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. Ripshaw
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 hesitation in telling
the magistrates so. She told them, moreover, 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 was 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 unbecoming 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 situation 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
organized and civilized 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 his 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 punishment 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 appropriate and becoming form of speech, which
she used as naturally 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 unhappy. It was the void
occasioned by the having no one now to love, that made her feel as if no
one in the world 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, she saw at once all the
dreadful consequences which awaited her, and knew that she would require
more than double attention and care. Her first step was an application
to a magistrate (Mileson Edgar, Esq., of the Red House), for an order to
visit Margaret in prison, and the application was immediately granted in
the following letter from that gentleman:--
"RED HOUSE, May 10th, 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 pleasure to have attended to. Herewith I send you an
order to Mr. Ripshaw to admit you to visit Margaret Catchpole
during her confinement in the Ipswich gaol. What an extraordinary
being she is! a clever, shrewd, and well-behaved person, yet
strangely perverted in her judgement! She actually 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 judgement, 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."
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 humility, 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 convulsive 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 goodness. 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 persuade 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, 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 confidence."
"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 consequences, 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
lawfully 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 myself. In God's commandments I find it written, 'Thou
shalt not steal.' I stole the horse, and I could see that I deserved 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 comparatively mild
punishment, yet you cannot see the duty of submitting to it. You should
have endured the lesser 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 present sorrow! What will
the judge say to you now when you are placed before him? Religion
teaches you submission 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
persuaded, Margaret, that the judge himself will think his former mercy
much displaced, 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 deriving
consolation from the Word of God. Attend to the precepts of the
chaplain, who is a good man, and understands your disposition as well
as I do; I shall often communicate 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
inexpressible 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 frequent visitor at the
gaol, and found that Margaret made the best use of her time between the
period of her committal and her trial. How instructive are the minutes
of her progress, which that lady made, during that most engaging period!
and how blessedly employed was 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 servant's mind, by humbling herself with her before God. And well
was she repaid for this exertion. Abundant was 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 departure for Bury,
Margaret received the following letter from her excellent mistress:--
"CLIFF, IPSWICH, August 1st, 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 regret 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 manner,
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 present 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. Being 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
cause appear a good one.
"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 punishment
with the same resignation as he would death. And if he fail in this
duty, he justly deserves the former punishment.' 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 our 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, however, 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 sufficient 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 is so short between
condemnation and execution that he must be 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 yourself; 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
not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? 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 own contemplation of death, and in considering them
as the most blessed words that can be used to destroy the power
which the King of Terrors often 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 experiencing 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, because 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 spiritual 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 be 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 principle! 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 CATCHPOLE."
Margaret fed upon the contents of this letter, and followed the advice
given her; and with what effect will be best seen by the account
preserved of her second trial. She went to Bury on the 2nd of August,
and on the 3rd 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 honourable gentlemen:--
FOR THE COUNTY
Lord Viscount Broome.
Charles Berners, jun., Esq.
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. Margaret was dressed, as
formerly, in a plain blue calico dress. She appeared pale and thin, but
perfectly free from any of that emotion which she formerly exhibited.
There was a calmness of deportment without the least obduracy, and no
obtrusive boldness nor recklessness. She did not look round the court
with any of that anxiety she formerly exhibited, as if she wished to see
any one there who knew her. She knew that Will Laud was gone, and that
neither her father nor her brother was there. She was quite indifferent
to the public gaze, and with her eyes cast down upon the bar, she saw
not that piercing glance which the judge gave her as she took her
station before him, though every 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 believe to be dangerous to the morals
of others, and therefore unfit to live. You have shown your sense of the
past mercy extended to you by your bold and daring conduct in breaking
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 crimes, 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 period of her confinement had expired, shows 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 to one man,
and 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 applauded 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 circumstances, 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 judgement 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, and I thought it no crime at all. Had not the arguments of
one wise as your 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 lordship's accusation of my being a hardened offender is
without 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 in justice to those who may
wish me 'God speed' in this court, and who might think from your
lordship's language that I was insensible to their 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 circumstances 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.
"Your lordship will, I hope, send me soon to the enjoyment 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 lordship's sentence."
After Margaret had finished speaking, all eyes were turned towards the
judge. The barristers who were present 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-possession 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 be 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 circumstances, 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 judgement 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; she 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 be 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
assuredly 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 be 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
extended, before he left Bury her sentence was once more changed from
death to transportation. But this time it was for life, instead of for
seven years or for any fixed period.
Margaret received the announcement 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."