hands, or that you may be
an example to others. As to tho misery you talk of, that
will depend much upon your own future individual conduct
and character. I have heard that some receive pardon in
that country for their good conduct, and they settle in the
land; and instead of being slaves, they become useful mem-
bers of society.
"That may perhaps be the case with some, sir; but I
am looking at my own present state, and I cannot believe
that my judge had any such mercy in his view when he
changed my sentence from present momentary suffering to
such future wretchedness.
 Of that you can know nothing, neither ought you to
take your present state as any other than that of God's de-
cree by his agent, the judge. How can you ascertain the
motives of any man's heart? I do firmly believe that your
judge decided most mercifully and righteously in your case.
He might really think that if you were removed from this
country, you might be instrumental in doing much good.
306 mttiUKlt UF
He might hope that, under different circumstances of life,
from the very natural force of your character taking
another bias, you might become a blessing to yourself and
others.
 And so, because I yielded to temptation when I had
so many good friends around me, he would throw me into
the very midst of temptation, where I have not one friend
to help me. Oh! Mr. Sharp, would it not be far better
to choose present release, when such kind friends are near
me, than future death, when no comforter or friend can be
near?
"And is not your God near you, Margaret, in every
place, unless you drive Him away by your wickedness?
But how can you tell that He may not raise up some be-
nevolent friend to help you in that country to which you
are going? I hope for the best. At all events, you must
cherish better feelings towards your judge than those you
now possess, or your state will be dreadful indeed wherever
you may be. You seem to have forgotten all the Christian
lessons which your dear mistress and I have taken such
pains to teach you.
 I would not be ungrateful, sir, though I may now ap-
pear, as I am, so unhappy. I will try by prayer to conquer
the prejudice you speak of. I do suffer such extreme hor-
ror in my mind from my view of the future, that there is
no rest for me by night or day. I see nothing but chains
and darkness. I think sometimes of the long, long journey
from my native land, of the dangers of the sea, of the com-
panions with whom I may be mixed. I start sometimes in
my dreams, and fancy a great shark dashing at me in the
waters. Another time I see the native cannibals ready to
devour me. Then I think of home, of you, sir, of dear Dr.
Stebbing, of my uncle and aunt, and of my dearest mis-
tress, and I find my prison-pillow is wet with my nightly
tears.
The tears started in more eyes than her own, as she
spoke, in her touching simplicity, of these acute feelings.
She suffered intensely; and it took many months of ra-
tional and devout conversation, on the part of both her mis-
tress and this worthy man, to eradicate those bitter seeds
of despair, and to sow those of cheerfulness and hope.
After directing Maxscaret's mind to Christian duties, the
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 807
chapl&in and the judge left her cell. They conversed some
time upon her state of mind and future prospects. The
judge declared that he thought her one of the most sensi-
tive persons he had ever seen, with a mind capable of the
highgst cultivation. He left five guineas with the chaplain
to be laid out for her benefit. He stated that she would
not, in all probability, leave England till the next summer,
and hoped to hear a better account of her some future
day. Margaret was not informed of the person who had
visited her that day with the chaplain, until she had learned
to look upon him and herself in a very different light.
The Lord Chief Baron visited all the cells of the prison,
and expressed his approbation of the cleanliness and neat-
ness of the whole place. As he was going away, he told
the turnkey that he was the very judge who had tried the
female prisoner for breaking out of gaol. The reader may
imagine how frightened the poor fellow was at his late
boldness of speech. The judge observed his embarrassment,
and told him that he had spoken nothing improper; that he
had done his duty, and deserved his thanks.
"You may tell your master, he added, "that I am so
well satisfied with the appearance of all things under his
tare, that when I return to town I shall not fail to give a
favourable report of the state of the gaol and of his disci-
pline. He made the turnkey a present, and left the gaol.
It was not until May, 1801, that Margaret Catchpole was
informed of the day of her departure for Botany Bay. She
had been instructed in many things relating to the country
to which she was going, and her kind mistress had pur-
chased an assortment of useful articles for her future em-
ployment. Her mind had been gradually divested of its
miserable horrors, and became fortified for the occasion. It
will be seen, however, that as the near approach of the day
came, she dreaded and lamented it bitterly. On the 25th
of May, 1801, Mrs. Cobbold received the following note
from her;—
"Ipswich Gaol, May 25, 1801.
/' Dear and honoured Madam,
"l am sorry to have to inform you of the bad news.
I am going away on Wednesday next, or Thursday at the
308 history of
latest, so I have taken the liberty of troubling you with
these few lines. It will be the last time I shall ever trouble
you from this place of sorrowful, yet, comparatively with
the future, blessed captivity. My grief is very great, now
that I am really on the eve of banishment from my own
country and from all my dearest friends for ever. It was
hard for me ever to think of it. Oh! what must it be to
endure it! Honoured madam, it would give me some hap*
piness to see you once more, on the Tuesday previous to
nay leaving England for ever, if you will not think this re-
quest of mine too troublesome. I know your kind heart.
I would spare you any anxiety about so unworthy a person
as myself, but I must entreat your goodness to consider me
in this my severest misery. Have pity upon me! Oh! do
come! Only let mej see your dear face once more, and it
will ever be a comfort and satisfaction to your poor unhappy
servant,
 Margaret Catchpole.
"To Mrs. Cobbold, Cliff, Ipswich.
On Tuesday, the 26th of May, this benevolent lady paid
poor Margaret her last visit. She felt that it would be the
last time she should ever see her in this world. It was a
painful interview, and one that she would have spared her-
self, had it not been for the hope of comforting the mind of
her disconsolate servant. She found her seated upon the
chest which she had sent her from the Cliff a few days be-
fore. Her eyes were swollen with weeping; and, as she
rose to meet her beloved mistress, she trembled and tot-
tered from the weakness of agitation. Her mistress gently
seated her again, and took her seat beside her,
"Oh! my dear lady! she began, "my time is come,
and I feel just as if my heart would hurst. Surely this
must he worse than death!
"Do not say so, Margaret. Eemember all the advice
I have given you, and I have no doubt that you will find
yourself rewarded with different treatment to that which you
expect.
 But I shall never see you nor any of my dear friends
again. This is my sorrow.
 But we shall hear from you often, Margaret.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 809
 And shall I hear from you, dear lady? Will you re-
member me? Will you not forget your poor servant? Oh!
she will never forget you, never cease to bless you!
 I will write to you, Margaret, as soon as I hear of your
arrival.
"Bless you, dear lady! God bless you! But when I
look at you, and think of your dear face, it is like the sun
for ever hidden from my sight when you leave me.
 The same sun, Margaret, will shine upon us both. He
will visit you while I am asleep, and me when you are at
rest. The same God who causes him to shine upon us all
will be, as He is, alike merciful to us both, though we live
in different lands. Let me entreat you, as my last solemn
injunction, never to forget your duty to Him. Read your
Bible whenever you can. You will have much time and
opportunity upon your voyage, and I hope you will employ
them to the best purposes. You will find in your chest
many good books. They will be a great source of comfort
to you.
 Oh! that I will, dear lady! and when I think of you
who gave them to me, and of the dear friends who have
visited me, and of that good lady you introduced to- my
cell, Mrs. Sleorgin, who brought me yesterday this packet
of books. Oh! how dearly shall I desire to see you and
them!
'  Think, too, Margaret, what pleasure it will give us all
to hear that you are doing well, that all the instructions of
your kind friends have not failed. You will be able to add
greatly to my comfort by this. You will also add to my
knowledge many things of which I have at present very
imperfect information. You will inform me of the state of
that new country. Surely this will give you some pleasure,
and profit me also.
"Dear lady! you are so good! You make me almost
wish to live, if only for the pleasure of serving you. If it
were but permitted me to come to England once more, I
do think my journey would seem nothing to me. It looks
Buch a dreary prospect to be deprived of all whom we love,
that I feel faint at the idea of loneliness in a foreign land.
"Exercise your faith, Margaret, and you will never be
alone. All lands will be pleasant to you.
"None so pleasant as my own: but I will try, I do try,
810 HISTORY OF
I will hope. You are so kind to me, my dear mistress!
Give my duty to my good master; my love to all the dear,
dear children. Oh! forgive me, my dear lady! I cannot
help cryiug; tears do me good.
Those friends (for so, in spite of the difference in their
nation and their character, we must venture to call them,
parted from each other for the last time on earth; hut
they lived to correspond, by letter, for many years after,.
and both felt an increased interest for each other's happi-
ness.
The hour of Margaret's departure arrived. The worthy
chaplain was the last person whom Margaret saw in the
cell of her prison. Her uncle and aunt Leader saw her the
day before. The worthy chaplain presented her with the
remainder of the judge's present. She had long learned to
look upon his sentence in a different light to that in which
she had once viewed it; and now, with feelings greatly
subdued, she knelt with the good chaplain, and prayed
earnestly that she might never forget the lessons he had
given her. She prayed fervently for pardon for all her
sins, and that she might for ever leave them behind her,
and thenceforth lead a new and better life. Then, turning
to Mr. Sharp, she said—
 One favour more, sir: your blessing.
"May God bless you, Margaret, said the good chap-
lain,  and make you, for the remainder of your days, an
instrument of good, to His own glory and the benefit of
your fellow-creatures! Amen. Farewell.
On Wednesday, May 27, Mr. Ripshaw left Ipswich with
three female prisoners in his charge, Margaret Catchpole,
Elizabeth Killet, and Elizabeth Barker. He took them to
Portsmouth, and saw them safe on board the convict-ship,
bound for Botany Bay.
Margaret had not left the New Gaol, two hours before
the turnkey was summoned to the lodge, and opened the
door to a tall, thin man, dressed in the poorest garb, who
with a voice soft and gentle, meek and melancholy, 16-
quested to see Margaret Catchpole.
 She is just departed with the governor for Portsmouth
Who are you?
"I am her brother. My misfortunes are indeed heavy?
I am just returned from India. I find my father gone, roj
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 511
brothers gone, and this my only sister, worse than all!
Oh, hitter cup! gone in disgrace from the country!
"Pray walk this way. I will introduce you to our
chaplain, and some consolation may he found for you.
The melancholy truth was soon explained. Charles
Catchpole, alias Jacob Dedham, alias Collins Jaun, the
spy, whom the reader may recognise as mentioned in a
former part of this history, returned to his native country
literally a beggar. He went out to India, and, upon his
arrival in that country, his friend, Lord Coanwallis, had
resigned his high office, and returned to England. The
account he gave of himself was singularly eventful. He
assumed the appearance of a native chief, joined some of
the roving tribes of warlike adventurers, and became a
conspicuous character. He fell in love with a nabob's
daughter, and married her according to the national cus-
toms and ceremonies; hut this ill-assorted match did not
long prosper. His origin and connexion with the English
were discovered, and the spy had to fly the country for
his life, hie escaped, gained his passage home, and had
spent his last shilling in the very public-house at St. Mary
Elms where he received his first as an enlisted recruit.
His case was that day mentioned to several individuals,
amongst others to Edward Bacon, Esq. who had spent
many years in India, who pronounced him no impostor.
He employed him many days in taking a view of Ipswich
and its environs, which he did with extraordinary accuracy,
from Savage's windmill on Stoke Hills. This view was
presented by that gentleman to the author of these pages,
and it presents all the striking accuracy and patient perse-
vering characteristics of a self-taught artist.
By his own ihdustry, and the generosity of others, he
gained a few pounds, with which he determined to settle in
one of the colonies. He obtained a passage to the Cape
of Good Hope; but the poor fellow met with a severe acci-
dent in falling down the hold of the vessel, broke his back,
ftnd died upon the passage.
312 HISTORY OP
Thus ended the career of Margaret Catchpole in Eng.
land, where her virtues will long be remembered, together
with her crimes. What remains of her history will serve
to shew what fruits may be gathered from a faithful spirit,
a good heart, a high courage, and a strong understanding,
when disciplined in the school of adversity, and under the
guidance of good principles, seasonably instilled by kind
and judicious monitors. It will be seen that her chief
temptation having been mercifully removed, a true repen-
tance, and an entire alteration of life and character, entitled
her to the full forgiveness, and even approbation, of her
fellow-creaturea.
MAPvG VRET CATCHPOLE.
31.3
CHAPTER XXIX.
banishment.
The first news which reached England concerning Mar-
garet was contained in a lettter written by herself, by
which it appears she had obtained a situation at the Orphan
Asylum; and, as it will best explain her feelings and situa-
tion at that time, the reader shall be furnished with a copy
of it. The sheet upon which it is written contains two
letters; one to her mistress, directed to her master; the
other to Dr. Stebbing.
 Sydney, Jan. 21st, 1802.
 Honoured Madam,
 With pleasure I cannot describe, I am permitted to
take up my pen and write to you, to acquaint you with
my arrival in safety at Port Jackson, Sydney, New South
Wales, on December 20, 1801. As.I left the ship, and
was about to be landed, the shore, as I approached it, put
me very much in mind of the Cliff on the banks of the
river Orwell. The houses, backed by the hills, so much
resembled that happy spot, that it put me in good spirits;
and had I but seen your smile to welcome me, I should
have been happy indeed. But I thought of you, of your
prayers, your advice, your kindness and consolation; and
when I saw land so much like my own dear native home,
I really felt as if I was not entirely banished from old
England.
 Your advice relative to my conduct on board the con-
vict-ship was strictly followed; and every morning I prayed
314 HISTORY OF
that I might keep it, and every evening I thanked God
for his help. I had much influence with the female con-
victs who came out with me, and prevented many mur-
murs and one outbreak among them. So that, you see,
dear lady, others reaped the benefit of your instructions as
well as myself.
 Captain Sumpter gave me a good character to the
governor; so that I was not two days upon the stores, hut
was taken off them by Mr. John Palmer, a gentleman of
the highest respectability in the colony. He came out as
purser in the Sirius, with Captain Arthur Phillip and Cap-
tain John Hunter, in January, 1787. Captain Phillip was
the first governor of this place. Mrs. Palmer is very
kind to me, and is as benevolent as yourself. She is a
niece of a famous physician in London, Sir William
Blizzard; and she says, dear lady, that she has heard
her uncle speak of you. Only think that I should he so
fortunate as to find a good mistress, who had some know-
ledge of you, even in this distant land! I feel this a great
blessing.
 After the loss of the Sirius, on a reef off Norfolk Is-
land, Mr. and Mrs. Palmer undertook the management of
the Female Orphan Asylum. This institution was esta-
blished by Governor King, who purchased, for the resi-
dence of my master and mistress, the elegant house in which
they now live, of Lieutenant Kent, who returned to England
two years since in the Buffalo. He had built it entirely at
his own expense, hut he found that the country did not
agree with him.
"You know, my dear lady, how fend I always was of
children, and here I have many cheerful young faces
around me. We have already sixty female children, who
are taken as good care of as if they were all one family
belonging to Mrs. Palmer. So you see how happily I am
employed. Have I not reason to be thankful to God for
his great mercies to so unworthy a creature as myself? L
know you will rejoice to hear of my situation. You desired
me to write anything I could for your instruction. I wish
my opportunities were greater, that my letter might be
more entertaining; but Mrs. Palmer has afforded me some
facilities, and I hope, when I write again, to give you the
benefit of them.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 315
 This country is much more like England than I ex-
pected to find it. Garden-stuff of all kinds, except goose-
berries, and currants, and apples, are abundant. The
gardens, too, are remarkably beautiful; the geraniums run
up seven or eight feet in height, and look more magnificent
than those which I used to see in your own greenhouse.
The country is very woody, so that I cannot go out any
distance from Sydney without travelling through woods for
miles. They are many of them very picturesque, and quite
alive with birds, of such exquisite plumage that the eye is
constantly dazzled by them.
 I assure you, my dear lady, that, in taking a ramble
through them with my mistress and some of the elder
orphans, I felt just aa I imagine your own dear children
used to feel when they walked with me to the Grove near
Hog Island, I was so pleased with the birds, and trees,
and flowers. I only wish I could send you one of the
beautiful parrots of this country, but I have no means of
so doing at present, as my money is all laid out for my
future benefit. I have no money given to me for wages.
I have board and lodging; and, if I conduct myself well,
Mrs. Palmer says she will lay up a little store against the
day of my emancipation or my marriage. With Go.i's
help, in whom I trust, I am determined to be independent
of all men. I have no desire to be married and settled, as
some people seem to say I shall be. I have no wish ot the
kind, neither do I now nor do I hope to desire any better
situation than that I now enjoy, unless it were a return to
England.
 I grieve to say, my dear lady, that this is one of the
wickedest places in the world. I never heard of one, ex*
copting those of Sodom and Gomorrah, which could come
up to it in evil practices. People are so bold, so shame-
less, and so sinful, that even crime is as familiar as fashion
in England. Religion is the last thing thought of, even
by the government, which sends out criminals that most
want it. The Rev. Mr. Johnson, who is almost the only
clergyman in the whole country, comes frequently to the
Foundling Asylum; but he tells my mistress that the town
of Sydney is like a place of demons. Government is at
great expense in the police establishment, to keep our poor
bodies in subjection; but I am sure, if our souls were but
316 HISTORY OP
a little more thought of, government would find us ten
thousand times better subjects.
"Is it not dreadful, dear lady, that in such a country
as this so many souls should utterly perish? Surely it
will never be blessed with the blessing from Heaven, until
God shall induce our government to send us out some able
ministers of the Gospel. I will write more upon this sub-
ject at another time. I trust in God, who has brought me
over the broad sea, that He will keep me from all evil upon
this wide land.
 The wheat harvest was almost over when I landed.
Wheat is here eight shillings per bushel at this time.
There are two crops, I understand, each summer, one of
wheat and another of Indian corn. I am told that the
winter is very short; I cannot give you any certain infor-
mation yet, as I have been only one month in the country.
This letter, for the same reason, will be but a poor one;
my next will, I hope, be more worthy your perusal. I
will make minutes, according to your wishes, of all things
which come under my observation. Never, never, my
dearest lady, shall I forget your goodness to me, and espe-
cially on the last day before I left Ipswich.
 All the things you gave me arrived in safety with me,
and are of great service to me. Oh! how I wish that many
poor creatures, whom I see around me, had some of the
blessings which I have! There are some who have been
here for years, who have their poor heads shaved, and are
sent up the Coal River. They have to carry coals from
daylight until dark. They are badly fed; and though very
bad men, who actually sell their rations of bread for three
days for a little rum, yet they ought not to be left without
instruction, as they totally are, until they perish.
Norfolk Island is a terrible place to be sent to. Those
only who are incorrigible are sent to this place, with a steel
collar round their necks, to work in gangs.
 I have no government work to do; nor has the officer
of government anything to do with me. When there is a
general muster of the convicts, then only I shall have to
appear, and give account of myself. Some days I am per-
mitted to go and see a friend at a distance, if I have
any, either at Paramatta, twenty miles, Gabley, thirty, or
Hawkesbury, forty miles from Sydney; but then I shall
margaret gatchpole. 317
have to get a passport, or I should he taken up, aud put
into prison as a runaway. A very little will get a person
into prison here; but it requires a great deal of interest to
get him out again.
 I want to say a great deal more, but time will not per-
mit me, for I expect the ship to sail very soon. I have
been very ill since I came on shore. At one time I was
thought to be dying; but by the blessing of God and the
attentions of my mistress, I am now strong again. I was
very well during my whole voyage, though we were tossed
about tremendously in the Bay of Biscay. I was very
glad to see land, after so many months' confinement; yet
I should not mind just such another voyage at this moment,
if it were but to bring me back again to dear old England.
I cannot say yet that I like this country, or that I think I
ever, shall; God only knows. The governor has a great
many very beautiful cows, and so has Mr. Palmer, who is
very partial to agricultural pursuits. There are a great
many horses at Sydney, and some very neat whiskeys and
little clay-carts. There are a great many passage-boats,
but all numbered and registered, and secured, lest the con-
victs should use them to attempt their escape.
 Pray, my dear madam, let good Doctor Stebbing have
the other side of this sheet. I hope this will find you and
all your good family well. Pray, my dear lady, do not for-
get your promise of writing to me by the first transport-ship
that comes out; and direct to me at Mr. Palmer's, Female
Orphan Asylum, Sydney; and with deep love to all my
friends, I remain
 Your faithful servant,
"Margaret Catchpole.
The following is her letter to Dr, Stebbing, written on
the same sheet of paper:—
"Dear Sir,
 This is to acquaint you with our safe landing at Syd-
ney, on the 20th of December, and that we all arrived in
good health. Barker bore the voyage the worst of the
three, and was so terrified at the sea that she could scarcely
318 HISTORY OP
bear to look at it; and whenever it was rough she would
never be persuaded to come on deck. She used frequently
to cry out that she wished you were near her. She is just
the same as «ver, now she is on land: I regret to say, no
better. Elizabeth Killet lives very near to me, and is very
well. She and I were both taken off the stores on the same
day. We have not to go to government work, as the horses
do; but we have both obtained respectable places, and I
hope we shall continue in them.
 I am sorry to say that Barker has to spin for govern''
ment, her character not being such as to deserve a good
report: she is still upon the stores. But she can get her
stint of work done by one o'clock if she chooses to work
hard at it, and then her time is her own till six. Pray, sir,
give my kind remembrances to all my fellow-prisoners, and
tell any of them that may be sentenced to come out to this
country not to be dead-hearted, as I was, about Botany Bay;
for if they are sent out, and will only conduct themselves
well, they will be better off than in prison.
"The greater part of this country is not yet explored;
and if inhabited, it is by natives of a very low easte and
hideous features. Those that I have already seen are of a
very ferocious aspect. They carry along with them spears
of great length, made of hard wood, and a sort of hatchet,
made of bone, stone, or very hard wood. They look half-
starved, and have very long, lank visages, most hideously
distorted by various customs; such as knocking out a front
tooth to denote their arrival at manhood, painting their
brows, and putting quills through the cartilage which sepa-
rates the nostrils of their wide-distended noses.
 Their females, I am told, are in a very degraded con-
dition, and are generally stolen from other tribes* and bru-
tally treated, being beaten into immediate subjection by
their husbands, who steal them. The men seem to me. a
very subtle race. If they meet an unarmed white man at-.
a distance from home, they will spear and rob him. They
behave themselves well enough when they come into the
town, and visit, as they do sometimes, the Female Orphan
Asylum, where I live. If they did not they would soon be
punished; still they are very sly and treacherous, and can
take up things with their long toes as easily as we do the
eame with our hands
MARGARET-CATCHFOI.E. 819
•'They often have a grand fight among themselves, either
to gratify their leader or to settle some dispute between the
tribes. Twenty or thirty join in the fight, whilst all the
others look on, as if it was only a game of play; but some
of them are sure to be killed. There is nothing said or
done to them for killing each other in this manner. What
horrible barbarians they must be!
"The crops of wheat are very good in this country.
Forty bushels per acre are commonly grown; it is a very
fertile place, and fruitful in every respect. I will write
more fully of the country another time. Population in-
creases rapidly. Some things, which we cannot obtain,
are very dear: tea is 25s. per pound; sugar, 2s.; salt beef;
1«.; and mutton, 2s. per pound. A pair of shoes, 15s.;
10s. a pair of stockings; 5s. for a yard of common print;
calico, 3s. per yard; soap, 3s. per pound; onions, 6d. per
pound; potatoes, 2d. per pound; a cabbage, 6e?.; rum, 5s.
per bottle; a quart of porter, 2s. Fish is as cheap as any-
thing we can buy; but we have no money here to trade with.
 Pray, my dear sir, remember me to Mrs. Ripshaw, and
tell her that one of Mr. Ripshaw's daughters, who lives up
in the country here, paid a visit to the Orphan Asylum last
week. She asked me, when she heard my voice, if I was
not a Suffolk woman. This led to my knowledge of her
being the daughter of Mr. Ripshaw's first wife. Pray, write
to me as soon as you can. I shall never forget your good-
ness to me, from the day I rode the pony to your door till
the day I left Ipswich. I shall never forget your dear
daughter, so clever, so kind to every one. Remember me
to your faithful servant, who was such a friend to me, and
give my duty to all inquiring friends. We had not a single
death in our ship, though we had near two hundred females
on board.
 Just as I am writing this a messenger has come flying
into the town to say that the Blacks have killed eight men,
women, and children. One man's arms they have cut, and
Droke his bones, and have done the same by his legs up to
his knees. The poor fellow is just now carried past to the
hospital, but he looked more dead than alive, and death
would be a blessing to him. The governor has sent out
troops after them, with orders to shoot all they can find.
I hope I may be able to jsive you a better account of the
320 HISTQRY OF
natives when I write again. Pray send me word if yon
know where Dinah Parker and her child were sent to.
Give my love to my uncle and aunt Leader. My brother
Edward should not have deserted me; I always loved him
affectionately. God bless you, dear doctor, and direct jour
letter to me at Mr. John Palmer's, Female Orphan Asylum,
Sydney; and ever think of me as your faithful and humble
servant.
 Margaret Catchpole.
"To John Cobbold, Esq., Cliff, Ipswich.
"Favoured by Captain Sumpter.
By her good conduct in her new situation as cook and
superintendent over the dairy of Mr. John Palmer, she was
found to he a very useful and confidential person, and was
soon looked upon as likely to he a very valuable wife for a
free settler. Her fondness for children, and her manage-
ment of them, came under the particular notice of Mrs.
Palmer, who, without any family of her own, had from the
most humane and benevolent motives undertaken the entire
management of the Orphan Asylum. She found Margaret
as willing and as well qualified an assistant as she could
wish for.
This school was founded in the year 1800, by Governor
King. It was for sixty female orphans. A grant of 15,000
acres of land was given to this foundation for the mainte-
nance and support of the children. They were to be edu-
cated usefully and respectably, brought up to industrious
habits, and to receive the best religious instruction which
could be obtained for them. Few things in Sydney gave
such general satisfaction as this benevolent institution; few
things at that period more tended to the amelioration of the
conduct of those who, from being the offscourings of such
a densely peopled country as England, were of course so
deeply depraved as to be very difficult to recover from their
evil habits. Destitute female children were taken into this
establishment. A portion was given to each one brought
up in this place of 100 acres of land, on her marriage-day,
provided she married a free settler, and was herself a good
character. This was a great inducement for the elder ones
to set a good example, as well as to induce .young free men
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 821
to be approved of by the governor as worthy to receive so
great a boon. Hence, in later days, have arisen many
sterling characters in the neighbourhood of Sydney.
In this benevolent arrangement, the governor was mainly
prompted and assisted by a free settler, who had been eight
years in the colony, and was one of the first who arrived in
the Bellona transport, in 1793, and settled upon a spot
then called Liberty Plains. This was no other than the
reader's friend, and we hope his favourite, John Barry, whose
steady and upright character was observed by the governor;
he was taken into his confidence, and was a most admirable
pattern for all settlers. For his strict integrity and early
business habits, he was chosen as the great government
agent for the distribution of lands; and he it was who sug-
gested to Governor King the plan of forming this Orphan
Establishment. In the sale of every 180 acres to free
settlers, this gentleman was allowed a certain per-centage,
which in a short time realised to him a considerable pro-
perty, in addition to that which he had already acquired.
John Barry was also the first to propose, and to assist
with his wealth, the building of the .first church, that of St.
John's, at Sydney. He often lamented that government
would not make a noble grant of land for church purposes,
and in that early day he tried hard for a public grant for
the Church of England, and mourned over the supineness
of colonial legislation upon such a vital subject. Had this
good man lived but to see the arrival of a British Bishop
of Australia, it would have added one more joy to the many
which his good conduct provided for him; indeed, he always
said that such would be the case. Mr. Barry had a very
handsome house at Windsor, on the "green hills of Hawkes-
bury; also a fine estate, consisting of the most extensive
pastures and the finest corn district in the whole region.
John Barry had kept his solemn word with Margaret,
and had never entered into any matrimonial alliance, though
he was looked upon as the most eligible match in the whole
colony.
And this was the person formerly known to the reader as
Jack Barry, the young farming lad, the son of the miller
at Levington Creek, on the river Orwell. With small
means, good introductions, steady conduct, and active
habits, this youth rose from the day he purchased his first
21
322 HISTORY OF
hundred acres in the colony until the day of his death. Two
of his sisters had gone out to him before Margaret's com-
mittal to prison for any offence, and all that they could tell
him of her was, that she was at service at the Cliff at
Ipswich, and that Laud was in the British navy. This
gave him unfeigned pleasure, though it did not permit him
to hope that he should ever see Margaret.
Had he been certified of Laud's death, there is little
doubt that he would have returned to England. But his
own family, in their correspondence with him, never men-
tioned either one or the other person.
Indeed, after Margaret became so notorious in the county
of Suffolk, they never named her to him, or sent him the
papers which mentioned any word concerning her. He
very seldom named her to his sisters. He knew nothing of
her career, and she had actually been living some years
within a short distance of his own residence in Australia,
without his either seeing or hearing anything of her. In
her most confidential communications with Mrs. Palmer,
^ie had never mentioned his name, or an explanation must
have taken place. She had the narrowest chance of meet-
iug him in July, 1803, when Mr. Barry came to inspect
the Asylum. A day only before he came, Margaret had
been sent to a free settler's, a relation of Mrs. Palmer's,
who had the misfortune to lose his wife, and being left with
two very small children, he wanted a person like Margaret
to take care of them, and to superintend his domestic con-
cerns. Mrs. Palmer consented to let Margaret go, if she
would, at least for a time, until her relative could meet
with an eligible person. This gentleman's name was
Poinder, and his house was at Richmond Hill. Margaret
did not raise any objection, though all felt sorry to part
with her from the Asylum; she went to oblige her mistress,
and received a handsome present from her at parting.
The first money which this faithful creature received wai
devoted to the purchase of many curious things for her dear
mistress in England. These she treasured up, anticipating
the pleasure of forwarding them from Sydney, when she
had obtained sufficient to fill a chest.
Though many letters and presents had been sent from
her friends in England, it would appear by a letter to her
uncle Leader, dated December 20, 1804, that she neve*
MARGARET CATClirOLE. 323
received any of them. That uncle conveyed her letter to
Mrs. Cobbold, who took a copy of it, from which it is here
transcribed. Three years had passed away since the date
of her first letter, and the poor creature had been vexed
greatly at the non-arrival of any tidings from her friends.
 Sydney, December 20, 1804.
 My dear tWbLE and Aunt,
 With great pleasure 1 once more take up my pen to
write to you, and all your dear children, as well as all in-
quiring friends, hoping that they may all he in as good
health as I am at the time this letter leaves this country.
I bless God, dear uncle, for his past and present mercies
towards me, which have been and are very great. I am as
young aB I ever was; indeed I may say that I am in spirit,
if not in body, younger, freer, and happier, than I ever was
at any former period of my life. I should be almost ready
to jump over St. John's Church, which is the first church
built in this country, if I could only hear from you, or some
of my dear friends in England. You may well suppose
how overjoyed I should be to snatch up any tidings of any
of you.
 I cannot think why I have not heard from some of you.
England is, I know, in a very disturbed state, and engaged
in a maritime war. This is the fourth time I have written.
I sent a letter by Captain Sumpter, on the return of the
vessel I came by; my next I sent by the Glutton, and my
next by the Calcutta. I did hope that I should have re-
ceived a letter before this time. My anxieties have been
so great as almost to make me go out of my mind; I see
so many letters arriving from London, but none for poor
me. I should be unhappy indeed if I thought that no
friends in England cared for me.
 I am so grieved and disappointed that my dearly loved
mistress has not written to me once since we parted! I
cannot bring myself to believe that if she is alive, and is
able, she has not already done so. I fear that some acci-
dent has occured to the ship by which she has writeen to
me, and that she is waiting for some reply. Do not neglect
me this time, dear uncle, for it makes me very unhappy to
324 HISTORY OF
think that I cannot hear from you, or any of my friends in
England.
 I am in great hopes that, if I continue in the same
state that I am now in, and, if it please God, have the same
approbation of my employers, who are high in the gover-
nor's favour, I shall have the unspeakable joy of seeing
you all again. The thought of such a blessing makes my
hand tremble, and the tears run down my cheeks so fast, I
cannot see the end of my pen. Governor King is a very
good man; he is very merciful to those who deserve it, even
to those Avho are, as I am, transported for life. There are
many who have been granted their free pardon with power
to settle in the colony. Some who have distinguished them-
selves by exemplary conduct, and have rendered public ser-
vice to the settlement, not only receive their free pardon,
hut are permitted to return, if they wish it, to their native
land. The anticipation of such an event would prompt ma
to any service.
 The young man who brings this letter to England was
transported for life. He was in the governor's service, and
discovered a robbery of the government stores, for which
he has received a full and free pardon. He lived one year
at John Palmer's, Esq., where I have been living; his name
is William Underwood. He was very much approved while
in my master's service, and was taken thence into the go-
vernor's establishment. He is a good young man, and was
betrayed into crime by a butler, who employed him to rob
his master, in London. He promises to convey this letter
to England, and to post it for you, so that I do hope this
will certainly come to hand.
 I have left Mrs. Palmer's service for a time, at her
own particular request, and am now living as housekeeper
to a young friend of hers, who married her niece. He is a
free settler. His wife was a very sickly lady, and had, since
she resided in this spot, fallen into a rapid decline; indeed
she was in a poor state of health during her sea-voyage.
She was a good and amiable lady, and her loss is a great
misfortune to the young man, and much sorrow to my dear
Mrs. Palmer.
 The free settlers are the great farmers of this country;
they have one hundred acres of land as a grant, with power
to purchase as many more as they can; they have to clear
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 325
away the woods, and burn up tbe stumps, before they can
grow corn, though the swine thrive well in the thick bush.
We begin to set wheat in March or April, and the harvest
comes on in November; and as soon as that is cleared off,
they set fire to the stubble, and burn it on the land, and
then put in fresh corn directly. They do not plough it, but
dibble the corn in without cleaning it, as the burning straw
destroys the roots of all the weeds.
 In clearing new land, it is broken up by men wiih very
large hoes, and it is the hardest work that is done in the
country. A great price is paid for this labour, and men
work too hard at it. They frequently destroy their health
and their lives, by their over-exertion to get rich enough to
buy farms for themselves. This has been done by some
robust men, but others fall a prey to the toil.
 This is a very dangerous country at present to settle
in. The natives, who are almost black, wear no covering,
but go, most of them, in a state of nudity. They paint
their bodies with a light-coloured ochre, marking out the
ribs and bones so strongly, that at a little distance in the
shade they look like so many moving skeletons. They are
a most miserable, half-starved race of men, but my active,
very treacherous, and very bold. They seem to have no
shame. They used to bear a deadly hatred to the white
people; and if all I hear be true of some of the dealings of
our colonists with these poor wretches, I am not surprised
at it.
 They are much more reconciled to us than they were,
and actually send some of their young children to be in-
structed in our schools. I do not think, however, that the
race will ever amalgamate with our own, it appears such
an inferior and unsettled one. As we advance our settlers
towards the Blue Mountains, these people will recede from
us, and being divided into many tribes hostile to each other,
will never be able to unite their forces against us.
 This country is full of curious animals. I have al-
ready collected some skins for my dear mistress at the Cliff.
I never get a fresh one without blessing her name, and
hoping that, poor as I am, I may yet give her some little
pleasure.
 Among the snakes, few are venomous. I have seen
but one, which I am told is a very dangerous foe. Him I
326 HISTORY OF
had a personal conflict with, and thank God I came off
victorious. I was walking with two young children of my
master's, not very far from the newly-enclosed lands. The
children were a few yards in advance of me, gathering
flowers for me, when a large black snake flew at me from
the foot of a tree, just as if it had been a dog. 1 had
nothing in my hand hut a thin stick which I had broken off
one of the fresh shoots of a stump of a tree, which had
been cut down the last winter; but I was afterwards told
that it was the very best weapon of defence that I could
have. He rose upon his tail, and darted at my face, as if
he aimed at my eyes; but just as he came within reach, I
gave him a cut over a white line at the back of his neck,
which attracted my attention; he made a beautiful curve,
like the bending of a fountain, when it has reached its
height, and then fell in a straight stiff line, licking the
dust.
 It was providential that I hit him where I did, for my
master told me it was the only place that I could have
killed him on so suddenly. He told me that he was the
most venomous snake in the country, and that, had I not
broken his neck as I did, either the children or myself
would have been killed. His bite is attended with swell-
ing and blackness of the body, and when the sun goes
down death ensues. How merciful that the dear children
had passed by him without provoking an attack! The
whole of that night I did nothing but lie and think of this
event, and thank God for my deliverance.
 Some of the snakes which I have seen are full twelve
feet long, and thicker than a stout man's arm. These
are not venomous, but they would soon strangle a child.
Some of our workmen have had severe encounters with
them.
 I have collected a good many curiosities of this coun-
try, and have skinned the birds and smaller animals my-
self, and preserved their skins, a3 dear Doctor Stebbing
directed me; and if I can once get a letter from England
to assure me that I live in the memory of my friends, I
will soon pack them off to my good and learned mistress.
People laugh at me sometimes for giving the value of a
quarter of an acre of land for the skin of "a dead animal
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 827
but they know not the pleasure I derive from the joy of
pleasing those I love.
 Give my love to my aunt and the dear children, and
for their sakes, as well as my own, let them see this long
letter. It may teach them to be very thankful to God;
then they will bless poor Margaret, their foster-mother,
and feel glad that they are so beloved by one so far away
from them.
 This is a very hot country. In the summer, the
ground actually scorches the feet whilst we walk upon it,
and creates great blisters, especially where shoe-leather,
which is very scarce and dear, does not protect the feet.
In winter it is very cold. Not that there is any quantity
of snow, but there are very white frosts, which penetrate
te the inmost recesses of our chambers. It is much colder
and hotter than it used to be, since the country is cleared
of its shady woods, and is so much more open. It will be
a very populous and improving country. Even within a
year or two, the people seem to be more moral and domes-
ticated than they were; but it is a terrible place for
drunkards.
"We want British clergymen; good men, of real steady
principles, such as you have in England. The governor
orders the Bible to be read at stated times to the different
gangs of convicts; but then it is a convict who can read
better than the rest, and they make a joke of him! Oh!
what a sin it is that so little provision should be made for
that which would be the surest way to reform the convicts;
and to preserve their souls alive! I pray continually for
friends to help us.
 The trees grow very fast in this, country. A few pear-
trees and apple-trees are getting up, and the vine flou-
rishes wherever it is planted. The oak grows luxuriantly;
peaches and apricots thrive; but gooseberries and currants
do not seem to suit the soil. Money is very scarce. Cop-
per coins are almost the value of silver, and gold is a thing
that I seldom see. Those who trade with India or China
are the only people in the colony who use it. Tea is
dearer here than it is in Old England, though we are so
much neare. to the countries where it is grown. It is a
matter of luxurious indulgence which convicts and servants
do not at present enjoy. The native flax of Norfolk Island
328 HISTORY OF
is the finest which we can obtain. You must not suppose
that we are badly off, though some commodities may be
very dear; for this country will be, if the world stand, one
of the richest on the face of the earth: oh that it may be
one of the best! At present it is one of the worst, though
improving.
 Sarah, or, as she calls herself, Elizabeth Barker, and
Elizabeth Killet, are both living. One is doing well; I
regret to state the other does badly.
 If the young man who brings this should write to you
from London, send an answer to him directly. He intends
to return and settle here. lie is a good young man.
Singularly enough, he returns to England to gratify his
aged parents with a sight of himself, and intends to try
and persuade one of his female cousins to come out with
him.
 Pray go to my dear Mrs. Cobbold, and tell her I long
to hear of her and her family. The same of Dr. Stebbing.
Be sure and direct your letters for me, at Mrs. Palmer's
Orphan Asylum, Port Jackson, Sydney. Let all your
letters be left at Government House. Mrs. Palmer will
take care of any letters for me. Pray God bless and keep
you all, is the constant prayer of
 Your affectionate niece,
 Margaret Catchpole.
 To Mr. William Leader,
 Brandiston, near "Woodbridge, Suffolk,
 England.
By her next letter it appears that Margaret was house-
keeper to a young widower. After living there about one
year, her principles were put to a trial, under which any
less firm and stable than hers would have succumbed. The
young widower, finding what a valuable person Margaret
was, resolved to marry her. He did not think it at all
necessary to pay court to one who he thought would feel
herself honoured by the proposal; and as he fully intended
to make her the mistress of his establishment, he at once
said to her—
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 829
 Young woman, I am resolved to marry you, and make
you mistress of my house at Richmond Hill. You need
not trouble yourself to make any preparations. I will see
the Rev. Mr. Johnson, the chaplain, and to-morrow you
shall be mistress of my establishment.
Startled as Margaret was by this wholly unexpected
offer, and by the terms in which it was couched, she hesi-
tated not a moment in her reply.
"I have no intention, sir, whatever, said she, "to
marry any one, hut most certainly should not think of
marrymg you. I was .sent here by your relative, Mrs.
Palmer, in the capacity of your servant, and I am willing
to fulfil the duties of that situation; hut I should act with
great duplicity towards my mistress, if, without either
yourself or me holding any conversation with her upon the
subject, I were to marry you. But, to be candid with you
at once, sir, I tell you I have no intention to marry, and I
will not comply with your demands in this respect.
As may he supposed, the young man was not a little
astonished; but all he said was—
 Then, if you do not, you may go back to Mrs. Palmer,
and say I sent you,
This was quite enough for Margaret, who immediately
packed up her few treasures, and started off for Sydney;
and her kind friend, Mrs. Palmer, who was equally aston-
ished and pleased at her conduct, received her again in a
more confidential capacity.
One thing poor Margaret had deeply to regret about
this time, and it occasioned, her many tears of unaffected
sorrow. She had, with persevering care, and at serious
cost, collected a great many curiosities, seeds of plants,
shells, fossils, minerals, skins of birds and lesser animals,
all which she had treasured up with the most lively hope
that they would one day reach her dear mistress in Eng-
land. She packed them in a strong box, and paid a man
to carry them for her to Mrs. Palmer's, at Sydney; but
they never arrived. The man to whom they had been en-
trusted broke open the box, sold the contents to a settler,
and invented a plausible tale of his being robbed by some
bushmen.
The name of the gentleman who made Margaret the
offer of marriage, above referred to, was Mr. John Poinder.
830 IIISTOItY Off
He died about two years afterwards, but left his aunt, Mrs.
Palmer, sole executrix of his property, and commended
his children to her care. Margaret then returned to
Richmond Hill, to superintend the affairs of the house
and the management of the children, until they should be
sent to school.
It may be here mentioned as one of those singular coin-
cidences to which Margaret Catchpole's life had been
subjected, that not only on this occasion of her absence
from the Asylum, but on the only other occasion that she
had ever been absent from it, Mr. John Barry visited the
institution, stayed there some time, and left it, without re-
ceiving the smallest intimation that it was, or had been,
the residence of the woman on whom his affections had
been fixed from the first moment he beheld her, and had
never swerved up to the period of which we write; and
the subsequent events which we have to record render this
coincidence still more remarkable.
■ margaret catcxlpole.
831
CHAPTER XXX.
repentance and amendment.
Before Margaret left Sydney the second time for Rich-
mond Hill, she had the inexpressible delight of receiving a
ship-chest from England, containing letters and presents
from her beloved mistress and friends. The good Mrs.
Palmer was requested to he present at the opening of the
chest; and never, never did the eager school-hoy unpack
his parcel from home with more intense delight than this
poor young woman did the box from England.
But her first interest was directed to.wards the packet of
letters which the box contained; and, until she had de-
voured the contents of them, all else was a matter of com-
parative indifference to her. There were letters from her
uncle and aunt Leader, from Dr. Stebbing, from several of
her fellow-servants at the Cliff; hut, above all, in Margaret's
estimation, there were letters from her dear mistress—the
excellent lady of the Cliff—to whose kindness she- owed
and felt such lasting gratitude.
The reader need not be troubled with a description of
the numerous articles of wearing apparel which the box
contained; nor is it needful to do more than mention that,
besides the larger objects, there was an inner case, contain-
ing combs, thimbles, needles, netting needles and pins,
knitting needles, pins, threads, papers of Dutch tape, of
India cotton, of coarse threads, pincushions, scissors, knives,
and all sorts of those stores which are so precious to a
housewife, when at a distance from the ordinary sources
where they are to he procured.
Poor Margaret could neither eat nor drink till she had de-
voured the contents of her letters. She wept so much
332 HIOIUKI O*
during their perusal, that she was forced to ask Mrs.
Palmer to read them to her. This she did with most sin-
cere pleasure, for they afforded her own. good heart in-
struction as well as gratification. The letters written to
Margaret were such as would have gratified any intellectual
and benevolent mind. They were much admired by all
who read them, but by none more than by the faithful
creature to whom they were directed.
The following letter was addressed by Margaret Catch-
pole to Mrs. Cobbold, shortly after the receipt of the box
of treasures just alluded to:—
"October 18, 1807.
"Honoured Madam,
"With the purest pleasure I again seize an opportunity
to write to you. I feel it my duty to do so, as you are my
dearest friend upon earth. Sincerely do I thank God for
your health and happiness, and for that of all your good
family. I hope and trust in God that I shall soon hear
from you again, for it is my greatest comfort in this distant
land. Oh, my dear lady, how grieved I am to tell you
that there are so many depraved creatures in this country!
I have been robbed of all my collection of curiosities, which
I had been saving up, according to your wishes, and which
I intended to have sent you by the next ship. I am sure
you would have thought them valuable, as they were all so
perfect, and the birds in such good order, skinned, and
dried, and perfumed. I will endeavour to collect them again;
but I am so sorry, when I had collected so many, and had
such great pleasure in them, that I should lose them all
through the artful conduct of wicked men!
"But I will soon be at work again for you. I have no
greater joy than to be waiting upon you; and every thing
I get, which I think will be valuable to you, gives me in-
creased satisfaction. You can scarcely believe what hap-
piness I experience in devoting any portion of my time to
your service. You are never out of my thoughts, and
always in my prayers. My ideas turn toward you from
every place, and in almost every thing I see. When I
think of the troubles and trials you must have, with eigh-
teen childrsn around you, I wonder you can at all think of
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 333
me. But, dear lady, I do feel such an interest about you
and your family, that I am thankful whenever you name
any of them; and I was so delighted with your description
of them all! Always tell me about them. I sincerely de-
sire to know how Miss Anne is, and Miss Harriet, and Miss
Sophia.
"Have you any knowledge, my dear lady, of Governor
Bligh? Alas! I have lost a good friend in Governor King.
I do think that if a petition were presented to him in my
behalf, so well known as I am to the late governor, some-
thing might be done for me. Every one tells me that he
says my conduct has been so uniformly consistent and good
that I deserve a reward. But it requires friends near
the fountain of mercy to make its stream flow towards
such as I. I should be almost ready to die with joy if a
pardon were to come to me, with permission to return to
England. I would then gladly come, and live and die in
your service.
"Since I last wrote to ycu, I have been living again
with Mrs. Palmer. I sent you, by the ship Buffalo, a small
case, containing the skins of the rarest birds found in this
country, together with an opossum, of a dark colour, and
very fierce; also a species of rat, which very much re-
sembles a diminutive hyena. You will find two large,
magnificent birds, called here the mountain pheasant;
they are only like our English bird in size. The plume
of feathers in the tail of the cock bird would form the
most graceful ornament for a queen's head-dress. Two
noble feathers, somewhat like a peacock's, only more bril-
liant and various in their colours, surrounded by the most
glittering silver lines of eurving feathers, fine as the prairie
grass, and sparkling like the waves of the ocean, ornament
the tail of the male bird, whilst the female is only remark-
able for the elegance of her shape, and not for the beauty
of her plumage.
"In my opinion, this bird is the peafowl of this country,
and not a pheasant. Early in the morning, I have seen
him spring from the thickest brushwood, and wing his
arrow-like flight to the tallest tree, and there he appears to
mimic the notes of the various songsters around him. But
the most beautiful attitude that I once saw him in beats
every thing I over beheld of what men term politeness.
834 HISTORY OF
I have heard and have read of delicate attentions paid to
our sex by men of noble and generous dispositions; but I
scarcely ever heard of such devoted attention as I one day
witnessed in this noble bird towards his mate. I saw her
sitting in the heat of the meridian sun upon her nest, and
the cock bird seated near her, with his tail expanded, like
a bower overshadowing her; and, as the sun moved, so did
he turn his elegant parasol to guard her from his rays.
Now and then he turned his bright eye to see if she was
comfortable, and she answered his inquiry with a gentle
note and rustle of her feathers.
"Was not this a sight calculated to teach us all gentle-
ness? Dear lady, as I looked upon it, the tears came
warmly down my cheeks, as I thought of your good hus-
band and yourself; and I dreamed of your writing a poem
upon this subject, and reading it to the young ladies in
the school-room. I had often wondered what use the tail
of this bird could be to him. If this he one of its general
uses, surely it i3 truly ornamental and useful. I hope
these birds will come safe to hand. Captain Brooks, of
the Buffalo, promised me faithfully that he would himself
A)rward them into Suffolk. The thought that they may
reach you and give you pleasure will make me happy
for many a long day. Owing to the late floods, every
thing is become very dear; pork, 2s.; beef and mutton,
2s. 3d.; soft sugar, 6s. and 8s.; tea, 11. 10s. per pound;
a bushel of wheat, 11. 5s.; printed cotton, 10s. to 12s. per
yard; shoes, for females, 13s. per pair. Scarcely any
linen cloth to be had. Newspapers, of any date, Is.
a-piece.
"But your chest, just now arrived, contains so many
things of value, that my good Mrs. Palmer has at once
proposed that I should open a little shop at Richmond Hill.
I wrote word, in my uncle's letter, or in my last to you,
about my offer of marriage, but the gentleman is since
dead, and has left hi3 property to the management of Mrs.
Palmer. She says I shall have a cottage of my own, with
land attached to it, and begin business for myself. You
know not, dear lady, how valuable all those things are
which you have sent to me. But your letters, and those
of Mrs, Sleorgin—oh, what a comfort they have been
to me!
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 335
 I had been very ill before their arrival. About eight
months ago, I took a long journey, for Mrs. Palmer, to
arrange something about Mr. Poinder's children. I walked
a distance of thirty miles, and over-exerted and heated
myself very much, so that my body threw out large blisters,
just as if I had been burnt with small coals, and I was so
swelled out that I thought I should have lost my life. I
was under the care of a Mr. Mason, a very clever surgeon;
and Mrs. Palmer was very kind and attentive to me.
Blessing be to God! 1 recovered; but I am still very subject
to cold and inflammation. I am not permitted to go near
the fire.
"I am to go to Richmond Hill as soon as I can,
which will be very soon. I will write to you again when I
am settled there. Only let me thank you, as I ought, for
your great goodness to one so unworthy of it. If I should
prosper, so as to get enough to keep myself from starving
in my old days, how shall I bless God for raising me up
such a friend as you have been to me!
 Mrs. Palmer says she is very sorry to part with me,
but she wishes to serve me. She is so good to me! She
was so pleased to find I was so respected by such friends
as the ladies who wrote to me. She said she never read
such beautiful letters as yours and good Mrs. Sleorgin's,
and asked me to let her take a copy of them. She had a
great desire to publish them in the Sydney paper, as she
thought they would do much good to others as well as to
myself. She blessed your spirit, and desired me to say,
that she considered me worthy of all the favour which your
generous hand had bestowed upon me. This was her say-
ing; but it is not my opinion, though I may say I wish I
was worthy. She desired me to say, that if you should see
Sir William Blizzard, a physician in London, he would tell
you all about her. She has promised to do all she can to
obtain my restoration to society. If I could once return
to my own native land, what a happy woman I should be!
You add much to my comfort here; for whenever I have a
few moments' spare time, I am sure to be seeking for seeds,
shells, insects, or curiosities of any kind; and the thought
of whom I am serving makes me feel very happy. Thank
God! I keep myself free from all men. I have formed no
acquaintance with any man; and I may sincerely confess
336 HISTORY OF
to you, my dear lady, that my early attachment and deep,
felt disappointment have deadened the feelings of my heart
to any further matrimonial speculations. I do not think
that any man in the colony could persuade me to marry.
My dear Mrs. Palmer has often spoken to me on the sub-
ject, and I have never concealed the fact, that to my first
attachment I owe my present abode in this colony as, a
convict. . I am wise enough now to see my own follies, and
I pray to God for his forgiveness. In this colony there are
few that remain single from choice, old or young. Girls of
fifteen years become mothers before they are able to take
care of themselves; and I may state it as a curious fact,
that very many whom you would suppose too old to be
mothers, have young families increasing around them.
"Vegetation in this clime is very abundant; but there
are some fearful drawbacks to our reaping its fruits.
We may have a good crop of grain on the ground to-day,
and to-morrow it may be all cut down by a hail-storm, or
destroyed by a blight, or swept away by a flood. On Mon-
day last, the 16th of this month, a hail-storm passed over
this place, and cut down the wheat just as it was in full
blossom. The stones which fell from the clouds were as
big as pigeons' eggs, and you may imagine the mischief
which ensued. Great numbers of fowls and small cattle
were killed. The harvest will be about six weeks hence,
and will be a lamentably deficient crop. Now begins our
hot season. We dread the attacks of ophthalmia, as the
surgeons call it; we call it commonly the blight in our eyes.
We can find no remedy for it but patience. In one day
our eyelids are so swelled that we cannot see. With some
it lasts a week, with others a month, according to the state
of the constitution of the sufferer. It is a very irritating
and painful disease, and none are such dreadful sufferers
as those who most deserve it, the habitual drunkards, of
which class I regret to state there are too many in this
country.
 The natives are much more tractable than they used
to be, and not so savage and uncivilised. They will work
but little; I can get from them, however, the most rare
skins of wild animals, such as the settlers have not patience
to pursue. They boast that the white man is made for
drudgery, and the black for liberty. He can roam through
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 337
his native woods and subsist without labour, whilst he sup-
poses that we enjoy no freedom. They have not left off
their barbarous habit of fighting and killing each other for
a public exhibition. I remember that you used to make
the young ladies read of the tournaments in the reign ol
Elizabeth, and how the knights sometimes killed each other
in this way. Surely those ancestors of the English had
some such spirit as these free blacks of Australia in this
day. These people form a stately circle, and contend most
skilfully and magnanimously, by fixed and settled rules of
combat; and I assure you, dear lady, that their deportment,
at such times, would be no discredit to the most gallant
knights of Europe. Gallantry towards their females, how-
ever, is at a very low ebb; yet, for the honour of the sex,
they take no delight in these pageants of blood and murder.
In this respect, degraded as they are in other things, they
are not so bad as some were in the ages of chivalry.
 It will not much interest you to know of our farming
here, but some of your friends may like to hear a word
about it, though from such an ignorant being as myself.
The price of farming stock is very high: a sow sells for
£10; a ewe for £7; a milch-goat, £3 10s.; a cow from
£60 to £70; a good horse from £100 to £150. But
things will not continue in this state many years, for this
is a most prolific land. You will be more glad to hear of
our great variety of botanical plants. My good lady, Mrs.
Palmer, has promised that her friend, Mr. Mason, who i&
a good botanist, shall affix the proper names to each of the
specimens which I send.
 Honoured madam, give my duty to Mrs. Sleorgin, and
say how happy I am to hear from her, and am glad that
she approves of my conduct and pursuits. I love her good
advice, and endeavour to keep it. I am so sorry that I
was robbed of all my first treasures for you. My tears,
however, would not bring them back again. I will try
again. Give my duty to dear Doctor Stebbing. Oh that
I could see him with his dog and gun, upon some of our
plains, or beating in the bush of this country! I would get
him to kill me many a beautiful bird to enrich your collec-
tion. Give my duty to his daughter. Is poor old Robin-
eon Crusoe alive? and is Jack Whatcheer? Alas! their
memory brings back painful recollections. So, my dear
838 history of
lady, hoping to hear from you again, accept the love and
duty of your humble and constant servant,
"Margaret Catchpole
**To J. Cobbold, Esq. Cliff, Ipswich.
From this letter it appears that Margaret was then upon
the eve of leaving Sydney for her cottage at Richmond
Hill, some forty or fifty miles up the country. There were
a small village and store-rooms on the hanks of the river,
and Margaret rented a small house and about twenty acres
of land of her friend Mrs. Palmer, at a very moderate
price. Part of her house was formed into a shop, in which
all her little stock in trade was placed and her little capital
invested. The goods which were sent her from England
formed a valuable assortment; and she began by offering
for sale small portions of her general stock, so that her cus-
tomers might have the same articles upon another applica-
tion. Her house was situated in a very beautiful spot,
commanding an extensive view over a well-watered plain,
with the ever-blue mountains in the distance.
Margaret remained at Richmond Hill, as her own inde-
pendent mistress, for five years. About two years after
her residence at this place she wrote again to her mistress,
and sent a small drawing of her cottage, which was taken
by one of Mrs. Palmer's friends for this very purpose.
The mountain pheasants, which she speaks of in the fol-
lowing letter, duly arrived by the Buffalo. They were splen-
did specimens, and were in a very perfect state. They were
preserved in the author's family for many years, and may
now be seen at the public museum at Ipswich, in company
with many thousands of valuable specimens. The bird
itself is now become very scarce. A live specimen hag
never been brought to England.*
* The specimens in question may be seen distinguished by a label
attached to them with the following words:—
"Manuka Supekba.
"Lyba, ok Botany Bay Pheasant.
••These beautiful birds were sent to the late Mrs. Cobbold, of the
margaret catchpole. 339
"Richmond Hill, Oct. 8th, 1809.
"Honoured Madam,
 I take up my pen again with new and increased delight,
to say that I duly received another box from you, which
arrived at Sydney with every thing in it, according to the
inventory, quite safe. A thousand thanks for it, my dear
lady, and all its valuable contents. It was three years last
June since I sent you, according to your request, a number
of our native productions. I had a cedar case made on
purpose, strong and stoutly ironed. I was told that it
would preserve the goods in a more perfect state than an
oaken one; hut as you say nothing about its arrival in your
letter, I fear that it is lost.
 I sent it on board the Buffalo, the ship in which Go-
vernor King left the colony. It may, perhaps, yet reach
you. I hope it will. There were many of our Sydney
newspapers in it, and a host of birds' skins, weapons and
knives, and curiosities, which I obtained from the natives
near the Blue Mountains. I can see a great part of the
chain from my chamber-window. Mrs. Palmer undertook
to see the case forwarded to you.
 This is the second great collection I have made for
you; and I shall not, dear lady, forward any more until I
hear of the safe arrival of the last, it is so very disheart-
ening to find all my labour and love thrown away. Oh!
how I wish that I could be permitted to bring a cargo home
for you! I would part with everything I have most gladly
for such a purpose, but I fear it will never be; and some-
times my poor heart feels broken, as I sit alone, pondering
over all my hopes and fears.
 My dear landlady, Mrs. Palmer, has given me such a
nice drawing of my cottage and the surrounding country
Cliff, by Margaret Catchpole, a female servant, who stole a coach-
horse from the late John Cobbold, Esq., and rode it up to London
in one night. She was in the act of selling the horse when she was
taken. She was in man's apparel. She was tried at Bury in 1797,
and received sentence of death, which sentence, owing to the en-
treaties of the prosecutor, was changed to seven years' transporta-
tion; but breaking out of gaol, she was afterwards transported for
life.
"Presented to this Museum by R. K. Cobbold. Esq.
340 HISTOKY OF
for you! I shall send it; and I hope you will not think
me presumptuous if I ask for one of the dear, dear Cliff,
as 1 know, my dear lady, that you can so easily do one for
me. If one of the young ladies would be so kind as to
copy it, then I could give Mrs. Palmer one by way of re-
turn. Yours shall hang over my chimney-place; and when
I look at it I shall think of those happy days which I spent
there with you for my friend and mistress.
"Ah! dear lady, when I was learning so many good
lessons under your eye, little did I think that I should reap
the profit thereof in a foreign land. Your word of appro-
bation was a sort of foretaste of that which, I hope and
trust, we shall both rejoice to hear, 'Well done, good and
faithful servant!'
 Dear lady, I am very contented, and am getting on well,
but we have all had severe misfortune in this district;
first, by the floods; secondly, by fire; and thirdly, by such
a hurricane as levelled whole acres of timber-trees of enor-
mous size. We were afraid to remain in-doors lest our
houses should fall on our heads; and out of doors we could
hardly stand at all. Great trees swept by us as if they
had been straws.
"The flood in the month of May distressed us very
much; but that on the 31st of July and the 1st of August,
the days after the high wind, was dreadful. It was the
greatest ever experienced by any of the settlers, though
the natives speak of one which covered all the plain from
the mountains, and was deeper than our church is high.
The one I have so lately witnessed went over the tops of
the houses on the plain; and many poor creatures were on
their chimneys crying out for mercy, and for boats to go
to them. It was shocking to hear their cries, and it made
me feel so wretched at not being able to relieve them. It
was very dangerous to approach them, for sometimes the
eddies were so strong round their houses that boats were
swept away, or swamped in the attempt. I saw one boat
completely sunk by a tree falling upon it, just as it was
passing; and had not another boat been near to take the
sufferers off the boughs upon which they had climbed, they
must all have perished.
 One man, of the name of Thomas Lacey, and his wife
and family, were carried away in their barn. They got
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 341
upon the mow, and broke a hole through the thatch. I saw
them, dear creatures, holding up their hands to heaven as
they passed us on the sweeping flood, and imploring our
help. It made my spirit rise within me; and I thought
how God had made me instrumental in saving life in former
days, and I could not resist the impulse of that which at first
the people called my madness. I called to some men who
were standing near a boat moored to the bank, and urged
them to go with me to the rescue, but they would none of
them stir. I took two long linen-lines* and tied them to-
gether, and requested the people on the bank to assist me,
for I was determined to go alone if they would not go with
me.
"I jumped into the boat, and then the men were ashamed,
and took their oars, and said they would go without me;
but no, that I was determined they should not do; so the
man slackened the rope, as we were carried by the stream
towards the barn, which had fortunately grounded upon
the stump of some large tree which had collected a quan-
tity of earth so as to form a bank near it. We had hard
work to get up towards the smooth-water side of the barn;
hut the men kept the boat close to the side by pushing
against the trunk of the tree; and I stood up at the head
of the boat, and received the dear children into my arms.
They were all taken from the thatch, and we launched
again into the eddies.
"Had it not been for the line, we should have been sent
down the stream like an arrow from a bow. All our fear
was lest the line should break, and if it had we eould never
have rowed up the stream. Thanks be to the providential
mercy of God, we were all hauled safe to land.
"Oh! how the dear children did cling to me! They
told me that they saw great alligators come up and look at
them; but, poor things! their terrible situation would make
them magnify a floating tree into an alligator. Horses,
cows, sheep, and all kinds of animals, were hurried along
the waters to the sea. I wonder whence all this body of
fresh water can come from! We had no previous rains,
and yet thousands and thousands of acres were covered ten,
fifteen, and twenty feet deep with these floods.
"I brought Mr. Lacey's family to my own house. You
know, my dear lady, how fond I am of children. I take
842 HISTOKY OF
care of tliem, and they assist me, until their father shall
have got another habitation to take them to. Some poor
creatures expired just as help reached them. They got on
to houses, barns, stacks, and trees, and were often swept
off all these resting-places. Many persons were drowned;
many lost all their property. We were all fearful at one
time that we should be swallowed up. Part of the hill on
which my cottage stands began to cave away, and has left
a cliff several feet high for a long distance. I was very
near losing my own life; for I was standing on the verge
of the hill when a part of my own field close by my feet
caved in, and was swept away by the flood. It seemed to
melt away like sugar in a cup; but, God be praised! I
just escaped falling with it. You may believe that it ter-
rifled me.
 I have about twenty acres of land from my dear friend,
Mrs. Palmer, who sends me one man to help me in the cul-
tivation of it. Some have lost all; my loss is estimated at
about fifty pounds. Every thing is now so dear in the
colony that my little stock in my shop is as much as doubled
in its value; so that my loss in one way will be made up in
another.
"We are almost afraid of starvation, on account of the
many thousand bushels of Indian corn carried away by the
flood. This corn, mixed with a little wheat, makes most
excellent bread. You may imagine, dear lady, how we
suffer, when I state that most of the wheat then in the
ground was completely rooted up and carried away like
sea-weed. All manner of grain has become very dear.
Government has issued a certain quantity for each sufferer
for seed-corn.
"Clothing of all kinds is very scarce; but whilst I am
writing, news has just arrived that a ship has providentially
come into port laden with a vast supply, so that it will soon
be the cheapest thing we can get. I should have done
great things this year but for the flood; but I have every
reason to be thankful for that which is left for me.
"My prayers, dear lady, are always for your happiness,
and for the good of all your dear family. Pray God that
I may have the comfort to hear from you again! It is the
comfort of heaven to me to hear that you and yours aro
well. Give my dutiful thanks to that dear lady, Mrs.
margaret catchpole. 343
Sleorgin, for the handsome present of books which she has
sent me, and for the letter of good advice which accom-
panied it. Assure her, dear madam, that I endeavour to
follow her advice every day. How thankful ought I to he
to God that I have such dear friends who care for me!
"My health at times is not good, and I am still very
thin. Tell Doctor Stebbing that I walk every day farther
than the space between his house and Nacton Street. God
bless him! I have got several packages of curiosities for
him. The greatest pleasure I have in this country is the
hope of hearing from you, dear lady. I shall feed upon
this hope for the next twelve months; and I assure you,
when your letters do arrive, I am just as delighted as a
child would be to hear from an affectionate parent.
 Give my love and duty to my master, and all the young
people who may chance to know my name, and ever believe
me to be
"Your affectionate servant,
"Margaret Catchpole.
 John Cobbold, Esq. Cliff, Ipswich.
The last letter received from Margaret Catchpole is also
dated from Richmond Hill. It breathes the same affec-
tionate attachment and anxiety, and is given here as worthy
of the same attention as the former ones:—
"Richmond Hill, Sept. 1st, 1811.
"Honoured Madam,
"On the 8th of August of this year, 1811, I received
my cedar case that Captain Prichard should have brought.
It is almost two years ago since he landed the troops at
Sydney. Mrs. Palmer, my ever-constant friend, took
charge of it for me, until I was enabled to go down myself.
When I received tidings of its arrival, I set off from my
cottage, and walked the whole way, leaving the eldest child
I took from the flood to take care of my house. It is full
fifty miles from Richmond Hill to Sydney. Mrs. Palmer
could not think where the case could have been all that
time. But your letter, my dear madam, has set all our
minds easy upon th& «st.
344 HISTORY OF
"At first I thought it was the case, and all the things I
sent you, come back again. But bless you, dear lady, for
thinking of me! I was greatly rejoiced when I found that
you had received the birds quite safe, and that they gave
you such pleasure. Every thing that you have sent me is
quite safe, and so delightfully packed, that I could see your
own dear handiwork in the whole process. All are, I
assure you, very acceptable to me; and many thousand
thanks do I give for them. I never can feel sufficiently
thankful to heaven and you.
"How deeply do I feel the loss of dear Mrs. Sleorgin!
With God's help, I will endeavour to follow her good advice
to the day of my own departure, and then I shall meet her
again. My loss is, I am persuaded, her own gain. Her
blessings have come here, and will be fruitful to her own
good soul in a happier world. I am very fond of reading
those good books which she has sent me, and I shall always
be reminded of the benevolent donor
"Dear lady, I am grieved to hear of the death of poor
Miss Anne that was. She was always the most meek-
spirited of all the young ladies. Master Rowland was
always my favourite. He was born in those happy days
when I lived with you; and he, too, is gone. Your letter
conveys very anxious tidings; and though joyful to me to
see your dear handwriting, yet 1 grieve to find that you
have been so ill. Oh! if there was any thing in thi3
country that would do you good, however difficult it might
be to be obtained, I would not cease using all my efforts
until I had got it for you. If I can find any thing at any
time which may be new to you, and please your dear, good
mind, any thing you have not heard of before, what plea-
sure it will be to me!
"Oh! never can I be dutiful or grateful enough to you
for your goodness to me. God preserve you long to be a
blessing to your dear family and friends!
"I am ashamed, my dear madam, to send this hasty
scribble into your hands, but the ship is about to sail
directly, and I am hard pressed for time. I am pleased to
think that you got my long list of dried plants and birds.
I am sorry the insects were not better fastened in tbe case;
I will attend particularly to your instructions about them
for the future. I am living alone, as I was when I last
margaret catchpole. 845
wrote you, and am getting on well, in a very honest and
independent way of life. People wonder why I do not
marry. I cannot forget my late trials, troubles, and hor-
rors, and I dread forming any acquaintance with any man.
I was happy before such notions entered my mind, and I
have been comparatively happy since I have had no more
notions of the same sort. So I am single and free.
 The cap you have sent me, which you say is a great
favourite of yours, I put on last evening, and drank my tea
in it, with some tears of reflection. My heart was so full,
to think that the work of your own hands, and that which
had graced your own head, should cover such an unworthy
one as mine, it made me feel humble and sorrowful, as well as
joyful and thankful. I must hastily conclude this letter, as
the messenger calls for any ship letters for Sydney. May
the blessings and thanks of your grateful servant reach
your dear heart, from the soul of
"Your ever devoted servant,
 Margaret Catchpole.
"J. Cobbold, Esq. Cliff, Ipswich.
It is now time that our attention should be recalled to one
whose conduct has, we trust, already gained him a place in
the reader's esteem, and who after all must be looked upon
as the true hero of our simple story. John Barry (now
most worthy to have that old English title of Esquire at-
tached to his name, as being the highest which was acknow-
ledged in the settlement, under the governor) had, as the
reader will remember, arrived at New South Wales, and
settled at Liberty Plains. He was among the earliest free
settlers in the land, and was a man of such firmness and
steadiness of character, of such integrity and perseverance,
that he succeeded far beyond his own most sanguine expee-
tations, and established for himself such a character for
probity, sagacity, and general worth, that he was con-
suited upon all the most interesting concerns of the colony.
He it was who suggested to Governor King the first idea of
establishing the "Female Orphan Asylum, and proposed
attaching one hundred acres of land as a marriage portion
846 illSXOKY OF
for the children. He it was who laid the second stone of
St. John's Church, Paramatta. He built the first free-
trader that was ever launched from Port Jackson. That
he prospered it is needless to declare, because industry and
integrity, with activity of mind, intelligence, and sincerity,
must prosper in any place. He was a merchant as well as
a great corn-grower: he was also, as we have before stated,
the government contractor for land, He never caballed
with any one party against another, for the sake of increas-
ing the price of the land, but honestly, in a straightforward
way, stated the price per acre, the quantities that parties
might have, and the money expected in a given time. He
had sold for the government many thousand acres of the
finest tract of land, which bordered upon the river Hawkes-
bury, and retained a portion for himself at Windsor, by
the Green Hills, for which he strictly paid the highest price
that was then given for land in that district.
His residence, called Windsor L^dge, was situated on a
very commanding spot upon the south bank of the river.
At a short distance from the water he had built very large
granaries, capable of holding an immense quantity of grain,
and this spot became the great corn-mart of the country;
the grain was thence transported to the coast, and supplied
every port connected with the colony. The Hawkesbury is
a noble river, particularly opposite to Windsor Lodge, the
house, or rather mansion, of the owner of the Green Hills
around. If real worth and talent, if public and private
benevolence, with the most expansive views of men and
things, together with acts of such virtue and dignity as
speak the spirit of true nobility, could be found in any one,
they existed in the mind and heart of that }*outh, who left
the shores of old England a simple, Bingle-minded Suffolk
farmer's son, to become a man of wealth and goodness in a
distant land.
It is true that no chivalric deed of arms signalised I113
career: he was an enterprising, but a peaceful man; he
could boast no long line of ancestry higher or more exalted
than himself. His parents were good, honest, and virtuous
people, and their son bore the same character, but with the
possession of superior information; and may we not, in some
measure, trace the origin of all this man's virtues and good
qualities to that passion which still, as it was in the olden
MARGARM CATCHPOLE. 317
times, is the parent and prompter of all that is great and
noble, all that is gentle; all, in short, that distinguishes
man from the brutes that perish? Love dwelt, a pure and
holy flame, in the breast of this young man; and change
of scene, change of condition, increase of knowledge, of
wealth, and of circumstances—in short, circumstances which
would have changed almost any other being—changed not
him.
It may seem strange to many that Mr. Barry should have
been so long a leading man in the colony, and in constant
communication with England, and never have heard of the
fate of Margaret Catchpole. But when they understand
that all notice of her career had been studiously excluded
from the correspondence of his friends in England; and,
moreover, that convicts of all classes, when they came to
Botany Bay, werp sent to the northward to be employed on
the government stores, and that the Hawkesbury was de-
voted principally to free labourers and settlers, and that
the line of demarcation between convict and free settler was
extremely strict, their surprise will in a great degree cease.
Beloved and respected by all, as John Barry was, the
wonder with all was that he never married. With every
comfort around him, with health and cheerfulness, a goulty
person, great repute, and wealth scarcely equalled by any
one in the colony, he still remained a lone man; and but
that he evinced a kind, benevolent, and friendly disposition
towards all their sex, the females would have set him down
as a cold ascetic. He was far from being this kind of per-
son. Love was the ruling principle of Ins life; and though
he had himself suffered so much from ohsappointment that
he never had the slightest inclination to address his affec-
tion to another, yet he encouraged social and domestic vir-
tues in others, and advised many not to follow his bachelor
example. His own sisters he had portioned off hand-
somely; and one of his greatest relaxations was to visit
their abodes and to delight in their happiness and pros-
perity.
In the year 1811, Mr. John Barry was visited with a
deep affliction, in the loss of one of his sisters, who died
of fever, leaving a husband and a young family of seven
children. But how surely does good spring out of seem-
ing evil! Fraught as this event was with the most poig-
348 history yp
nant grief to John Barry, it was, nevertheless, the ultimate
cause of the consummation of all his hopes, and the com-
pletion of that happiness which he had so richly earned.
Deeply desiring the welfare of his sister's children, and
seeing the forlorn condition to which they were reduced by
the death of their excellent mother, he at once acted with
an energy and discretion which the afflicted husband could
not command. He sought to obtain as speedily as p< Sfible
some respectable person to take charge of the family, and
he remembered that Mrs. Palmer had mentioned to him a
Valuable person, whom she had sent to Richmond Hill, to
take charge of some motherless children related to herself.
He therefore went down to Sydney immediately, and oh-
tained an interview with that lady at the Orphan Asylum.
 I think, my dear madam, you mentioned to me, two or
three years ago, that you lost a relative who left a young
family, and that you sent a confidential female to superin-
tend and take care of the children?
 I did, sir, and a most valuable treasure she has always
been to me. She lived with the husband of my relative for
two years as housekeeper and general superintendent of his
establishment. He is, however, since dead.
 And she 
 Is still living at Richmond Hill, but perfectly indepen-
dent. It was a curious and unprecedented fact in this
country, for a young woman in her situation to refuse the
hand of the very man whose family she managed; but she
did so, and to her honour and credit; for the love sbe bore
me she left his service and returned to live with me. I was,
a3 you may conceive, greatly pleased with her, and took her
still more closely into my confidence. Two years after this
the husband of my late relative died, leaving his whole pro-
perty at Richmond Hill to me, for the benefit of bis chil-
dren, and in case of their death, to me and my heirs for
ever. The poor children, always sickly, died in this bouse,
and the property is now let to a most respectable tenant. I
reserved twenty acres and a cottage for this young woman,
who had acted so generously; and I do not scruple to tell
you, that though she pays a nominal rent to me for the cot-
tage and land, yet I have always put that rent into the bank
in her name, with the full intention of leaving her the pro-
perty I mention.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 349
 I am very much obliged to you for the information
which you give me. You have heard that I have lost my
youngest sister Maria. She leaves a disconsolate husband
with seven young children, the eldest only eight years of
age. My object in asking about this person was to secure
her as guardian of these dear children; and the manner in
which you have spoken of her convinces me that she would
be eligible and valuable, if she were but at liberty to come.
Do you ibiijk you could persuade her to undertake the duty?
I would send a man to farm her land for her, and devote the
whole rent to her remuneration.
 I am afraid she would not leave her present home and
occupation. She keeps a small store, and lives entirely by
herself, except that a little girl, whose life she saved from
the great flood, assists her. You would have been very
much pleased with her had you witnessed her brave con-
duct in risking her own life in the attempt to save a Mr.
Lacey and his family, who on that day were carried away
in their barn. She put to shame the spirits of several men
who stood looking on the waters, and refused to go to the
assistance of those poor creatures. She would positively
have gone alone, and entered the boat with the full deter-
mination to do so, if they refused to accompany her. They
were at length fairly shamed into going along with her to
the spot where the barn had grounded, and thus actually
rescued the whole family from their perilous situation. I
wonder you did not see the account of it in the ' Sydney
Gazette.'
 You interest me very much in this person, said Mr.
Barry;  she must be a very extraordinary woman.
 She is, indeed. But this is not the most extraordinary
feat of her life. She is a convict, and was transported to
this country for stealing a horse, and riding it a distance
of seventy miles in one night.
 But how came you to know her?
 She was recommended to me by Captain Sumpter,
who conveyed her in his ship to this country, and gave her
an excellent character. She was so highly mentioned in
his letters, that I took her into the establishment at the
Female Orphan Asylum, and found her all that I could
desire, and much more than I could have had any reason
to expect.
350 HISTORY OP
 Do you know what her character was in England?
"Her whole history has been laid before me. And
this I can conscientiously declare, that she was guilty of
but one great error, which betrayed her into the commis-
sion of that offence for which she was sent to this country.
Her besetting sin was misplaced -affection, an unaccount-
able attachment to an unworthy man. She stole a horse
from her master to meet this lover in London, and was
sentenced to death for so doing. She was reprieved, owing
to her previous good character, and would never have been
sent to this country, had she not been persuaded by the
same man to break out of prison. She effected her"escape
from gaol, and would have got clear out of the country,
but for the activity of a young man (by-the-by, a name-
sake of yours) in the coast-guard, who shot her lover in
a skirmish on the sea-shore; and then she was retaken,
tried a second time, and a second time condemned to
death; but her sentence was commuted to transportation
for life.
On looking on the countenance of Mr. Barry at this
moment, Mrs. Palmer was surprised to see it deadly
pale.
 You are ill, sir, she exclaimed; "pray let me send
for assistance.
"No, no, I thank you; I shall be better presently. A
little faintness came over me, doubtless from the interest I
feel in the history you have related to me.
With great effort Mr. Barry commanded himself, as he
said in a trembling voice, "And the name of this singular
person is 
 Margaret Catchpole, replied Mrs. Palmer, as he
seemed to pause.
Overpowered by emotions of the most conflicting kind,
Mr. Barry was completely unmanned. Accustomed for so
long a time to smother his affections, he now found his
heart bursting with the fulness of agony at finding the being
so highly recommended to him, and one whom he had never
ceased to love—a convict.
"Oh, my respected friend 1 he exclaimed, "I loved
that woman long before I came to this country. I love
her still—I confess I love her now; I cannot, I do not.
from all I know of her, and from all you tell me, bo-
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 351
lieve her to he an abandoned character;—but she is a
convict.
"Alas! she is, replied Mrs. Palmer. "You astonish,
you amaze me, Mr. Barry. Does she know your situation
in this country?
"I should think not, for I have had no information of
hers up to this time. You must know that I would have
brought her out to this country as my wife, but she was
then attached to another. That other, I fear, was shot by
my brother. He was a smuggler, and my brother was in
the preventive service. She may not retain any feeling
towards me but respect.
 I have never heard her mention your name, nor had
I the slightest hint of these circumstances. I do not think
she dreams of your existence. This is a large country, Mr.
Barry, and if your name and fame in it have ever reached
her ear, depend upon it she does not think that you are the
person who once addressed her. But if she should hear it,
I can tell you that she is so truly humble a creature, that
she would think it presumption even to fancy that you could
still love her. She is the meekest and most affectionate
creature I ever knew.
 I can believe it, if she is anything like "what I remem-
ber of her; she is warm-hearted, honest, open, and sincere,
but uneducated.
 She is all the first-mentioned, but far, very far from
being the last. In some things she is as well-informed as
ourselves, and in the best of all books she is really well
read. She daily reads and understands her Bible. Her
mistress, copies of whose letters I can show you, instructed
her with her own children; and I can assure you, that in
nothing but the want of station is she inferior to the best
of her sex.
After the first struggles of his emotion were over, Mr.
Barry made a complete confidante of Mrs. Palmer, and at
once revealed to her the state of his own feelings respecting
Margaret; and she fully explained to him what had been
the excellent conduct of the object of his affection since
her residence in that country. After hearing her statement,
and appearing to consider within himself for a brief space,
he said—
 I think I have sufficient interest with the governor to
S5^r HISTORY OF
obtain her free pardon. If you can furnish me with the
numbers of the 'Sydney Gazette' in which she is mentioned,
I will urge upon that humane man the policy of rewarding
such an example as that which she set in rescuing the
lives of Mr. Lacey and his family from the flood. I will
take your recommendation, also, to the governor, and see
what may be done. In the meantime, I beg ycu to take
the earliest opportunity of mentioning my name to her in
any manner you may think best. My mind is made up.
If I procure her pardon, and she will listen to me favour-
ably, I will marry her. You may tell her so, if you find
her favourably disposed towards me.
That very day the good Mrs. Palmer wrote the following
note to Margaret Catchpole:<—
 Sydney, Sept. 21, 1811.
 My-good Margaret,
 I desire to see you at Sydney, and have sent a con-
veyance for you that you may not be oppressed with the
journey. I have something particular to communicate,
but shall not tell you by letter what it is, that you may not
be over-anxious. I shall simply call it a matter of most
momentous business, which concerns both you and me, and
also a third person. Your attendance here will greatly
facilitate the settlement of the affair. And in the mean-
time, believe me,
 Your sincere friend,
 Eliza Palmer.
 To Margaret Catchpole, Richmond Hill.
It was indeed a great piece of news which this kind^
hearted woman had to communicate to her husband.
Still he was not so surprised as she expected him to have
been.
 I have always thought, from his manner, that Mr.
Barry had some strong and secret attachment in England.
I fancied that he was in love with some damsel of high
birth in his native country; and truly do I think him worthy
of any lady's hand. I little dreamed, however, of his real
position. He is a good man, and will make a most excel-
lent member of our highest society, and will exalt any wo-
man he make take to be wife. But how do you think
Margaret is affected towards him?
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 353
 It is that very thing I wish to know. I cannot really
tell. She has been as great an exclusive in her way as he
has been in his; and I confess that my present opinion i3,
that she will never marry.
 She,would really be to blame if she did not. I think
this match would tend to soothe that growing distance and
disrespect which exists between the emancipated and the
free settlers. At all events, it is highly honourable and
noble in our excellent friend.
 I think she would be wrong to refuse such an offer.
But she has shown herself so independent, that unless a
real affection should exist, I feel persuaded that she will
live at Richmond Hill in preference to Windsor Lodge®
I expect her here to-morrow, as I have sent the chaise for
her.
Mr. Barry repaired to the governor's house and had a
long interview with him. He had some general business
to speak of and several public matters to arrange; but he
made haste to come to the case of a female convict, Mar-
garet Catchpole, which he laid before the governor with
such zeal, that the latter could not help observing the deep
interest he took in her behalf.
 Has your honour seen the nature of the offence for
which she was transported, or ever heard of the motive
which prompted it? I have brought testimony sufficient
to corroborate my account of her. I have the letters of
recommendation for good conduct during her voyage to this
country. I have the highest character to give of her all the
time she has been with Mrs. Palmer, and a particular in-
stance of personal courage and self-devotion, in saying the
lives of a whole family in the late dreadful flood. Her pre-
sent situation is so highly respectable, and exhibits such
an instance of moral and religious influence triumphant over
the dangers of a degraded position, that, when I heard of
it, I could not fail to lay it before your honour.
 And a most admirable advocate would you have made
at the bar, Mr. Barry. You have pleaded this young wo-
man's case with such fervour, that positively, but for your
well-known character in the colony, I should suspect you
had some private interest in obtaining her pardon. I do
think, however, that the case is a very proper one for mer-
ciful consideration, and highly deserving of the exercise of
23
854 nisTOKY OF
that prerogative which the government at home has attached
to my power; and I shall certainly grant a free pardon.
But, without any intention of being too inquisitive, may I
candidly tell you, that from the animated manner in which
you have spoken of the virtues of this said female, I am
induced to ask, why you have taken such a peculiarly per
sonal interest in her favour?
 I will honestly confess at once that I ask it upon the
most self-interested grounds possible: I intend to offer her
my hand.
The governor looked all astonishment.  What? Do I
really hear it, or is it a dream? You, Mr. Barry, the high-
est, and wealthiest, and most prudent bachelor in the settle-
ment, one who might return to England and he one of her
wealthiest esquires; and here, enjoying more reputation,
with less responsibility, than the governor—you about to
form a matrimonial alliance with 
The governor paused; he found his own eloquence carrying
him too far; he considered the character of the man before
him, knew the excellence of his principles and his heart,
and dreaded to wound his generous soul; he changed his
tone, hut not the earnestness of his appeal.
 Have you well weighed this matter, Mr. Barry?
Have you consulted with your friends around you? You
are not the man to he caught by outward appearances, nor
to be smitten by passing beauty without some qualities of
domestic happiness, arising from temper, mind, character,
and disposition. How long has this attachment been itt
existence?
"From my youth, your honour: I have not yet seen
her since that happy time when she was a free woman in
my native land, enjoying that honest liberty which is the
pride and glory of England's virtuous daughters of every
station in the land. I was then in her own condition of
life. We had both to earn our bread by the labour of our
hands; we both respected each other: would I could say
that we had both loved each other! I should not like to
see her again until I can look upon her as a free woman,
and it is in your power to make her that happy being,
upon whom I may look, as I once did, with the warmest
affection.
 I ask no more, Mr. Barry, I ask no more. You have
MARGARET CATCfiPOLE. Sb5
been an enigma to many of us; it is now solved. It gives
me real pleasure to oblige you, and in such a cause as this
the best feelings of my heart are abounding for your happi-
ness. Her freedom is granted. To whom shall I commit
the pardon?
 Will you permit me to take it?
 Most gladly.
The governor's secretary was immediately summoned,
and the form of pardon duly signed, sealed, and delivered to
the joyful hand of Mr, John Barry.
 And now, said the governor,  permit me to say that
we shall at all times be happy to receive you at Sydney;
and in any way in which you can find my countenance
and support serviceable, I shall always be ready to give
them.
A cordial shake of the hand was mutually exchanged,
and Mr. Barry returned that day to Windsor Lodge one of
the happiest, as far as hope and good deeds can make a
man so, on this changing earth.
He had communicated his success to Mrs. Palmer
before he left Sydney. The green hills of Hawkesbury
never looked so bright in his eye before, his house never
so pleasant.
His servants saw an evident change in his manner, from
the anguish of mourning for the loss of a sister, to what
they could not quite comprehend; a state of liveliness they
had never before witnessed in him. Their master never
appeared so interested about the house, the rooms, the
garden, and the green lawn. He was most unusually
moved; he gave orders for the preparation of his house to
receive his brother-in-law's children, to the, great amaze-
ment of his female domestics, who could not conceive how
a bachelor would manage such a family.
He did not breathe a word of his intention to any of his
domestics; but every one observed a great change in his
behaviour, which all his habitual quietude could not en-
tirely conceal.
He wandered down to his favourite spot upon the river,
and indulged in a reverie of imaginary bliss, which, to
Bay the truth, was more real with him than with many
thousands who fancy themselves in love.
Margaret arrived at Sydney on the day following the
OJJ HISTORY OF
receipt of Mrs. Palmer's letter. She was a little excited
at the tone of that epistle, but much surprised at being
received in a manner to which she had never been accus-
tomed. Margaret saw in a moment, from Mrs. Palmer's
manner, that she had something to communicate of a very
different kind to what she had before mentioned, and at
once said—
 I perceive, my dear lady, that you have something to
say to me which concerns me more than you wish to let
me see it does, and yet you cannot conceal it. You need
not be afraid to tell me; good or bad, I am prepared for
it, but suspense'is the most painful.
"The news I have to tell you then is good; to be at
once declared—it is your free pardon!
 This is news indeed, my dearest lady; almost too
good news—it comes so unlooked for; forgive my tears.
Margaret wept for joy.
 Shall I again see dear old England? shall I again see
my dear friends, my mistress, my uncle, aunt, and family?
Oh! how shall I ever repay your kindness? Oh! what
can I say to you for your goodness? On my knees, I
thank God, my good friend, and say, God be praised for
his mercies, and bless you, the instrument thereof!
"You may thank God; but you must not bless me,
Margaret, for I am only the bearer of the news. I have
not even got the pardon in my possession; but I have
seen it. It is signed by the governor, and I know that
you are free.
"Oh! thanks, dear lady, thanks!—but is it not to Mr.
Palmer that I am indebted? You must have had some-
thing to do with it.
 Nothing farther than the giving you a just character
to the governor by the hand of a gentleman, who has in-
terceded with him, and has pleaded your cause success-
fully.
 Who is the gentleman? Do I know him?
 Yes, you may know him when you see him. He read
the account of your saving the family of the Laceys in the
flood; he listened with attention to your former history;
he does not live in Sydney, but at Windsor, on the Hawkes-
bury; yet, from his interest with the governor, he obtained
your pardon.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 357
 Bless the dear gentleman! How shall I ever he grate-
ful enough to him? But you say I know him?
 I say I think you will. I know you did once know
him, hut you have not seen him for many years.
"Who can it be, dear lady? You do not mean my
brother Charles?
"No.
 Who then can it be? Not my former master, or any
of his family?
"No, Margaret; I must he plainer with you. Do you
remember a young man of the name of Barry?
"John Barry! Yes, I do. What of him? He went to
Canada.
 No, he did not. He came to this country, has lived
in it many years, and has prospered greatly. He is in the
confidence of the governor. He accidentally discovered
you were in the country. He it was—yes, he it was—who
went that very hour to the governor, and I have no doubt
asked it as a personal favour to himself that you should be
pardoned. What say you to such a man?
 All that I can say is to bless him with a most grate-
ful heart. Oh! dear lady, he saved my life once, and now
he gives me liberty! He was a good young man; too good
for such as me to think upon, though he once would have
had me think more of him. I had forgotten all but his
kindness, which I never can forget; and now it over-
whelms me with astonishment. Is he married, and settled
in this country?
"He is settled, but not married. He has been a pros-
perous man, and is as benevolent as he is rich; but he
never married, at which we have all wondered.
This declaration made Margaret blush; a deep crimson
flush passed over her cheeks, and was succeeded by extreme
paleness. Her heart heaved convulsively, a faintness and
dizziness came upon her, and she would really have fallen
had she not been supported by the kind attentions of her
benefactress.
 He has kept his word! Oh, Mrs. Palmer! I never
thought to see him again. I mistook the country he left
me for. I have often thought of his goodness to me in
former days. I am now indebted to him for double
life!
853 II1STOKY or
"Margaret, what if I tell you that for you only has he
kept himself single?
 There was a time when he might and did think of me,
but that time must be gone by.
 I tell you, he loves you still.
"Impossible! Oh, if he does!—but it is impossible!
Madam, this is all a dream!
"It is a dream, Margaret, from which you will shortly
awake, as he is in the house at this moment to present
himself with the governor's pardon!
 Dear lady, pray be present with me; I know not how
to meet him!
The door just then opened, and in came Mr. Barry, with
the governor's pardon in his hand. He approached Mar-
garet, as she clung to Mrs. Palmer, agitated beyond mea-
sure. She regarded him with more solemn feelings than
she did the judge who condemned her twice to death.
She dropped upon her knees, and hid her face before her
deliverer. He lifted her up and seated her, and, in the
language of gentleness and tenderness, addressed her
thus:-—
"Margaret, I have brought you a free pardon from the
governor. Need I remind you that God has mercifully
sent me before you in this instance to be your friend? To
Him I know you will give all the thanks and praises of a
grateful heart.
"To Him I do first, sir; and to you, as his instrument,
in the next place. I am afraid to look upon you, and I
am unworthy to be looked upon by you. I am a 
"You need not tell me, Margaret, what you have been.
I know all. Think not of what you were, but what you
are. You are no longer a convict; you are no longer
under the ban of disgrace; you are no longer under the
sentence of the offended laws qf man; you are now a free
subject; and if your fellow-creatures do not all forgive you,
they cannot themselves hope for forgiveness. You are at
liberty to settle wherever you please.
 Oh! dear sir; and to you I owe all this! What will
they say to you in England, when I again embrace my
dear friends there, and bless you for the liberty thus granted
me?
 Margaret, hear me again. Remember, when I last
MAEGARET CATCHPOLE. 359
saw you, I told you then what I dreaded, if you refused to
come out to this country with me. How true those fears
wore, you can now judge. You made a choice then which
gave me anguish to be surpassed only hy the present
moment. You speak now of returning to England. You
have got your pardon, and are at liberty so to do. It
inay seem ungenerous to me, at such a moment, to urge
your stay; hut hear now my opinion and advice, and give
them the weight only of your calm judgment. If you
return to England, take my word for it you will not he
happy. You will never be as happy as you may be here.
I speak this with feelings as much alive to your interest
now as they were when I last parted with you. I will
suppose you returned. Your own good heart makes you
imagine that every one would he as glad to see you there
as you would truly he to see them. Your own heart de-
ceives you. -1 have known those who so bitterly lamented
their return to England, that they have come again to
settle in this country, and have offended those friends who
would have respected them had they remained here. When
at a distance they felt much for them; hut when they came
near to them, the pride of society made them ashamed of
those who had been convicts. It may be that some would
be glad to see you; your good mistress, your uncle and
aunt: but circumstances might prevent their being able to
do you any great service. Your former mistress has a
large family, your uncle the same; you have no indepen-
dence to live upon there. The eye of envy would be upon
you if you had wealth, and detraction would be busy with
your name. People would talk of your sins, but would
never value you for your integrity. You would probably
soon wish yourself in this country again, where your rising
character would be looked upon with respect, and all the
past be forgiven, and in time forgotten. Here you would
have an established character: there you would always be
thought to have a dubious one. Besides all this, you are
here prospering. You can have the great gratification of
relieving the necessities of your aged relatives, and of
obliging your best friends. You would, believe me, be
looked upon byYhem with far greater respect and esteem
than if you were nearer to them. Think, Margaret, of
what I now state, and divest yourself of that too great
360 HISTORY OF
idea of happiness in England. You are at liberty to go;
but you will enjoy far greater liberty if you stay in this
country.''
 What you say, sir, may be true in some respects; but
I think I should die happy if I once more saw my dear
friends and relatives.
 God forbid that I should not approve your feeling! I,
too, have a father, and mother, and brothers in England,
hut I hear from them continually, and they rejoice in my
welfare. I love them dearly as they do me. Two sisters
have come out to me, and both have married and settled
in the country. One I have lost, who has left a husband
and seven children to lament her loss. I have strong ties,
you see, in these young people, to bind me to this country,
for they look up to me as they do to their father. But
they are without female protection.
 If, my dear sir, I can be of any service to you or them
for a term of years, I shall feel it part of the happiness of
that freedom you have obtained for me to abide as long in
this land. But I own that I still feel that I should like to
return one day to England. I am very grateful for all
your goodness, and shall ever bless you for the interest you
have taken in one so unworthy your favour.
"Margaret, I am deeply interested in these children.
They have lost their mother, my sister. Their aunt, now
resident in the colony, has ten children of her own, and it
would not be fair that she should take seven more into her
house. The young man, now left a widower, is in such a
delicate state of health, and so disconsolate for the loss of
his wife, that I do not think he will be long amongst us.
These circumstances made me come to my good friend Mrs,
Palmer for assistance and advice. Guess, then, my asto-
nishment to hear you recommended to me: you, above all
people in the world, whose presence I could have wished
for, whose gentleness I know, and who, if you will, can
make both myself and all these children happy.
"My dear sir, I stand in a very different position with
regard to yourself to what I formerly did. I do not forget
that to your protecting arm I owe the rescue of my life
from the violence of one in whom my misplaced confidence
became my ruin and his own death. I never can forget
that to you I am a second time indebted for liberty, and
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 361
that which will sweeten the remainder of my days: the con-
sciousness of being restored, a pardoned penitent, to virtu-
ous society. But I cannot forget that I am still but little
better than a slave: I am scarcely yet free. I am not, as
 I was when you first offered me your hand and heart, upon
an equality with yourself. How then can you ask me to
become your wife, when there is such a disparity as must
ever make me feel your slave? No, generous and good
man! I told you formerly that if Laud were dead I might
then find it in my heart to listen to your claims; but I
never thought that I should be in a situation so much he-
neath you as I am, so very different to that which I once
occupied.
"And do you think, Margaret, that I can ever forget
that I was a fellow-servant with you at the Priory Farm,
upon the banks of the Orwell? It was then I first made
known to you the state of that heart which, as I told you
long ago, would never change toward you. You say that
our conditions are so very dissimilar: I see no great diffe-
rence in them; certainly no greater than when you lived at
the cottage on the heath and I was the miller's son. You
are independent now. Your good friend, Mrs. Palmer, has
made you so, and will permit me to say, that you have
already an independence in this country far greater than
ever you could enjoy in England.
Margaret looked at Mrs. Palmer. That good woman at
once confessed that all the rent Margaret had paid for the
years she had been in the farm was now placed in the
Sydney Bank, to her account, and quite at her disposal.
She added, that she had made over the estate she occupied
at .Richmond Hill to her for ever.
What could Margaret now say? She found herself on
the one hand made free, through the intercession of a man
who loved her, and on the other she was made independent
for life by a lady who had only known her in her captivity,
hut who had respected and esteemed her. That lady now
thought it time to speak out.
 Margaret, do not think that I have given you anything
more than what you are strictly entitled to. Remember
that, from a sense of justice towards me, you refused the
hand of a man who probably would have settled all the
estate upon you, But you chose to think yourself unwor-
862 —IEE5TOTIT "VW
thy of my kindness had you accepted his offer. You acted
with great discretion: and in settling this small portion
upon you, I was guided hy a sense of justice and gratitude,
which made me anxious to discharge a just debt, and I do
not consider that I have even given you as much as I ought
to have done.
"Indeed you have, dear lady, and you have hound me
to you for ever. Have I, indeed, such dear friends in this
country? Then do I feel it my duty to remain in it, and I
wili learn to sigh no longer after that place where I had so
long hoped to live and die. You give me, however, more
credit for refusing the hand of Mr, Poinder than I deserve:
I never could have married a man who, in such an imperious
manner, gave me to understand his will. No; I was his
servant, but not his slave. And any woman who would
obey the nod of a tyrant, to become his wife, could never
expect to enjoy any self-estimation afterwards. He told
me his intention of making me his wife in such an absolute
way that I quite as absolutely rejected him. I deserve no
credit for this.
"Margaret, said Mr. Barry, "understand the offer I
now make you. If you are not totally indifferent to all man-
kind, and can accept the offer of one whose earliest affec-
tions you commanded, then know that those affections are
as honest, and true, and faithful to you this day, as they
were when I first addressed you. Think me not so unge-
nerous as ever to appeal to any sense of gratitude on your
part. You cannot conceive what unspeakable pleasure I
have always thought it to serve you in any way I might.
You cannot tell how dead I have been to every hope but
that of being enabled to do good to others. This has been
my purest solace under your loss, Margaret; and if in daily
remembrance of you I have done thus much, what will not
your presence always urge me to perform?
"I sought a servant, a confidential kind of friend, to
govern my brother's household: I little thought that I
should find the only person I ever could or would make my
wife. I offer you, then, myself and all my possessions. I
am willing to make over all I have, upon the contract that
you become the aunt of those dear children, and I know
you too well ever to doubt your kindness to them.
 As to your respectability, I have already declared to
!maegaxiet catcnpole. 363
the governor my full intention of offering you this hand.
He has promised to receive and recognise you as my wife.
Your friend here will not like you the less because you are
so nearly allied to me; and I will answer for all my rela-
tives and friends. None will ever scorn you, all will re-
spect you, I will love you. Say, then, will you live my
respected wife at Windsor Lodge, or will you still live alone
at Richmond Hill?
 It is you must choose, replied Margaret;  I cannot
refuse. I never can doubt you. I will endeavour to fulfil
the station of a mother in that of an aunt; and if my heart
does not deceive me, I shall do my duty as an honest wife.
After this explanation, it is needless, perhaps, to add
that Margaret Catchpole changed her name, and became
the much-respected and beloved wife of John Barry, Esq.,
of Windsor, by the Green Hills of Hawkesbury.
CHAPTER XXXI.
conclusion.
If true love and constancy are noble qualities in the heart
of man, and prompt him to deeds of generous philanthropy,
they deserve to be recorded and imitated from the example
of John Barry. And if sincerity and repentance be quali-
ties worthy the charitable consideration of good Christians,
Margaret Catchpole's career in this life, and especially her
latter days, will not afford a bad example of the promise of
 the life that now is, and of that which is to come. The
remaining history of this singular individual was one of
quiet calm, and yet benevolent exertion in all good works
of faith and love. She lived highly respected in the situa-
tion to which her husband's good qualities and good fortune
had raised her. She lived a retired, though not a secluled
life, on the banks of the Hawkesbury, fulfilling the tlufics
of her station as a good wife, aunt, sister, and mother, in
an exemplary manner. Charitable as she was rich she
364 nisiuKi w
never thought she could do enough to relieve the distresses
of others.
Not many months after her marriage she received ano-
ther chest of goods from her benevolent mistress in Eng-
land, and wrote her last epistle of thanks, dated
Windsor, Hawkesbury, June 25th, 1812.
 My dear Madam,
 The contents of this letter will surprise you. I hope
that I am not the less grateful for your goodness because
God has blessed me with such abundance, that I no longer
require that aid from England which has hitherto been such
a blessing to me. Indeed, my dearest madam, my good
and early friend, I am most grateful for all your past fa-
Yours, though I do not wish to tax a generosity which I
do not now, in the same manner, need. May Heaven
bless your warm heart, which will glow with fervent praise
to God when you read this letter from your former poor
servant!
 Everything that I could wish for, and, oh! how much
more than I deserve, have I had granted to me in this
place of probation! God grant I may not set my heart too
much upon their value! Dearest lady, I have men-servants
and maid-servants, horses and cattle, flocks and herds in
abundance. I have clothing and furniture above what you
can imagine, and a house wide enough to entertain in it all
your numerous family. But, more than all this, I have
an excellent husband, one whose constancy from his youth
has been beyond the praise which I could find language to
express.
"You may remember what I once told you of a young
man whom I had rejected for a less worthy one. He has
proved his love for me in such a manner as I am sure could
never have been seen in any but the most noble of his
nature. He told me in England that he would never marry
any other, and through years of industry and prosperity
(and as I have every reason to believe he would have done
to his last day of this life) has kept himself single on my
account. Did you ever chance to hear ot such a case as
this? When I reflect upon it, as I often do, I find it more
and more wonderful,
KGARET CATCHPOLE. 365
"You must remember my telling you of Mr. John Barry's
attachment to me. He left me when I lived at Nacton,
and came out here among the earliest free settlers in the
country, and has prospered beyond his utmost anticipations.
He found me out here by accidental inquiries of my dear
Mrs. Palmer, and obtained for me my free pardon. My
wishes to return again to my native land became absorbed
in the sense of duty and obligation to my benefactor, who,
when he had obtained that pardon, gave me the option of
sharing my life and freedom with him, or of being indepen-
dent here or elsewhere. Noble generosity! Does it not
win your heart? It won mine. I am his faithful wife:
happy happy, as the days are long. He is good, virtuous,
amiable, and truly religious; constant in his love to God
and man. I could fill many letters in speaking of his vir-
tues; but I forget that you never saw him, though he lived
upon the shores of the same river that you do.
 He is very good to me, bo that I want nothing more
from England. How proud shall I he to send you now
anything which this country produces!
"Herewith I send you a sketch of my present beautiful
abode, done by Mrs. Palmer. It will give you a slight
idea of my situation. I send you also a present of various
seeds, skins of animals (one of the ursine opossum), and
dried plants, which I think will be valuable to you; and
also some curious weapons and instruments of the natives,
for my dear friend, Dr. Stebbing.
 What a wonderful life has mine been! You only, my
dear lady, know its reality. There may be others equally
eventful; hut how few are there who find such a place of
unmerited repose as I have? My dear sister's words often
recur to my mind when she told me whom I should not
marry: I wonder if she ever thought of the one I have
married. There are many very excellent people in this
flourishing country. The governor and his family have
received us, and have been very kind to me. My dear
friend Mrs. Palmer is now staying in my house. She is
my benefactress here, as you were in England. Oh! if I
could but bring you both together, and could sit quietly
listening to your conversation, it would be such an intel-
lectual treat as few could more enjoy! She is, like your-
self, very clever. I believe I should die happier if I could
366 HISTORY 6?
see vour dear, lored face in this land; but if that never
may be, nor I see old England again, then may Heaven
bless you; and God bestow bis brightest gifts of grace upon
you and your children!
 I am this moment engaged, and lay down my pen to
give directions concerning the work in that most interesting
of all female employments, preparing for the coming of a
family of my own. Mrs. Palmer, who sees me writing these
words, says, 'How astonished you will be!' You will re-
joice in my happiness. I know you will. Forgive, dear
lady, all my errors, both of the weakness of my head and
heart. Give my love to all my dear friends. Any person
coming to this country, with a recommendation from you to
me, will find the warmest reception. In justice to my hus-
oand, I would forget what I have been, and I speak seldom
of my past errors, though, before God, I never cease to la-
ment and repent of them; and did I not know who ' died
for the ungodly,' my grief for the past would be without
consolation. Blessed faith, that teaches the contrite how
to. be comforted! Who can value Thee as he ought in this
struggling state!
 1 can add but a few more words, and I do so with
tears and trembling. It is not from pride of heart. Dear
lady, you must judge of its propriety. I am likely to in-
crease my family; and I would conceal from them, in future
years, their mother's early history, at least those parts
which arc so unworthy to be mentioned. But I feel that
my maideu name cannot he forgotten in your neighbour-
hood. Hundreds will speak of it when you and I shall be
no more. Oh that it could be represented to the world in
its proper light, as a warning to that portion of my country-
women to which 1 belonged, that they never give way to
their headstrong passions, lest they fall as I did! But ' the
tender mercies of God are over all his works,'and I can
never magnify that mercy too much, as it has been shown
to me.
 If, dear lady, as years increase, our correspondence
should not be so frequent, because of my altered situation
in this country, do not think me proud. Your feelings as
a mother will point to the nature of my own. You would
not have your children know your faults. Pardou this,
perhaps, my greatest weakness.
MARGARET CATCHPOLE. 367
•' Should you ever think fit, as you oneo hinted in your
letter to me, to write my history, or should leave it to others
to publish, you have my free permission, at my decease,
whenever that shall take place, so to do. But let my hus-
band's name be concealed. Change it, change it to ny
other; not for his sake, for it is worthy to be written in
golden characters, but for mine and my children's sake!
And now, dear lady, farewell. God's peace be with you!
and ever think of me as
"Your grateful and affectionate servant,
3< Margaret Barry.
So ends the correspondence of Margaret with her mis-
tress. That lady wrote one more letter to her, assuring
her of her joy and thankfulness at her providential settle-
ment in the land of her adoption. She told her that she
had kept the early facts of her history in such order, that
on some future day they might perhaps be published, but
that her wishes should be strictly attended to, and her pa-
rental anxieties respected. She took an affectionate leave
of her in that last letter, promising not to intrude anything of
past obligation upon her notice, but leaving it entirely to
her own heart to recognise any friends of hers, from the
county of Suffolk, who might, either in a military, naval,
or civil capacity, go out to Sydney. How delicately those
wishes were observed, some can well remember.
Margaret Barry lived many years at Windsor, greatly
respected and beloved. She had one son and two daugh-
ters, who received the best education which England could
afford, and returned to settle in their native land. Among
the foremost for intelligence, benevolence, activity, and
philanthropy, is the distinguished son of Margaret; and in
the future history of Australia he will bear no unimportant
share in her celebrity and greatness. The daughters are
amiable and accomplished, and have married gentlemen of
the first respectability in the country.
After fifteen years of the tenderest and most uninter-
rupted domestic comfort, Margaret had the severe affliction
to undergo of losing her devoted and excellent husband,
who died September 9th, 1827s leaving the bulk of his
368 HISTORY CP MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
property at her disposal. She removed to Sydney in 1828,
where she was conspicuous only for the mildness of her
manners, and the unostentatious character of her habits of
life.
She had a great desire that her son should settle in her
native county of Suffolk, and he came over to this country
with that view; and when the sale of Kentwell Hall took
place, he was nearly the last bidder for it. His resolution,
however, seemed to fail him at the last moment, and he did
not become the purchaser of the estate. He staid a year
in England, and then returned, with a determination not to
settle in any other country than his native one. He re-
turned to close the eyes of his affectionate parent, who
died September 10th, 1841, in the sixty-eighth year of
her age.
SUPPLEMENT
BY THE AUTHOR.
a. d. 1858.
Since the first publication of the Life of Margaret Catch-
pole, many have been the correspondents who have ad-
dressed the author upon the subject of her life and
character. Many have been the inquiries made concern-
ing her, and many things, which the author never heard
of her, have since come to light. They would fill a vo-
lume. The author has no intention of inflicting any
further pain upon the sensitive minds of some, who, in
writing to him, have quite overlooked the idea that he, the
author, had any sensitiveness whatsoever. He has no
intention of reviving any feeling of the past, respecting
what may or may not be mere local descriptive scenic
representation; but there are certain moral represent-
ations which the author gave, both of her early respect-
ability and character, which he deems it but a mere act
of common justice to her memory to substantiate, and
thus furnish the only defence which can ever be in his
power to make against those who accused him of wilful
misrepresentation. Though all the documents relating to
this extraordinary female are duly filed and preserved,—
and her own letters in her own handwriting have been
transmitted for inspection to several inquirers,—there are
some facts which may be interesting as proof positive of
the assertions contained in the narrative. To a few of
such the author now refers the reader.
24
70
SUPPLEMENT.
The first is a letter from the Reverend William Tilney
Spurdens, formerly head-master of the Grammar School
at North Walsham, Norfolk; a celebrated scholar, the
translator of Longinus,* the early and beloved tutor and
friend of the author. This gentleman had an uncle at
13randeston in Suffolk, with whom he used to stay, and to
that uncle and to Peggy's aunt he refers in this letter.
 North Walsham, 30th Oct. 1846.
 My dear Priend,
 I cannot delay to put you in possession of my ' love•
passages' with your heroine, albeit, at this present writing,
suffering much pain from asthma and chronic bronchitis,
which are both aggravated by our foggy air for some days
past.
:£ In my early childhood I had an uncle, an aged widower
with no family, who did me the favour of being very fond
of me. He had one domestic in his house, and another
out of it, the former a female, the latter a male. The
former rejoiced in the name of Nanny, I suppose there
was another postfixed to it, but of this I am not cognisant:
but Nanny had a niece, or cousin, or something of the
kind, named Peggy Catchpole; and whenever the old un-
cle's favourite paid him a visit, the maid's paid a visit to her,
ifor as Nanny used to say, ' it was so comfortable for
the children, like; and the little dears helped to amuse one
another;' and so it was that Peg and I walked together,
played together, and slept together.
 I wish I could give you dates, which are the sinews of
history, you know. There is one event which my mind
connects very exactly with this period, and which will af-
ford you one date. Peggy and her young swain were go-
ing on philandering at supper, at the time of the loss of
the Royal George, at Spithead. The newspaper came in
while my good relative was playing a hit at backgammon
with his neighbour, the doctor, as was their frequent prac-
tice ; and by dint of spelling, and a lift or two over hard
words, I read to them the mournful narrative. Por this I
received sixpence, and laid it out in figs, of which Peg and
her swain each ate so many as to make themselves ill.
 Now all this would unquestionably have been forgotten,
had it not been made fresh in the memory from Peggy's
* London: Longman, Eees, Orme, Brown, Green, and Longman, 1836.
So PLEMENl
371
subsequent career. Whilst she was in ipswkh Gaol 3
made interest with the personage, then usually called
' Old Hip} to see her, intending to give her money. I
must then have been a young man. She, however, would
not know anything of me—in fact, £ cut me': and so I
kept my money. But I afterwards learned that Pi pshaw
would not have permitted it to be given! 'And that's all.''
 I am afraid that, with all the exuberance of your ima-
gination, you would be puzzled to concoct a chapter out
of this.
 I am beginning to long for our young friend's visit in
order to my introduction to your other heroine.
Meanwhile I am,
My dear Sir,
Yours very truly,
W. T. SPUBDENS.
There is no need to concoct a chapter out of this let-
ter. It is the genuine offering of a kind heart and clear
head, and sufficiently explains the purpose in view; viz.
that Margaret was regarded in her early career with re-
spect and pure affection, by one who sought to relieve her
in her distress, and in a day of degradation and adversity
owned her as his early playmate, and would have minis-
tered to her necessity. Both, I trust, are now awaiting
that final day when the cup of cold water, given with a good
heart for Christ's sake, shall meet with a blessed reward.
The second letter is from a gentleman in Lincolnshire,
a solicitor and banker, and speaks to the career of that
brother Edward who is mentioned in the narrative.
 Alford, Lincolnshire, 10th Dec. 1816.
 Sir,
 I have lately read the Life of Margaret Catchpole, and
was deeply interested in it. Her brother Edward was se-
veral years in the preventive service in this neighbourhood,
at Sutton-in-the-Marsh, about six miles hence, where he
died and was buried a few years ago.
 I often saw him in his rounds on the sea-coast, and
have had conversations with him. He was rather a tall
person, and of stern manners. I could readily obtain a
copy of the inscription on his grave-stone, which refers to
his former residence at Ipswich, and forward it to you.
372
supplement.
should you wish it. His widow, who was a Norwich per-
sou, still lives in this neighbourhood.
I remain, Sir,
Your very obedient servant,
Henby T. Bottbne,
"Rev. Rich. Cobbold,
Wortham Rectory,
Diss, Norfolk.
 P. S. Since writing the above I have heard that Mr.
Edward Catchpole became a decidedly religious character
for the last few years of his life, and died a very happy
death.
Prom the same gentleman is the memoir here inserted
to Margaret's brother Edward, obtained from an authen-
ticated source, the substance of which is given in a note,
page 260.
"Mr. Edward Catchpole was born near Ipswich in
Suffolk, in the year 1778. Of his early days we know but
little; he was led to choose a sea-faring life in preference
to any other line of business; he served an apprenticeship
on board a merchant ship. Some time afterward he be-
came x late on board the Argus Revenue Cutter, of Har-
wich. Whilst in this service, a most interesting circum-
stance occurred, which deserves to be noticed. Sept. 18th,
1807, the Argus succeeded in rescuing an English coal-
brig from the Star, Erench privateer. Having put some
men on board the brig, elated with success, they go in pur-
suit of the privateer. They soon fall in with her, and a
sharp engagement ensues, and at 10 o'clock at night the
capt or was captured; they came to close quarters, and, ow-
oig to the great disparity in numbers, the privateer hav-
ing 86 men, and the cutter only 27, they, were boarded,
overpowered, taken into a Erench port, and sent to prison.
Mr. C. was about seven years in a Erench prison. Ere-
quently his expectations were raised by hopes of liberation,-
an exchange of prisoners was often talked of, but still they
were kept in bondage and suspense. A favourable oppor-
tunity occurring, he made his escape, and came over to
England. His arrival at home was so sudden and unexpected
to his wife, that he seemed to her almost like one come from
the dead Subsequently he was appointed chief officer in the
SUPPLEMENT.
373
Coast-guards; his last station was at Sutton-in-the-Marsh,
in the county of Lincoln; there his health failed, and there
he finished his earthly course, and made a good end. His
conversion to G-od was most satisfactory. In his affliction
the Lord graciously supported him, he had a hope full of
immortality, and his end was peace. He died on the 17th
of December, 1836. He changed mortality for life. He
was interred in the churchyard at Sutton, and a stone has
been placed at the head of his grave, with the following
inscription:
In memory of
Edward Catchpole
a native of Ipswich
in the County of Suffolk
and late Chief Officer of the
Coast Guard
Stationed at this place
who died December the 17th 1836
Aged 58 years.
As some correspondents have actually accused the au-
thor of producing before the public a fictitious character,
and in terms of unmeasured reprobation told him plainly
that they understood there never was such a person as
Margaret Catchpole in existence, the author here gives
a copy of the document signed by her judge, the Lord
Chief Baron Macdonald. This document was not obtained
until after the publication of the work. The original is
preserved in the Corporation Chest at Ipswich.
Copy of a Certificate from the Bight Honourable Lord
Chief Baron Macdonald, to exempt from all parish offices,
for having prosecuted Margaret Catchpole at Bury Assizes,
Aug. 11th, 1797.
"These are to certify, That at the delivery of the
Gaol of our Lord the King, of the County of Suffolk,
holden at Bury St. Edmunds, in the County aforesaid,
on Wednesday, the ninth day of August instant, before
me, whose name is hereunto subscribed, and others his
Majesty's Justices, assigned to deliver the aforesaid Gaol
of the Prisoners, therein being Margaret Catchpole, late
of the Parish of St. Margaret, in the Town of Ipswich, in
the County aforesaid, single woman, convicted of feloni-
ously stealing a Gelding, of the price of twenty pounds,
374
"SUPPLEMENT;
of the goods and chattels of John Cobbold, on the twenty-
third day of May last, at the Parish aforesaid, in the Town
and County aforesaid; and that the said John Cobbold was
the person who did apprehend and take the said Margaret
Catchpole, and did prosecute her, so apprehended and
taken, until she was convicted of the Pelony. ^ Therefore,
in pursuance of an Act of Parliament made in the tenth
and eleventh years of the reign of his late Majesty king
William the Third, intituled, An Act for the better appre-
hending, prosecuting, and punishing of felons that com-
mit burglary, housebreaking, or robbery, in shops, ware-
houses, coachhouses, or stables, or that steal horses; I do
hereby further certify, that by virtue hereof and of the
said Act of Parliament, he, the said John Cobbold, shall
and may be, and is hereby, discharged of and from all man-
ner of Parish Offices within the Parish of St. Margaret, in
the Town of Ipswich aforesaid, in the County aforesaid.
 In testimony whereof I have hereunto set my hand
this eleventh day of August, in the year of our Lord one
thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven.
An. Macdonald.
The author now approaches a most painful, and yet
he trusts a pleasurable, duty. Painful, because his own
mind and that of others have been excessively hurt by a
misconception of the identity of that Margaret Catchpole
whose life he has written, and pleasurable, because of th?
opportunity afforded him of contradicting the fact so often
asserted, that Mrs. Reibey of JSTew Town, Sydney, was the
identical Margaret Catchpole.
The relatives and friends of that highly-esteemed lady,
lately deceased, will be glad to read a letter from the late
Bishop of Australia, written to one of his clergy, the Eev.
H. D. D. Sparling, of Appin, New South Wales, the good
Bishop himself, as well as hundreds of others, having been
deceived in that identity from a strange but very simple
mistake, viz. that of two places bearing the same name in
England, though one be in Suffolk,—Bury, and the other
in Lancashire—Bury.
Hence originated the grand mistake concerning JIrs.
Beibey who emigrated from Bury in Lancashire, and
Margaret Catchpole, who was tried at Bury in Suffolk. It
appears from original letters in the possession of the au-
SUPPLEMENT.
375
thor, and from Mrs. Reibey's herself, that Suffolk was to-
tally unknown to her. She was very j ustly hurt at presents
being sent to her, under the idea that she was that poor
girl, whose correspondence and gratitude to her bene-
factress, the late Mrs. Cobbold of Holywells, showed her to
be honest and exemplary. She was justly hurt, because
therein was the supposition that she had been tried and
convicted as a felon, and was transported for horse-steal-
ing.
The friends and relatives of Mrs. Reibey, as well as all
Christians, will be glad to read the amiable Bishop's letter;
and even the author, whom it condemns, gives it to the
public, because his own heart is in full accordance with
the charity therein breathed; and he is even more anxious
to turn the hearts of that lady's relatives in gratitude to
that spirit and testimony which this good man gives of all
the branches of their respectable family.
Notwithstanding the remonstrance conveyed in the
Bishop's letter, concerning the publication of the Life of
the real Margaret Catchpole, over which the author had
then no more control than he now has, he cannot help here
expressing his gratitude to all those who, viewing the nar-
rative in the light of truth, and intention on the author's
part to convey a moral and spiritual warning and lesson
in an easy and instructive style, have written to him let-
ters of approbation.
The Bishop's letter, whilst it will animate the hearts
of Mrs. Reibey's real relatives, will also speak equally
kindly to the descendants of the real Margaret Catchpole,
and will be the author's best proof of his desire to convey
the Bishop's love to them along with his own. The wild-
est olive, when grafted into the true stem, must be pro-
ductive of good fruit.
Mrs. Reibey, a high-spirited, romantic girl, from the
neighbourhood of Bury in Lancashire, of good family, with
friends and relatives of England's noblest merchants, con-
ceived the idea that she should be happier in our distant
colony than in the Mother Country. She left England
very young, and, like many of her sex, succeeded in prov-
ing that her enterprising spirit was not unrewarded. She
lived respected by her family and friends in England,
and although mistaken by the good Bishop himself, yet
noble testimony is borne to the excellence of her character.
376
SUPPLEMENT.
She was a clever woman of business, and of a noble dis-r
position. The author can only hope, that all her relatives,
and friends who have written to him will thus accept al}
his hands the apology for all the mistakes that have arisen;-
whilst, at the same time, he rejoices to keep concealed
the name of Margaret's real descendants, until they shall
themselves divulge it.
 Sydney, 18th April, 1845.
"Reverend Sir,
 I was very much vexed to learn from your letter of the
15th inst. the course which it is intended to be taken with
reference to the publication named in the Prospectus which
you forwarded, and which is now returned. My opinion
entirely coincides with yours and Mr. Hossall's as to the
inexpediency of such an undertaking. It would be cruel
even to the individual, whoever it may be, to have early
offences thus placed permanently on record as a memorial
of shame and cause of annoyance to her younger and per-
fectly innocent connexions. Indeed, if the party meant be
the one whom allusions in your letter lead me to conjee-
ture, they who would suffer in their feelings are not only in-
nocent, but praiseworthy in a very high degree for exertions
in the cause of religion, and of the Church of England,
scarcely to be paralleled by any instance I have ever known.
The Bishop of Tasmania would regret equally with myself,
perhaps even more, that any pain should be occasioned to
parties so worthy of respect. If my conjecture be right,
I happened once to be in circumstances which placed other
members of the same family (young females just attaining
to womanhood) under my close and special attention, and
I can truly testify the impression by me was, that they
were in character and deportment altogether unexception-
able, and in habits of devotion very exemplary. Others I
know, are regarded by the clergyman of their parish as
among the best instructed and sober-minded of the com-
municants in his church.
 My acquaintance with Mr. Cobbold is not such as I
think would justify my taking any step which would so
much carry the air of remonstrance as that of my writing
to him would.
 It appears to me that as you have, through various cir-
cumstances, been brought into correspondence wfth him, it
SUPPLEMENT.
377
would be more proper that you should make a statement
of the true, facts, and of the view which is taken of his pro-
posal. At the same time, if you think it would strengthen
your case if he were acquainted with my sentiments, I can
have no objection to your communicating them; as all my
statements to you upon the subject have been in accord-
ance with them, and expressive of my satisfaction at wit-
nessing the exemplary conduct of the individuals whom
I suppose to be alluded to.
I remain,
Eeverend Sir,
Tour very faithful servant,
"W. G. Austbalia.
 Eev. H. D. D. Spablistg,
Parsonage, Appin:
Mrs. Eeibey is no more, and the author acknowledges
the receipt of very satisfactory letters from her and her
relatives, all conveying their free pardon for any uninten-
tional pain, which might have been given to an innocent
and praiseworthy individual, but assuredly they did not en-
dure, and never could endure, the pangs which the author
himself received at the very thought of giving pain to
others.
He ever did admire the conduct of his mother towards
her erring servant, believing it to be as magnanimous and
Christian-like as that of the Bishop towards her supposed
relatives, and though circumstances compelled the prose-
cution in question,'and the very prevalence of the crime
at the time made it too notorious to be disregarded,—the
years of intercourse, and passing presents to and fro, be-
tween the prosecutor and the prisoner, made too deep an
impression upon the young heart of the author to be ob-
literated even in these his old days.
He cannot help thinking that the removal of the card
which was placed at the foot of the "Manura Superba,
the first Lyra Pheasants sent from that country to Eng-
land, as a present from Margaret Catchpole to her mistress,
and presented by Mrs. Cobbold's eldest son to the Ipswich
Museum, simply because it stated the fact of her trans-
portation, was, however kind in intention, a mistake in
point of judgment. The object of all records of crime
ought to be taken as warnings to others; though the simple
378 SUPPLEMENT.
fact of such birds being sent as a grateful present from a
once poor transport, proves tbat tbe heart was not totally
devoid of grace, and that we should ourselves be more glad
to see such a noble token of love, in the days of poverty,
than the most splendid monuments of accumulated wealth.
One duty only remains for the author, and that is the
last and very simple one of gratitude, to the memory of
those who loved his mother, as well as to those living who
were subscribers to the monument placed in the Tower
Church, Ipswich, to her memory. That duty is simply to
record the inscription engraved upon it; and the author
does so, because, as years increase, so much the brighter in
his mind is the memory of the talents and virtues of the
departed.
AS A PUBLIC TESTIMONY OE BESPECT
EOE EXALTED TALENTS AND UNWEABIED EXEBTION
IN THE CAUSE OE BENEVOLENCE AND CHABITY
THIS MONUMENT IS EBECTED BY THE GENEEAL
CONCUEEENCE OE AN EXTENSIVE CIBCLE OE EBIEND8
TO THE MEMOEY OE
ELIZABETH COBBOLD
THE BELOVED WIEE OF JOHN COBBOLD ESQ
OE HOLYWELLS
SHE DIED OCTOBEE XVII MDCCCXIV.
AGED LIX.
Rectory, Wortham,
Oct. 2.1 tt, 1858.
SECOND SUPPLEMENT.
A. D. 1862.
The documents hereafter named confirmatory of some of
the leading facts of this remarkable narrative have recently
come into the publisher's possession, namely :
1. The original printed Hand-Bill issued after the horse
was stolen, and offering a reward for the convic
tion of the offender.
2. The copy of Margaret's Examination and Confession
(in M.S.)
3. The Counsel's Brief for the prosecution (M.S.)
4. Four Letters from Hew South "Wales in the hand-
writing of Margaret Catchpole, bearing the follow-
ing dates, May 20th, 1803; October 8th, 1806;
January 28th, 1807; September 2nd, 1811.
Mr. S. Catton of Plaistow has also kindly sent the
following interesting statement:—
FURTHER PARTICULARS OF MARGARET
CATCHPOLE.
It is about 62 years back this spring (1862) since I
saw Margaret Catchpole the day that she made her escape
from the Ipswich Jail. She and William Laud passed
over the ferry at Woodbridge on the Sutton side, and
made their way to Wilford Bridge, where I and another
boy of the name of Thomas Rumsby, who now lives at
Woodbridge, where he keeps a beer-shop, were playing near
380
SECOND SUPPLEMENT.
the bridge, when a female came up, and directed Margaret
the way to Sudbourn. The next day there was a hue and
cry that Margaret Catchpole had escaped from the Ipswich
Jail, and Eipshaw and the Melton constable were in
pursuit of her, when the former inquired of me if I had
seen a person -with a long smock frock on and white
trousers, and a bundle under his arm. I then directed him
towards Hatchly barn through Eyke, and then he told me
she was a female escaped from the Ipswich Jail, and if I
could tell him where she was he would give me a new
great coat, for to the best of my recollection I then
had on a coat patched up (like Joseph's coat of many
colours), and the same day I understood William Laud
got shot by Margaret's side on the beach at Sudbourn,
and I expect this is where Eipshaw branded me as the
Shepherd boy, but I was then minding cattle on the
walks near Bromswell  Cherry Tree.
Although she had come over the Woodbridge ferry in
a sailor's garb, when she got to Wilford Bridge, there I
expect she put on the smock frock and white trousers, as
we found many materials under some alder trees, that
convinced us that it was there she had changed her apparel,
and I expect at this place William Laud went to Sudbourn
to prevent detection. Four or five years back I was
addressing an audience in Eyke, and I related to the
people there this circumstance, when an elderly female
told me she was Eving at the Melton  Horse and Groom 
at the time as cook, and that she cooked a dinner for
Eipshaw and the Melton constable, I suppose the day
after William Laud got shot, when they were taking
Margaret back to prison.
Thus far,
S. CATTON.
Witness, H. C. WHITING.
January 18 th, 1862.
Ilowrcad^t &« Tenth Thousand (a delightful novelty for Children), small folio, beauti-Nh
4 fully coloured, 2a. 6d., ^
THE LITTLE BUILDER;
Or, How a Child may Make a Cardboard Village without using any adhesive material.
A book toy f ir allBeasons. This clever and instructive book toy has become an established
favourite with children, for whom it is a never-ending source of interest and amusement,
and a vehicle for the exercise of,constructive ingenuity. ' , j '
• • J*
T—1 * 
Cost ready, uniform with the  Little Builder, small folio, coloured, 2s. 6cL, -
THE LITTLE ENGINEER;
Or, How a Child may Make a Cardboard Railroad, Station, Engine, Tender, Carriages,
Signal Post, Ac., without U3ing any adhesive material. The success of this very beautiful
and interesting book toy is likely to exceed even that of the  Little Builder, and the
effect produced, when carefully put together, is charming in the extreme.
Mortality among Infants.—Every Mother should procure
THE MOTHER'S RESOURCE BOOK;
' ' Price 3s. 3d. ,,
I G
Comprising Management during Infancy—Discipline of the Expectant Mother—also tj{
Children's Complaints—Cookery—Clothing—Amusements—Physical Development—Edn- '
cation—and Moral Training. Illustrated with Engravings. ■
New edition, price 2s. 6d., cloth,
THE DOMESTIC MEDICAL GUIDE;
Giving the best Advice, in the absence of a Surgeon, in Cases of Accident or Sudden
Illness, .with Directions as to the Medicine to be taken, &c. By J. Hogg, M.R.C.S., Ac.
This book is a perfect compendium of advice for all the  ills which flesh is heir to. No
family should be without it.
Just published, price ,2s., linen boards, or cloth gilt,. 2s. 3d.,
HOUSEHOLD HINTS;
Or, How to Make Home Happy, with £00 Odds and Ends Worth Remembering, By W.
Jones, F.8.A. 820 pp., fcp, 8vo.
Now ready, 150 pp., 16mo, cloth boards, Is. 6cL',
' USEFUL HINTS FOR ALL;
Or, Steps fa life. Containing Information on Speaking, Writing, Health, Usages of
Society, Dress, Marriage, Etiquette, Ac.
LEARN to READ, Write, and Speak the ENGLISH LANGUAGE correctly.—Just ready,
price 5s., half-bound,
THE DICTIONARY OF EVERY DAY DIFFICULTIES
In Reading, Writing, and Speaking the English Language, or Hard Words Made Easy;
containing a full and complete description of the difficult words fa the English language.
Prospectus sent for Id.
PRACTICAL DICTIONARY OF ENGLISH SYNONYMS. . -
By D. L. Mackenzie. 216 pages, cloth gilt. Price 2s., cloth.
LONDON: WARD AND LOCK, 158 FLEET STREET*
WARD & LOCK'S POPULAR NOVELS,
PRICE TWO SHILLINGS EACH.
THE SAILOR HERO; OR, FRIGATE
AND LUGGER—Captain Armstrong, ,
THE PRELATE—J. F. Smith,
SKETCHES IN LONDON—Grant.
THE WIDOW MARRIED—Mrs. TroRopt.
MAN OF THE WORLD—& W. Fullom.
KING AND COUNTESS—S. W. Fullom.
SKETCHES OF ENGLISH CHARAC-
TER—Mrs. Core.
ROLAND DE MONTREVEL—Dumat.
.WILD HUNTRESS—AT. Reid.
HECTOR MAINWARINQ—Fonblanqve,
IRISH POLICE-OFFICER-M7ur<i;.
DISGUISED NOBLEMAN—Feuillet.
THE SMUGGLER-1-JSam'm.
ZOHRAB, THE HOSTAGE—Morier.
HAJJI BABA IN ISPAHAN—Morier.
THE IMPROVISATORE—Andersen.
OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN—Mitlt.
The cruise of the daring-
Captain Armstrong,
parsons and widows—Author of
"Peter Priggins.
zana the gipsy—S'event.
captain macdonald—John Lang.
nick of the woods-r. Bird.
fern leaves—Fanny Fern.
jonathan oldaker—Crawford WU~
son.
love at first sight — Captain
Curling.
curiosities of detection—
life in dixie's land.
cross purposes—Casson.
pere goriot—Balzac,
pic-nic papers—Dichent.
simple story—Inchbald.
recollections of botany bay
'-Lang.
WORKS BY
STABLE SECRETS. Illustrations by H.
K. Brown. 2s. 6d.
THE LIFE of a RACE HORSE. Hlus-
trations by H. K. Brown. 2s. 6d.
THE FLYERS of the HUNT. Hlustra-
tions by Leech.- - 8s. 6d.
JOHN MILLS.
THE LIFE of a FOXHOUND. Dins-
trations by Leech.. 6s.
THE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN,
2s.
THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. 2s.
RECOLLECTIONS of BOTANY BAY.
2s. ' ' '
CAPTAIN MACDONALD; or, The
Bailiffs Outwitted. 2s. I
TOO MUCH ALIKE. 1#.
WORKS BY JOHN LANG.
TOO CLEVER BY HALF. Is.
THE FORGER'S WIFE. Is.
SECRET POLICE. Is.
MY FRIEND'S WIFE. Is.
WEBSTER'S NEW PRONOUNCING DICTIONARY,
8vo, price 7s. 6d., cloth, carefully amended. Noah Webster's new Universal Pronouncing
and Defining Dictionary of the English Language. Condensed from Webster's large
work. By C. A Goodrich, D.D.; ti which are added Walker's Key to the Pronunciation
of Classical and Scriptural Proper Names, Abbreviationuised in Writing, Printing, Ac.
Johnson and Walker superseded. Containing 10,000 more words than Walker's Diction,
ary. Revised Edition, by William G. Webster, royal 16mo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.; or
strongly hound in roan, gUt, 3s.; ditto, cloth, Is. 6d.; ditto, cloth, boards, Is.,
WEBSTER'S POCKET PRONOUNCING DICTIONARY
* Of the ENGLISH LANGUAGE, condensed from the original Dictionary by Noah Webster,
LL.D. With accented Vocabularies of Classical, Scriptural, and Modern Geographical
LONDON: WARD AND LOCK, 158 FLEET STREET.
THE LIBRARY OF POPULAR AUTHORS.
Price Two Shillings per Volume.
Under this title, WARD and LOCK will issue from time
to time Popular Works of Fiction by well-known Authors.
Each Volume is clearly printed on good paper, and strongly
bound in boards, with Linen Back.
THE MORALS OF MAY-FAIR ... AUTHOR OF CREEDS
THE CRUISE OF THE DARING • • CAPTAIN ARMSTRONG
THE SAILOR HERO CAPTAIN ARMSTRONG!!
MARGARET CATCHPOLL REV. R. CQBBOLD
JOHN STEG6ALL • AUTHOR OF MARGARET CATCHPOU
STUART OF OUNLEATH • HON. MRS. NORTON
WILD OATS • ■ f. ■ - SIR LASCEU.ES WRAXALL, BT.
THE JILT AUTHOR OF HISTORY OF A FLIRT
ADVENTURES OF A FRENCH DETECTIVE • "WATERS"!!
MRS. TROLLOPE;
MRS. S. C. HALL
• Mho. GREY* i
mrs. mm
AUTHOR OF JILT
THE ATTRACTIVE MAN
MARIAN
THE OPERA SINGER'S WIFE
EMILIA WYNDHAM • - •
LIFE OF A BEAUTY
HE WOULD BE A GENTLEMAN SAMUEL LOVE*
FATHER OARCY MRS. MARSHf
MARRYING MAN . . . k AUTHOR OF JILTj
MY PRETTY COUSIN AUTHOR OF JILT
LADY EVELYN ■ . . • ■ AUTHOR OF EMILIA WTHDHAti
THE FLOWER OF THE FOREST • PERCY B. ST. JOHlij
LOVE AND JEALOUSY W MRS. TROLLOPF
PEfP 0' DAY J. BANIM-i
MORDAUNT HALL ... • AUTHOR OF EMILIA WYHDHAR
* *
CONFESSIONS OF A PRETTY WOMAN
MAURICE TIERNAY • I
YOUNG HUSBAND • .
BREACH OF PROMISE- •
HISTORY OF A FLIRT .
AMY MOSS
POE'S TALES OF MYSTERY, IMAGINATION, & HUMOUf
TIME THE AVENGER • • K • AUTHOR OF EMILIA WYIUDHAN
MISS PARDON
CHARLES LEVEP
• - MRS. GREY
AUTHOR OF JILT
AUTHOR OF J L
PERCY B. ST. JOHN
M 9. UIIMnilti!
LONDON • WARD AND LOCK, 158, FLEET STRET.