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The World's Classics
CXIX
MARGARET CATCHPOLE
BY
RICHARD COBBOLD
OXFORD: HORACE HART
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
HISTORY OF
MARGARET
CATCHPOLE
BY
RICHARD COBBOLD
THE HISTORY OF
MARGARET CATCHPOLE
A SUFFOLK GIRL
BY
RICHARD COBBOLD
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY CLEMENT SHORTER
[Illustration]
HENRY FROWDE
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON, NEW YORK, TORONTO AND MELBOURNE
Richard Cobbold
Born, Ipswich 1797
Died January 5, 1877
_'Margaret Catchpole' was first published in 1845. In 'The World's
Classics' it was first published in 1907 and reprinted in 1912._
INTRODUCTION
Three personalities interest us in reading the novel of _Margaret
Catchpole_--the author, the heroine, and the author's mother, in whose
service the real Margaret Catchpole was employed. Neither the author nor
his mother has been the subject of much biographical effort, although
Richard Cobbold was an industrious novelist, poet, and essayist for a
long period of years, and wrote this one book that will always, I think,
be read. His mother, Elizabeth Cobbold, made some reputation as a writer
of verse, and is immortalized for us in Charles Dickens's Mrs. Leo
Hunter. Fortunately we have a sketch of her by one Laetitia Jermyn,
dated 1825, and attached to a volume of _Poems_, published at Ipswich in
that year.[1] Laetitia Jermyn tells us that Elizabeth's maiden name was
Knipe, and that she was born in Watling Street, London, about 1764, her
father being Robert Knipe of Liverpool. In 1787 she published a little
volume of verse entitled _Six Narrative Poems_, which she dedicated to
Sir Joshua Reynolds, evidently by permission. It is clear that in
girlhood she had made the acquaintance of the great painter. Her
biographer says nothing about her being an actress, but it is a
tradition in Ipswich that this was for a time her profession. In 1790
she was married at Liverpool to William Clarke, a Portman of the
borough and Comptroller of the Customs of Ipswich, who was apparently
about sixty years of age and in very delicate health. The sprightly
young wife wrote the following lines to her husband on St. Valentine's
Day, soon after their marriage:--
Eliza to William this Valentine sends,
While ev'ry good wish on the present attends;
And freely she writes, undisturb'd by a fear,
Tho' prudes may look scornful, and libertines sneer.
Tho' tatlers and tale-bearers smiling may say,
"Your Geniuses always are out of the way,"
Sure none but herself would such levities mix,
With the seriousness suited to grave twenty-six.
A Wife send a Valentine! Lord, what a whim!
And then of all people to send it to him!
Make love to her husband! my stars, how romantic!
The Girl must be certainly foolish or frantic;
But I always have thought so, else what could engage
Her to marry a man who is twice her own age?
While the tabbies are thus on my motives enlarging,
My sentiments William may read in the margin.
On the wings of old Time have three months past away
Since I promis'd "to honour, to love, and obey,"
And surely my William's own heart will allow
That my conduct has ne'er disagreed with my vow.
Would health spread her wings round my husband and lord,
To his cheeks could the smiles of delight be restor'd;
The blessing with gratitude I should receive,
As the greatest that Mercy benignant could give;
And heedless of all that conjecture may say,
With praise would remember St. Valentine's day.
I quote this valentine at length because it is a fair sample of the
quality of our poet's efforts. At the end of the eighteenth century, and
far into the nineteenth, a rhyming faculty of this kind was quite
sufficient to make a literary reputation in an English provincial town,
and in the case of Mrs. Clarke it was followed up by the writing of a
novel, _The Sword_, published at Liverpool in 1791. It is interesting to
find the name of Roscoe the historian among the subscribers for this
book. In the same year--within six months of her marriage--the writer
lost her husband.
The interest of Elizabeth Knipe's life, however, begins for us when very
shortly after this she became the wife of John Cobbold, of the Cliff
Brewery, Ipswich. Cobbold was a widower. He had already had sixteen
children, of whom fourteen were then living. When it is remembered that
by his second wife he had six more children it will be seen that there
was a large family, and it is not surprising therefore that the Cobbold
name is still very much in evidence in Norfolk and Suffolk, and
particularly in Ipswich. "Placed in the bosom of this numerous family",
writes her biographer, "and indulged in the means of gratifying her
benevolent and liberal spirit, 'The Cliff' became the home of her
dearest affections, the residence of taste, and the scene of
hospitality." One need not complain of the lady that she was not very
much of a poet, for she had otherwise a versatile character. In addition
to being, as we are assured, a good housekeeper, she was, if her
self-portraiture be accepted, a worker in many fields:--
A botanist one day, or grave antiquarian,
Next morning a sempstress, or abecedarian;
Now making a frock, and now marring a picture,
Next conning a deep, philosophical lecture;
At night at the play, or assisting to kill
The time of the idlers with whist or quadrille;
In cares or amusements still taking a part,
Though science and friendship are nearest my heart.
Laetitia Jermyn tells us much about her charity and kindness of heart,
her zeal in behalf of many movements to help the poor, and she dwells
with enthusiasm upon her friend's literary achievements.[2] But the
scope of this Introduction to her son's book does not justify devoting
more attention to the mother, although her frequent appearance in
Margaret Catchpole's partially true story demands that something be said
about her "mistress". Elizabeth Cobbold died in 1824. Her husband
outlived her for eleven years. John Cobbold (1746-1835) traced back his
family in the direct line as landowners in Suffolk to a Robert Cobbold,
who died in 1603. He was a banker as well as a brewer, and lived first
at "The Cliff" and afterwards at "Holywells", which has ever since been
the seat of the head of the family. It was the fourteenth child of his
first marriage--Henry Gallant Cobbold--who was saved from drowning by
Margaret Catchpole.
It was Richard Cobbold, one of the six sons of the second marriage of
John Cobbold, who was the author of this story. When he was born he had
ten nephews and nieces awaiting him, the children of his brothers and
sisters of the first family, and he was at school with his own nephew,
who was just a fortnight younger than himself. The nephew was John
Chevallier Cobbold, who for twenty-one years represented Ipswich in
Parliament. For this information I am indebted to a grandson[3], who
also sends me the following anecdotes:--
When John Cobbold--the father of twenty-two children--was High
Sheriff, he once persuaded the Judge to come to dine with him on
condition that there should be no one to meet him except his (J.
C.'s) own family. When the Judge was shown into a drawing-room full
of people, he was very angry, and said loudly before the company,
"Mr. Cobbold, you have deceived me." Explanations followed, and the
Judge was introduced to the various members of the family.
Elizabeth Cobbold was in the habit of saying that when she married
her husband she found no books in the house except Bibles and
account-books.
Brewing was such good business in those days that John Cobbold was
able to give to each of his two youngest sons (twenty-first and
twenty-second children) a University education, and to buy for each
of them a church living worth L1,000 a year.
Richard Cobbold was educated at Bury St. Edmunds and at Caius College,
Cambridge, was destined for the Church, and when he married he was a
curate in Ipswich[4], but his father obtained for him the living of
Wortham, near Diss, where he was Rector from 1825 until his death in
1877. He was also rural dean of Hartismere. Several years after
celebrating his golden wedding--Dr. Spencer Cobbold informs me--he and
his wife died within a day or two of each other; the survivor did not
know the other was gone; both were buried at the same time. Of the three
sons who survived, one became Rector of Hollesley, another was the
father of the well-known amateur footballer, W. N. Cobbold, and the
third was the Fellow of the Royal Society, to whom I have already
referred, and to whose son I am indebted for so many interesting facts.
That Richard Cobbold was not particularly honoured in his own country
may be gathered from many quarters. One writer speaks of his "little
vanities, his amusing egotisms, and his good natured pomposity". It was
clearly not Suffolk that helped to make his fame, if we may accept one
of the few printed references to him that I have been able to find:--
I confess I never knew a Suffolk man at home or abroad who would
take any pride in being the fellow countryman of this clerical
novel-writer; but in different parts of England I have seen reason
to believe that our division of the eastern counties has a place in
the minds of many thousands of people only by reason of the Rev.
Richard Cobbold and his works, that the ancient town of Ipswich,
which we hail from as if it were a niche in the temple of fame, has
never been heard of except as the scene of some of the chief
adventures of Margaret Catchpole.[5]
Other books are assigned to our author in the catalogues, but I doubt if
one of them survives other than _Margaret Catchpole_, which not only
survives, but is really a classic in its way. One story, indeed,
_Freston Tower_, held the public for a time almost as well as the
present book, but I imagine it has ceased to command the attention even
of the most remote village library, where indeed it was long ago worn
threadbare.[6] Essentially our author is a man of one book, and many
adventitious circumstances helped him here. It was no small thing that
the heroine should actually have been a native of the very district in
which the writer lived. She was not merely a vivid tradition of his
boyhood, but had been in the service of his mother and had stolen from
his father the horse that gave her so unpleasant a notoriety. Here was
a romance ready to hand, which needed but to be set down in passably
good writing to attract attention. It might have been worse written than
it was by this worthy clergyman and would still have secured readers.
How much is truth and how much is fiction in the story will never be
known. If Mr. Cobbold had an abundance of documents about this girl
Margaret Catchpole and her affairs, inherited from his parents, he must
have destroyed them. He claims in the course of the story that, as
Margaret three times saved the life of a member of Mr. Cobbold's family,
it is not surprising that the records of her life should be so strictly
preserved among them. But these records do not appear to exist any
longer. It is doubtful if they ever did exist. The author probably
worked from family traditions rather than from documents. He possessed,
in addition, a genuine imaginative faculty.
Such documents as do exist do not amount to enough to justify the
author's declaration that here is "a perfectly true narrative". Mr.
Frank Woolnough, of Ipswich[7], courteously informs me that a letter by
Margaret Catchpole, written only a few days before she sailed to
Australia, and the lyre bird that she sent to her mistress about a year
after her arrival, are the two curiosities of the Museum most eagerly
inquired after by strangers. Here is the letter in question:--
ipswich May 25th 1801
honred madam
i am sorrey i have to inform you this Bad newes that i am going
away on wedensday next or thursday at the Longest so i hav taken
the Liberty my good Ladey of trobling you with a few Lines as it
will Be the Larst time i ever shall trobell you in this sorrofoll
Confinement my sorrows are very grat to think i must Be Banished
out of my owen Countreay and from all my Dearest friendes for ever
it is very hard inded for any one to think on it and much moor for
me to enduer the hardship of it honred madam i should Be very
happey to see you on tuesday Befor i Leve englent if it is not to
much trobbell for you for i am in grat confushon my self now my
sorrowes are dobbled i must humbly Beg on your Goodness to Consider
me a Littell trifell of monney it wold Be a very Grat Comfort to
your poor
unhappy searvent
Margreat Catchpole
How small a matter a sentence of death for horse-stealing was counted in
the closing years of the eighteenth century may be gathered from the
fact that the contemporary newspaper report of 1797 runs only to five
lines, as follows:--
"Margaret Catchpole, for stealing a coach horse, belonging to John
Cobbold, Esq., of Ipswich (with whom she formerly lived as a
servant), which she rode from thence to London in about 10 hours,
dressed in man's apparel, and having there offered it for sale was
detected."
Undoubtedly one of the characteristics of the book that give it so
permanent a place in literature is the circumstance that it preserves
for us a glimpse of the cruel criminal law of the eighteenth century.
Hanging for small offences went on for years after this, until, indeed,
public opinion was revolted by the case of the young married woman who
in Ludgate Hill lifted a piece of cloth from the counter. She hesitated
and then put it down again. But she had been seen, and was arrested,
tried, condemned, and hanged, although it was clearly proved that her
husband had been seized by a press-gang and that her babe cried for
bread. After this time came a reaction against the death penalty for
theft. Margaret, then, was more fortunate than that unhappy woman and
than the more celebrated Deacon Brodie, who was hanged in Edinburgh, the
city which he had adorned as a Councillor, for a house-breaking theft
which brought him four pounds or less. She doubtless owed her escape to
the powerful influence of the Cobbolds.[8]
_Margaret Catchpole_ is the classic novel of Suffolk. That county of
soothing landscape and bracing sea has produced greater books; it has
given us more interesting authors than Richard Cobbold. Within its
borders were written the many fine poems of George Crabbe, the many
attractive letters of Edward Fitz Gerald. The remarkable paraphrase from
the Persian known to all the English speaking world as _The Rubaiyat of
Omar Khayyam_ was composed here. But, although many latter-day novelists
have laid their scenes in these pleasant places, made memorable by the
art of Constable, not one has secured so fascinating a topic or so
world-wide an audience. Margaret Catchpole is one of the few heroines of
fiction of whom one loves to remember that she was real flesh and blood.
CLEMENT SHORTER.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: _Poems by Mrs. Elizabeth Cobbold, with a Memoir of the
Author._ Ipswich: Printed and sold by J. Raw in the Butter Market,
1825.]
[Footnote 2: The three most talked of books by Elizabeth Cobbold
were:--_The Mince Pye_, an Heroic Epistle, humbly addressed to the
Sovereign Dainty of a British Feast, by Caroline Petty Pasty, 1800.
_Cliff Valentines_, 1813. _An Ode to the Victory of Waterloo_, 1815. The
suggestion is made in the _Dictionary of National Biography_ that she
was descended on the mother's side from Edmund Waller the poet, but this
is exceedingly improbable.]
[Footnote 3: Dr. Spencer Cobbold, of Batheston, Somerset, a grandson of
Richard Cobbold, and the son of T. Spencer Cobbold, M.D. (1828-1886),
the distinguished helminthologist, who was the youngest F.R.S. of his
day. He had made some original investigations concerning Entozoa, and
was the author of many books on "Parasites" and kindred subjects.]
[Footnote 4: At the Tower Church. He lived at St. Margaret's Green.]
[Footnote 5: _Public Men of Ipswich and East Suffolk_, by Richard
Gowing. Ipswich: W. J. Scopes, 1875.]
[Footnote 6: The following books by Richard Cobbold are in the British
Museum Library:--
_Valentine Verses, or Lines of Truth, Love, and Virtue_ 1827
_A Sermon on Matthew xiv_ 1829
_The Spirit of the Litany of the Church of England._
A Poem 1833
_The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl._
2 vols. 1845
_Mary Anne Wellington. A Soldier's Daughter,
Wife and Widow._ 3 vols. 1846
_Zenon the Martyr._ 3 vols. 1847
_The Young Man's Home, or The Penitent's Return_ 1848
_The Character of Woman._ A Lecture 1848
_A Voice from the Mount_ 1848
_A Sermon on Genesis i. 3_ 1849
_Conversations between J. Rye and Mr. Parr_ 1848
_The Comforter, or Short Addresses from the Book of
Job_ 1850
_A Father's Legacy._ The Proverbs of Solomon in
Prose and Verse 1850
_Freston Tower, or The Early Days of Cardinal
Wolsey._ 3 vols. 1850
_Courtland_: a Novel. By the Daughter of Mary
Anne Wellington. 3 vols. 1852
_The Union Child's Belief_ 1855
_J. H. Steggall. A Real History of a Suffolk Man_ 1857
_Canticles of Life_ 1858
]
[Footnote 7: The Secretary of the Borough of Ipswich Museum and Free
Library.]
[Footnote 8: The punishment of death for horse-stealing was abolished in
1832, but in 1833 a little boy of nine who pushed a stick through a
cracked window and pulled out some painters' colours worth twopence was
sentenced to death. Since 1838 no person has been hanged in England for
any offence other than murder. See Spencer Walpole's _History of England
from the Conclusion of the Great War in 1815_.]
CONTENTS
PAGE
DEDICATION xvii
AUTHOR'S PREFACE xix
CHAPTER
I. EARLY SCENES 1
II. THE TEMPTATION 26
III. MISFORTUNES 34
IV. DECEIT 47
V. WILD SCENES 56
VI. HARVEST-HOME 71
VII. THE CONFLICT 83
VIII. DISAPPOINTMENT 100
IX. EVIL WAYS 115
X. THE PARTING 120
XI. THE LAST INTERVIEW 131
XII. THE WELCOME VISIT 137
XIII. POVERTY AND PRIDE 152
XIV. A CHEERFUL CHANGE 166
XV. THE NEW PLACE 175
XVI. BRIGHT HOPES 187
XVII. ALTERCATION AND EXPLANATION 191
XVIII. THE RECONCILIATION 197
XIX. THE ALTERATION 206
XX. CHANGE OF SCENE AND CHANGE OF PLACE 219
XXI. GUILT AND CRIME 244
XXII. PREPARATION FOR TRIAL 268
XXIII. TRIAL AND CONDEMNATION TO DEATH 277
XXIV. THE REPRIEVE AND REMOVAL 290
XXV. THE ESCAPE 297
XXVI. PURSUIT AND CAPTURE 309
XXVII. SECOND TRIAL, AND SECOND TIME
CONDEMNED TO DEATH 317
XXVIII. TRANSPORTATION 338
XXIX. BANISHMENT 351
XXX. REPENTANCE AND AMENDMENT 370
XXXI. CONCLUSION 407
SUPPLEMENT BY THE AUTHOR, A.D. 1858 413
TO
THE MARCHIONESS OF CORNWALLIS
Most Noble Lady,
Assured that this simple narrative, the most remarkable events of
which are still fresh in your Ladyship's memory, will be found far
more interesting to the public than many highly-wrought works of
fiction, and that to none will it prove more acceptable than to
your Ladyship, who for many years resided in this county, beloved
and respected by all who knew you, for the encouragement you
afforded to every amiable virtue; to you it is dedicated, with
sincere respect, by your Ladyship's humble and devoted servant,
RICHARD COBBOLD.
_Rectory, Wortham, near Diss, Suffolk._
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
Independently of this simple history being a relation of facts, well
known to many persons of the highest respectability still living in the
county of Suffolk, it is hoped that an instructive lesson may be
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 principles, 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 repentance',
yet it was through such bitter sorrows and sufferings of mind and body
as she most devoutly desired others might be spared.
The public may depend upon the truth of the main features of this
narrative: indeed, most of the facts recorded were matters of public
notoriety at the time of their occurrence. 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 be 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 publication.
_Rectory, Wortham._
THE HISTORY
OF
MARGARET CATCHPOLE
CHAPTER I
EARLY SCENES
The heroine of this romantic but perfectly true narrative was born 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 narrative 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 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 hedgerow, 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 until 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 imaginative delight, exceeding in its kind the prospect of
the fox hunter for a coming run. For Margaret, when she did "come in the
evening," used to have the privilege of riding home one of the
plough-horses.
This was a singular _penchant_ for a female child to imbibe, 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 "_wooah come
ather, woree, wooo, jeh!_" 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 was fearless as a Newmarket jockey; and 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 questioned 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 accommodation 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 it is now; and the
particular spot in which this labourer's cottage stood being
extra-parochial, they had to seek what little instruction they could
obtain from the neighbouring 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 Vernon, 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 great a
desideratum as it is now, though the pious wish of England'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 sempstress 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 maintained 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 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
ask for a little broth, which had been promised by Mrs. Denton, her
mistress, for poor Susan. Her 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
showed 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 stamping 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 cold 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 extremities 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, unslipped 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
master. 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 answered by the fiery
little animal she bestrode. Her heart was up, and so was the pony's,
who, feeling a light weight upon his back, and a tight seat over his
ribs, gave full 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
mistress 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 together the better. She even met Admiral Vernon's carriage just as
she turned on to the Ipswich race-course, at the part now called Nacton
Corner. The Admiral's attention was called to the extraordinary 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 young squire of
Stratton Hall. At length she reached the end of the race-course, 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 spectator upon that eminence. The beautiful river flowing to
the left, and forming an expanded semicircle bordering the town, and the
distant country rising with amphitheatric 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 Margaret 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 extraordinary
sight.
People gave way as she rode fearlessly on, and followed 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 Margaret
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 received 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. Nathaniel Southgate, of
Great Bealings, a rich and excellent agriculturist, and an acquaintance
of the doctor's. Having followed him into the surgery, and there learnt
the feat the child had performed, he at once resolved to take her into
his own service; and he gave her a crown as a present, telling her, if
she was a good girl she should come and live with him. With the former
communication, 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 the 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 forgive 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 Margaret's presence of mind and activity, the apoplectic fit
might have terminated fatally.
Having given the needful instructions as to the treatment 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 grateful 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 pleasures 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, instead of being vain,
and puffed up with the notice of the world, was quite the reverse.
Numbers might have risen in their own opinion, and have been giddy from
the continual praises of one and another; but in this case it became a
subject of annoyance rather than of congratulation, 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 opportunity was soon
afforded for a change of place and action for her sister. Her uncle
Catchpole came expressly from Mr. Nathaniel Southgate, of Great
Bealings, to treat with her parents about Margaret's going to service;
and matters 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 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 in 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 faithful promise that
her father, or one of her brothers, would frequently come and see her,
and bring her word of Susan's health.
"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 sometimes 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 Margaret departed for her first
place.
She went with a high character from home, and to a 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 stayed 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. At 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. This 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 she be induced, in a new and strange place, ever
to mount a horse or pony.
How seldom does public praise make 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 prevailing 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 very apt at learning to do her work, very
diligent in the performance 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, remarkable 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 near approach
thereto, she 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
herself 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 hesitated 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
Cracknells, 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 Cracknell 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 customers among the poor. A single
candle, a small loaf, half an ounce of tea, a halfpennyworth of cheese,
a pennyworth of butter, or sugar, or snuff, or tobacco, could here be
obtained. Thus 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 prosperously; but this joyful
Whitsuntide, which found her and her friends so quietly happy, was
fraught with untoward circumstances, which neither she nor her
neighbours could foresee. She had invited a few friends to partake of
her christening fare, and expected her relative, Stephen Laud, from
Felixstowe Ferry, to stand with Margaret 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 required 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 Aldborough, had taken a great liking to him. He
had bound him apprentice to Mr. Turner, the ship-builder, at Harwich,
where the boy had acquired no mean tact at his employment, and grew up a
good workman, though somewhat 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 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 over
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 Felixstowe 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, my 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 be 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."
"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, as all 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 cottage. 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; he had heard much of
her at Ipswich, and had been long anxious to see her. 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, agreeable, 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 show
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
different 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 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 roving 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 to simply the seaport 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; and
these notions, which had for some time slumbered, 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 attachment, 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 frequently 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 judgement, which those who
have for a long time had the prospect of dissolution before them
frequently possess. She looked with penetrating eyes upon the young man.
She weighed well his spirit, listened to his free conversation, and
formed her idea of the young man's character, not from outward
appearance, but from the tone of sentiment 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 that she
did not approve of him, and said to Margaret--"I do not think your
sister Susan likes me." Why should he think this? 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 tearfulness 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!"
"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; but 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 like Laud very well as a visitor,
and he appears very fond of you, Margaret; but he seems to me to think
too much of himself to be exactly what I wish him to be, for your sake."
"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 uncle 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 Felixstowe 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 honest nature 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-bye. He was 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-bye, 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 her crowded round her bed. "I have
observed, William, much in your character that requires alteration,
before you can be either 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 displeasure. 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 Margaret, you and I
shall never meet in another world. Good-bye, William, good-bye!"
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 of sickness, though
love cannot fail to produce a powerful effect for the time. Laud
returned to Felixstowe, leaving our cottagers to lament his departure,
and Margaret to the exercise of those duties to which her nature and
inclination 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 and 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 urgent, 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 up, dear, lift me up--I feel myself going." As might
be expected, a word of this sort called them all around her. The poor,
weak, wasted, emaciated girl, with an eye as brilliant as the purest
crystal, and a countenance expressive of the calm spirit within, looked
upon the mother bathing her 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; "let us pray." Around the 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, promise me never to be
his, except he marry you 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, "O
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 her
advice, and keep the honest path.