Lord Rochford, at Easton, rose up and snorted, and clanked his chains so
terribly, that Margaret expected every moment that old George who slept
over the stable, would present himself; but the old man was deaf, and
heavy in his sleep, and had only returned from Mrs. Proby's, of
Stratford, late that evening, and had not been in bed above an hour, so
that he was in his first sound sleep.

"Margaret, you must take this lantern, and just move the dark part
round, and it will show you where the old boy's stable-dress is; go up
the stairs carefully, and bring it down with you."

Margaret did so. She went with breathless step to the bedside of the
coachman. His stable dress was upon the floor; she took it up gently,
and as cautiously receded with it down to the stable again, closing the
door without noise.

"So far so good, Margaret. Now, do you dress yourself there in the empty
stall, while I saddle and bridle the further horse."

This, however, was more than John Cook could do, for Rochford was of
such a spirit, and sent out at him with such vengeance that he dared not
go up to him; nor could he without Margaret's help put the saddle or
bridle on to Crop. She dressed herself as quickly as she could in the
coachman's stable-dress; he being a little fellow, and Margaret rather
tall, they only hung about her a little loosely, but were not too long
for her. When she came from the stall, after rolling her own things in a
bundle, and putting them into the very bottom of the seed-box, under the
manger, and covering them with hay, she looked exactly like a young
groom. She went up to the Crop horse and patted him on the neck, whilst
her companion saddled and bridled him; she then tied some straw round
his feet, so that no noise should be made in the stable-yard, and out
the gallant fellow was led, ready for such a journey and for such a
rider as never before had mounted his back.

"Now my girl," exclaimed Cook, "screw up your courage to the start! Come
into the meadow. I can let you out on to the Woodbridge road, and then
off with you."

"But where am I to find him? You have not told me that," exclaimed
Margaret.

"Mount! and I will tell you."

Margaret, with his aid, was soon in the saddle, and once there, she felt
her own command over her steed.

"Now Margaret," he replied, "mind what I say: you must sell that horse
if you can, at Chelmsford market to-morrow morning; if not, you must
ride on to the Bull, in Aldgate, London; but if you regard your own and
your lover's safety, you will sell the horse first, and then find your
way to the Dog and Bone public-house, at Lambeth; there you will find
Will Laud expecting you. Sell the horse for all you can get; say he is
worth a hundred guineas, and that your master, Squire John Cook, sent
you up to sell him."

The horse was a strawberry roan colour, remarkable for his action and
the spirit with which he went through a journey. His ears were short
enough, for, in accordance with a barbarous practice of that day, they
were cropped; few that ever knew the horse could forget him; in harness
he carried himself as proudly as if he had been trained to exhibit his
beauty, but this was his constant habit; his spirit was such, that he
was never touched with a whip, and never exhibited the least disposition
to restiveness; free, easy, gentle, noble, swift, untiring, graceful,
and grand--he was admired wherever he went; and the short coachman, who
occasionally used to ride him, made him, a sixteen-hand horse, look at
least a hand higher. What an object was Margaret Catchpole upon him! Her
spirit was up as well as Crop's; her resolution to go through all she
had undertaken was fixed, and in reply to John Cook's question, when
they came to the paddock-gate, "Are you ready, Margaret?" she replied,
"Quite ready!"

"And now, off with you," said the fellow, as he opened the gate.
"Remember the 'Dog and Bone.' A hundred guineas for the horse, and you
will be a happy woman;" and off started poor Margaret at a sweeping pace
for the London road.

St. Margaret's clock struck one, just as she passed the front of that
house in which she had lived so much respected, and in which,
unconscious of her guilt, slept the kindest master and mistress that a
servant ever knew.

But Margaret rode on, reckless of all the ills that might await her, and
thinking only of the lover that she was to meet at the end of her mad
journey.

The guard of the mail-coach observed to the driver of the Ipswich mail,
as Margaret met it, about two miles before she reached Colchester,
"That's Mr. Cobbold's Crop horse! There must be something the matter in
the family by the pace the groom is going. Did you see the fellow's
stable-dress up to his knees? There's something amiss, or the horse is
stolen."

When he came to Ipswich, the man mentioned the circumstance at the
coach-office, and said he was positive something was wrong.

Mr. Bailey, the postmaster, immediately sent a messenger with a note, to
inform Mr. Cobbold that the guard had met some one riding his horse very
fast on the London road.

It was five o'clock when the man rang loudly at the porch-bell; the
footman came down in a great hurry and carried up the note to his
master's room, who quickly ordered him to go to the stable and see if
George Teager and the horses were safe. He ran to the stable, and true
enough, he found the Crop horse gone. He called out to George, whom, at
first, he suspected of having gone off with the horse, "Hullo, George;
Crop is gone!"

The old man jumped up. "What's the matter? Who calls?"

"One of the horses is stolen, George; you must come down immediately; it
was met two miles this side of Colchester!"

"Come, come, Tom, none o' your tricks! this is only some of your
nonsense: can't ye let an old fellow rest in his bed without playing off
your boy's tricks? what have you done with my stable dress?"

This made Thomas bolt upstairs.

"I know nothing of your stable-dress; I tell you master will be here in
a minute: on with your livery. I'll be whipped if somebody has not
stolen the fustians! Come, old boy, this is no fun, it's as true as you
are staring there; so up with you."

George found by his companion's earnest manner that he spoke the truth,
and putting on his livery he came down; he was, as many a man at his age
and in his situation would be, much bewildered. He ascertained, however,
that the thief had taken his master's new saddle and bridle, and a
small stick of his own. He observed that it must have been an old
practitioner, by the straw being littered down to the door, and pointed
out to Thomas that the horse's hoofs had been covered with straw to
prevent them clattering on the pavement of the yard. His master soon
came down and easily tracked the horse to the paddock gate. Of course
all the family were roused. "Go directly, George, up to Mr. Spink's, the
dealer's, who got this horse for me, and knows him as well as you do,
and order a post-chaise from the Lion, and bring Mr. Spink here. You
must both of you pursue the thief, even to London. Be as quick as you
can."

In the meantime a handbill was written and sent to Mr. Jackson's, of the
_County Press_, with a request that copies might be struck off
immediately, in time for the nine o'clock coaches to London. It was to
this effect:--

                       "TWENTY GUINEAS REWARD.

     "Whereas, last night, or this morning, May 24th, a fine strawberry
     roan grey gelding was stolen out of the stable of John Cobbold,
     Esq., of St. Margaret's Green, Ipswich, together with a new saddle
     and bridle, and the coachman's stable-dress. Whoever shall give
     information of the robber, so as to lead to the recovery of the
     horse, or the conviction of the offender, shall receive the above
     reward at the hands of the owner.

     "N.B. The horse is sixteen hands high, has cropped ears, is six
     years old, has a cut tail, and is very strong and very fast.

     "Ipswich, May 24th, 1797."

This was struck off as soon as possible, and circulated over the town
and through the country, by every vehicle leaving the town.

It was about seven o'clock when old Teager and Mr. Spink left Ipswich
for Colchester, so that Margaret had some hours' start of her pursuers.
As they went on they heard at every toll-gate of a young man having
gone through on just the description of horse given, so that it was a
warm scent before them.

When they arrived at Chelmsford, through a misdirection of some person,
they were told that the same horse was seen going on to Maldon, in the
hundreds of Essex; and they had just given the post-boy orders to turn
off the London road in pursuit, as Mr. Alston, of Diss, rode into the
yard of the Black Boy as the pursuers were in the act of getting into
the chaise.

"Pray, sir, may I be so bold as to ask if you came far along the London
road?"

"I left town this morning, and am now on my journey to Manningtree. Why
do you ask?"

"Because I am in pursuit of a thief. You did not chance to meet a man
riding a strawberry roan carriage-horse?"

"Yes, I did; and remarked at the time that I thought it was the finest
shaped horse I had ever seen. He was a crop, with high action and bold
crest."

"It is the very horse! Whereabouts might you meet him, sir?"

"I met him I should say about five miles on the other side of Romford,
near to Ilford. It was about nine o'clock. I remarked to myself, what a
fool the lad must be who was riding him, that he did not manage to
fasten his overalls down at his ankles, as I could see his stockings up
to his knees. Some gentleman I thought was sending him into livery
stables."

"We are greatly obliged to you, sir. On, boy, on!" and the post-chaise
dashed out of the yard.

But for the accidental meeting of Mr. Alston it is very probable
Margaret would have escaped; but the information thus given put the
pursuers on the right scent, just in the right time.

Meantime let us accompany Margaret on her perilous expedition. She had
actually ridden the horse from Ipswich to London in the space of eight
hours and a half; it being seventy miles from that place to the Bull, in
Aldgate. She only stopped once on the road, at a small public-house,
called the Trowel and Hammer, at Marks Tey, in Essex; here she gave her
gallant horse a feed of corn, and had a glass of brandy and water and a
biscuit. It was just five o'clock when she baited. She dared not to
offer the horse for sale at Chelmsford for fear of detection, at such an
early hour. She felt persuaded that a pursuit would be made, and hoped
to hide herself in the metropolis before her pursuers could reach her.
Accordingly she allowed the horse no more time than was sufficient for
him to finish his corn, and off she went again for nearly five hours'
further ride. As she approached town many were the eyes directed towards
her, both on account of the remarkable character of the horse, and the
singular appearance of the rider. Margaret took no notice of any one,
but pushed on her willing steed with the same indifference as if she had
been sent upon an errand of only a few miles; nor was the horse
apparently fatigued in the least when they arrived at the Bull Inn,
which they did about half-past nine o'clock.

She rode quietly down the yard, called for the ostler, dismounted, shook
her trousers down, and addressed the man in as off-hand a manner as if
she were a real groom.

"Rub that horse down well, and get him cool and comfortable; give him a
sup of water and a mouthful of hay, and I will come and see him fed."

"Have you rode far, young man?" asked the ostler.

"Not a very great way. I came out of Chelmsford this morning. See and
rub his ears dry, ostler. You must make him look as well as you can, for
I expect my master up in town to-night; and if I don't meet with a
customer for that horse he'll blow me up."

"He's a very fine horse; and if as good as he looks, would be worth any
man's money."

"He's better than he looks, ostler: and 'tisn't any man's money that
will buy him. He must give a good price for him, whoever buys him. But
look well after him. I must go and get a bait myself."

She went into the bar, ordered her breakfast, took up the newspaper,
and with all the airs of a consequential young jockey sat down to the
perusal of it. After taking some refreshment she got up to see her horse
fed.

The ostler, finding so fine a horse was for sale, apprised a
livery-stable-keeper of his acquaintance, who on hearing his
representation hastened to look at him. Margaret was called out; the
animal exhibited; under-valued by the dealer in the style so
characteristic of such gentry; and his good qualifications well vouched
for by the young groom.

"Did you ever see a better shape?" exclaimed Margaret. "Look at his
fore-end; there's a crest, there's a shoulder, there's a head! Look at
his legs, as straight and clean as a colt's; and as for quarters, where
will you find such for strength and beauty? He's six-year old next
grass; has never done any hard work before this day; and you won't find
a puff as big as a pea in any of his sinews. Quiet to ride or drive, and
without a fault. Now, what's the matter with him?"

This was such a poser to the dealer that he could only reply by asking,
"Can I have a warranty with him?"

"To be sure you can," said Margaret. "You may have a written one from
me; or, if you like better to deal with my master, you may wait till he
comes up, and then he'll give you a character, and perhaps you'll make a
better bargain with him than you will with me."

"Are you authorized to sell the horse?"

"To be sure I am, or else I should not stand here to talk with you about
him."

"Who does he belong to, young man?"

"He belongs to my master, Mr. Cook, of Ipswich, in Suffolk."

"What do you want for him?"

"One hundred guineas."

"May I take him for a trial?"

"Yes; when you have bought and paid for him. He is not to go out of my
sight until I receive the money for him, or deliver the horse himself
into my master's charge."

"I should like to see him down our ride; I could better judge of his
paces."

"Clap the saddle on him. I will ride him where you like; or I will let
you drive me with him; but I do not trust any one else with him whilst
he is in my care."

The saddle and bridle were put on, and Crop came out of the stable free,
and ready to trot back again to Ipswich if his rider was so disposed. He
was as fresh and joyous as a lark, and sprang up into the air with
almost as light a heart. Margaret mounted awkwardly; put her foot into
the stirrup the wrong way; and perceiving that this was noticed, she
crossed the stirrups over the saddle in front of her, saying,

"My master always makes me ride without stirrups, and I like it best."

In truth she sat the horse better without them; and had she had no
saddle, it would have suited her even better still; but this seemed to
have the desired effect.

The dealer, however, entertained some suspicions from the awkward manner
of the groom, and having already suffered for purchasing a stolen horse,
he was more on his guard than he otherwise might have been.

They went out of the stable-yard together, and reached the ride
belonging to the dealer, and Margaret turned her horse in as she was
directed. The stable lads peeped out to see what kind of nag their
master was buying, and were not satisfied with a glance, but looked with
much admiration at him.

"Just trot him down the ride, young man."

Margaret dashed down the yard and back again.

"Soho! my fine fellow! Peter," he said to his head man, "just come and
look at this nag."

Peter stepped forward, and gave his master a knowing look, as much as to
say, "Am I to decry him?"

"Look at his mouth!"

Peter did so.

"How is it, Peter?"

"All right, sir."

"What's his age?"

"Rising six."

"What do you say to him?"

Peter looked at every point, then scratched his head, and again looked
at his master; but he received no sign to manoeuvre; so he replied,
"Why, master, if you ask for truth you shall have it. He's a right good
one; that is it."

"Well, young man, now what is the lowest price you will take?"

"I told you his price when you asked me before. You don't expect me to
lower the price of my own horse without a bid! What do you say you will
give?"

"Why, I don't know! He's not every man's horse! Not easily matched; and
not suited for a town horse; but I'll bid you fifty guineas for him."

"Thank you for your bid, sir; but you must come nigh to double that
before you'll buy."

"Will you take sixty for him?"

"No; I will not."

"Will you take seventy? Come now, I'll give you seventy. You may go a
long way before you'll get such another offer. Say, will you take it?"

"Add another ten to it and it shall be a bargain. I will take eighty."

"Just walk him down again. Peter, what do you think of him?"

"He's worth the money; that's what I say. Buy him, master."

"Well, young man, I'll take the horse; but you must give me a written
warranty with him."

"That I'll do; but perhaps you'll not like to conclude the bargain
without master's warranty; if so, we had better not exactly conclude the
price."

This so took the dealer aback, that it drove away all suspicions, and he
said, "No, no; your warranty will do. I'll give you the money." He was
in the act of going to the gateway as he saw one of his men come into
the yard, with a paper in his hand, which proved to be one of the
identical hand-bills, offering a reward of twenty guineas for the very
horse he had just bought. "Peter," he called out, "tell the young man
just to walk that horse once more up the yard, and come you here."

He showed Peter the bill, who said: "It's the very horse!"

"Go you and fetch a constable; I'll keep him in play a bit until he
comes."

"He's a charming shaped horse, young man. I'd just a mind to ask you if
you'd throw the saddle and bridle into the bargain."

"Why, master told me I might sell that if I pleased, and if I sold well,
that should be my perquisite."

"I see 'tis a country-made saddle; but it looks pretty good. What will
you have for it?"

"Four guineas for both. Come, I have let you take the horse at much less
than he is worth; you can afford to give me a fair price for the saddle
and bridle, which are, you see, quite new."

By this time Peter returned with the constable; but Margaret was joking
about the saddle and bridle, and greatly rejoicing at her success, not
the least conscious of the presence of the man of the law, or of the
dreadful fate which awaited her.

"Did you say that horse came from Ipswich, young man?" said the dealer.

"I did," said she.

"When did he leave Ipswich?"

"Yesterday."

"Did you leave with him?"

"Yes, I did; I told you so."

"No, you didn't; you told me you rode him from Chelmsford."

"So I did; and from Ipswich too."

"What was your master's name?"

"Mr. John Cook," said Margaret, who now began to feel a little uneasy.

"Are you sure it was not Mr. John Cobbold? Look at that hand-bill, young
man."

Margaret saw only her master's name, and all her fortitude forsook her;
she swooned away in a moment, and would have fallen from the horse, had
not the constable caught her by her jacket as she was falling; and in
endeavouring to support her off the horse the jacket flew open, and to
the astonishment of all around, lo, and behold, it was a woman!

Margaret was taken into custody; and such a hubbub was created in the
neighbourhood, that the story of a female horse-stealer was soon spread
abroad, and people began to crowd into the yard. Among the multitude was
a son-in-law of Mr. Cobbold's, who happened to be in town at the time,
and identified both the horse and his rider. It was not long before the
coachman and Mr. Spink made their appearance, and she was taken before a
magistrate, and immediately committed to Newgate, until further evidence
could be produced.

CHAPTER XXII

PREPARATION FOR TRIAL

Margaret Catchpole was taken into custody; and whilst she was spending a
dismal night in the dungeon, a letter was on the road to Ipswich, to
inform her master of the capture of the thief.

The wretched young woman had now time for rest and reflection. Instead
of meeting her lover, for which purpose alone she had undertaken her
desperate enterprise, she had now before her eyes the terrors of the
law, the certainty of conviction, the probability of a violent and
shameful death. Who knew anything of the cause which had induced her to
steal the horse, and who would pity her if they did? The secret was
known only to herself, and she resolved it should continue so, lest her
lover should be involved in the consequences of her guilt.

It will readily be believed that the news of what had happened created
no small sensation in the minds of the various members of that family
who had so dearly loved the miserable culprit.

It was immediately arranged that both Mr. and Mrs. Cobbold should go to
town, and they arrived about nine o'clock in the evening at the Four
Swans, Bishopsgate Street.

At the time fixed for the examination of the prisoner before the
magistrates, Mr. and Mrs. Cobbold arrived at the Police-office in
Whitechapel.

Many gentlemen were present, who having heard the case mentioned, had
obtained permission to attend.

The office was crowded, and the street also, for it was understood that
Margaret was to be brought up for examination. Hundreds who knew nothing
of the parties, but only that a female had stolen a horse, were
assembled purely from curiosity to see such a person.

Margaret was brought up in proper custody, and found herself the object
of jokes and gibes amidst the thoughtless rabble of the streets. She was
conducted into an ante-room adjoining the court, and as a door opened
into the passage from the magistrates' private room, she thought she
heard her mistress's voice. Another moment convinced her that she saw
her. It was to her a moment of great bitterness and agony.

At the request of the prosecutor, she was summoned into the magistrates'
private room, before going into the public court. She was terrified
beyond measure at the idea of encountering the sight of her mistress.
She begged hard not to be taken into her presence, but she was compelled
to go in. The moment she saw her she exclaimed: "Oh, my dear mistress!"
and fell to the ground. She was lifted up and placed in a chair; and
from her dreadful state of agitation, it was agreed among the
magistrates that, upon her recovery, her deposition should be taken
where she then was. Accordingly, the clerk was summoned from the public
office into the private room.

Her mistress as well as herself was greatly affected at the interview,
and deeply touched at her distress. All the gentlemen present felt more
than commonly interested in the scene.

The girl slowly revived; the gentlemen took their seats, and the clerk
was ordered to take down her deposition. The magistrate told her that
the confession she had made, and might now make, would be evidence
against her on her trial, and that she was at liberty to speak, or not,
as she pleased.

Having implored and obtained forgiveness from her master and mistress,
Margaret became more composed, and made a full confession of her guilt.
She acknowledged that she had been persuaded, and even compelled, to
this act by a man named John Cook, a sailor at Ipswich, and declared
that she stole the horse by his direction and threats; that she was to
have sold it at Chelmsford, but that she dared not offer it there. She
did not once betray her lover's name, or mention anything about his
hiding-place; but she described all the particulars of the robbery with
which the reader is acquainted, and stated, as a corroborative fact,
that her own clothes would be found, if not already removed, under the
manger of the empty stall.

Her deposition having been then read over to her by the clerk, she
signed her name to it. Before they parted, Mrs. Cobbold spoke to her
consolingly, while she placed before her mind the heinousness of her
offence. Poor Margaret felt better after this, and with a heart very
much humbled, was committed to Newgate by N. Bond, Esq., with an order
for her removal as soon as the forms could be gone through, to the gaol
of the county in which the offence was committed. Mr. Cobbold was bound
over to prosecute, which being done, that gentleman and his lady
returned to their hotel.

Every effort was made to discover the resort of John Cook; but that
scamp, the moment he heard of the capture, decamped, nor was he ever
after heard of. He was well known; and the landlord of the Marquis
Cornwallis testified to Margaret's having been at his house with the
man, as also his being at the same place with Captain Laud, as he was
called, the evening before. But what became of him no one ever knew. The
half of a letter from his companion in London was found at the inn, and
was adduced to show his connexion with a gang of horse-stealers; but
this only served to tell against poor Margaret on her trial.

Margaret was removed to Ipswich by _habeas corpus_, July 6th, 1797, and
Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler, informed her mistress of her arrival.

On the evening of the day Margaret arrived at Ipswich, she wrote the
following letter to her mistress. It has been already stated that she
had been taught to read and write, and keep accounts, by Mrs. Cobbold,
when she superintended the education of her family; and the results of
this teaching, as exemplified in the touching epistles which we shall
hereafter present to the reader, will doubtless be received with
singular interest, copied as they are from the original documents, which
are carefully preserved in the family. The following is the first she
ever wrote:--

                                    "Ipswich, Thursday, July 6th, 1797.
     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "Your wretched servant has this evening arrived at the county gaol.
     Hope induced me to look forward to an earlier abode near you, that
     I might have the consolation of your instruction and advice. Oh! my
     honoured lady, when I look upon that dear spot in which you live,
     and see those green fields before your house, in which I used to
     walk and play with your dear children, I think the more deeply of
     the gloom of my felon's chamber, from which I can even at this
     moment behold them. They recall to my mind those happy hours in
     which I enjoyed your approbation and respect. How wretched do I now
     feel! Oh! what have I not lost!

     "I am come to Ipswich to take my trial, and am already condemned
     by my own conscience more severely than any judge can condemn me.
     But yours must be the task to teach me how to escape, not the
     condemnation of the judge, but of my own heart. Oh, my dear lady!
     do come and see me! Many people were kind to me at Newgate, and
     many persons contributed to my necessities; some indeed flattered
     me, and called me a brave girl for my recent act, which they termed
     clever and courageous. But if they were so, dear lady, why should I
     now feel so much fear? I thought them poor consolers, and not half
     such sincere friends as those who told me, as you did, the
     greatness of my offence, and the probable extent of ultimate
     punishment.

     "Honoured madam, would you let a messenger go to my dear father and
     tell him where I am, and how much I desire to see him? I fear you
     will think me very bold and troublesome, but I know your kind heart
     will make allowances for my troubled mind. I should like to see my
     Uncle Leader. But I should, first of all, like to see you, my dear
     lady. Perhaps it will not be long before I shall see you no more. I
     wish to make up my mind to the worst, but I am at times dreadfully
     troubled. I feel it so hard to be suddenly torn away from every
     earthly bond, and some on earth I do so dearly love; and none more
     deserves that love than you do. Pray come to me; and ever believe
     me

                            "Your grateful, though
                                "Most wretched servant,
                                    "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

"P.S.--Mr. Ripshaw has promised to send you this letter this evening. He
tells me you have often inquired for me."

The chaplain of the gaol was a friend of Mrs. Cobbold's; she wrote a
note to him requesting him to accompany her at any hour most convenient
to himself, to see her poor servant. At eleven o'clock the next day, the
interview took place between the wretched culprit and this truly
Christian lady. She spent some hours with that disconsolate being, whose
whole thoughts seemed to be directed with bitter agony to days of past
happiness. For though she had endured much mortification in early life,
she had experienced the comfort and consolation of a true and
disinterested friend and benefactress in the person of that kind
mistress, and her naturally intelligent mind had duly appreciated these
benefits.

These visits were repeated many times, and with the most beneficial
effects on the mind of the culprit. Her present anguish was the keener,
because her sensibilities were all so acutely alive to the memory of the
past. It was her mistress's endeavour not to suffer her to be deceived
with any false hopes. She was well aware that the penalty of her crime
was death, and that unless her instigating accomplice could be delivered
up to justice, she stood every chance of being made a public example, on
account of the great frequency of the crime. To such an extent had
horse-stealing been carried on in the counties of Suffolk and Essex,
that scarce a week passed without rewards being offered for the
apprehension of the thieves.

Margaret's interviews with her father and brother were still more deeply
affecting: but to them and to her beloved mistress alone did she make
known the real circumstances, attending her stealing the horse. She did
not attempt, however, to defend the act, nor would she admit that
another's influence was any exculpation of her offence. Mr. Stebbing,
the surgeon of the gaol, who had been her first friend in Ipswich, was
very kind to her, as was likewise his benevolent daughter, who lent her
many useful books. But the being she most wished to see, and from whose
memory she had never thought she could have been displaced, came not
near her in her adversity. William Laud had been at Nacton, to see her
father and brother. The report of her confession had reached him--he had
seen it in the newspapers; and it altered all his views and intentions
respecting her; so that the very act which she had done in the hope of
strengthening his attachment to her, was the direct cause of his
deserting her. In fact, he believed that she had committed the act from
an attachment to somebody else, and he gave up all idea of her for the
future.

But Margaret was still true to _him_. In one of her interviews with Mrs.
Cobbold, that kind and good lady, referring to the fact of Laud's not
coming near her in her adversity, said earnestly--

"You must endeavour to think less of him, Margaret."

"It is hard, madam," was the reply, "for flesh and blood not to think of
one who has been in one's thoughts so many years of one's life. In happy
as well as miserable hours, I have thought of him, madam, and have
always hoped for the best. He is still in all my prayers!"

"Your hopes of him, Margaret, must now be at an end. It would have been
happier for you, if they ended when you lived with me."

"Perhaps so, good lady; perhaps so. Or even earlier. I think now of my
poor sister Susan's last words: 'Margaret, you will never marry William
Laud.' I had hoped that these words were only the fears of the moment;
but, alas! I perceive they will prove too true!"

The only diversion of Margaret's mind at this period, from a fixed and
undivided attention to heavenly things, was the one hope of seeing Laud.
She clung with tenacity to this, as a sort of last farewell to all
things in the world. She said, that had she but one interview with him,
she should then have no other wish but to die.

Time flew fast, and the day of her trial approached. She was to depart
for Bury, where the assizes were held, early on the morning of the 9th
of August; and, on the preceding day, she wrote the following letter to
her mistress:--

                                      "IPSWICH GAOL, August 8th, 1797.
     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "By the time you read this, which I expect will be at your happy
     breakfast-table to-morrow morning, your poor servant will be at
     Bury, awaiting the awful moment of her condemnation. I could not
     leave this place, however, without pouring out my heart to you, my
     dear and honoured lady; thanking you for your great kindness and
     Christian charity to my poor soul. I have confessed my guilt to God
     and man, and I go to my trial with the same determination to plead
     guilty before both.

     "Honoured madam, I am told that the judge will call upon me to know
     if I have anybody in court to speak to my character. Now, though I
     cannot hope, and indeed would not urge you to be present in court,
     considering the state you are now in,[9] yet you have spoken well
     of me in private, and I know you would never fear to speak publicly
     that which you have said of me in private. Perhaps a line from you
     would do that which I want. You well know, my dear madam, that it
     is not from any hope of its obtaining a pardon for me that I ask
     it; but it is from the hope that one, whom I shall never see again,
     may by some means catch a sight of it; and may think better of me
     than the world at large, who know nothing of me, can do. Pardon
     this weakness.

     "Think not that I have any hope of mercy or pardon here. You have
     taught me how to hope for both hereafter. You have shown me much
     mercy and pity here, and the Lord reward you and my dear master for
     your unmerited compassion to your wretched servant! You have
     fortified my mind with the riches of consolation in that religion
     which I hope will be poured with tenfold increase into your own
     heart, and give you that peace you are so anxious I should possess.
     It grieves me to see my fellow-prisoners so unprepared for the fate
     which awaits them. Oh, that they had such friends as I have had!
     Oh, that they had been partakers of the same consolation as myself!
     And now, dearest lady, I have only to request your mention of me in
     your prayers. Bless you, my dear madam! God bless you and your dear
     children, and may they live to be a blessing to your old age! Give
     my kind thanks to all those friends who may ever inquire about me.
     And now, dearest lady, pardon the errors of this letter, as you
     have done all the graver faults of your ever grateful and now
     happier servant,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "To MRS. COBBOLD, St. Margaret's Green, Ipswich."

Margaret, with several other prisoners, departed for Bury assizes in the
prisoners' van, which started at six o'clock on the 9th of August, 1797,
under the care of Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler, and arrived at that place
about eleven o'clock in the forenoon.

The town was in a bustle, and the prisoners were received into the
borough gaol that day an hour or so previously to their trial--a day of
anxiety to many, but by too many spent in revelry and folly. The various
witnesses crowded into the town. The inns were filled on the 8th.
Expectation was alive and active; and the bustle of preparing for
business created a stir throughout that town, which at other times is
the most silent, the coldest, and the dullest place in England.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 9: The writer of these pages, one of the sons of that
excellent woman, was born on the 9th of September following.]

CHAPTER XXIII

TRIAL AND CONDEMNATION TO DEATH

There are few things that appear in greater and more painful contrast
than the general rejoicing which attends the assizes of a country town,
and the solemn and awful purposes for which those assizes are held. It
may be said, that it is matter of rejoicing when justice is about to be
administered; and that honest people have a right to be glad when the
wicked are about to be punished. But there is great difference between a
reasonable show of rejoicing, and the overflowings of pomp and parade,
levity and folly.

At the assizes at Bury, at the time we speak of, the sheriff's pomp and
state was something approaching to regal splendour. His gaudy liveries,
his gilded carriage, his courtly dress, and all the expenses attendant
upon such a station, made it a heavy burden to the unfortunate country
gentleman who should be appointed to such an office. The balls, too, and
public entertainments common at such time in the county, formed a
striking contrast to the sorrows and despair of the criminals. The
judges entered the town, the trumpets sounded, the bells rang, the
sheriff's carriage was surrounded with hosts of gapers of all kinds, to
see their lordships alight at the Angel steps. The Lord Chief Baron
Macdonald and Mr. Justice Heath attended divine service, at St. James's
Church, previously to their entering the courts. Who could look down
upon that assemblage, and see those grave men, with their white wigs
crowned with black patches, their scarlet robes, lined with ermine,
preceded by the sheriff's officers, and all the municipal servants of
that ancient borough, with their gilt chains, silver maces, and ample
robes, and not think of the purpose for which they were assembled!

The best preparation for the scenes met with in a court of justice, is
the house of prayer; though even here there is a strange contrast
between the peace and quietness of the church, and the bustle, broil,
and turmoil usually attendant on the administration of criminal justice.

At twelve o'clock, on the day of trial, August 9th, 1797, the Lord Chief
Baron Macdonald took his seat upon the bench, in the criminal court. Mr.
Justice Heath presided in the Nisi Prius. On the right hand of the Lord
Chief Baron sat the High Sheriff, Chalonor Archdeckne, Esq., of
Glevering Hall, with his chaplain, and a full bench of county and
borough magistrates. After the proclamation had been read, the
respective lists of the grand jury for the county and the liberty were
then called over, as follows:--

      FOR THE COUNTY

      Lord Viscount Brome.

      Sir John Blois, Bart.

      Philip Bowes Broke, Esq.

      Charles Berners, jun., Esq.

      George Golding, Esq.

      William Middleton, Esq.

      Eleazar Davy, Esq.

      John Frere, Esq.

      Matthias Kerrison, Esq.

      Wolfran Lewis, Esq.

      John Sheppard, Esq.

      Francis Broke, Esq.

      Mileson Edgar, Esq.

      Robert Trotman, Esq.

      John Bleadon, Esq.

      John Cobbold, Esq.

      Thomas Green, Esq.

      Joseph Burch Smith, Esq.

      Thomas Shaw, Esq.

      John Vernon, Esq.

      James Reeve, Esq.

      James Stutter, Esq.

      FOR THE LIBERTY

      Sir Charles Bunbury, Bart.

      Sir Charles Davers, Bart.

      Sir Thomas Cullum, Bart.

      Sir Harry Parker, Bart.

      Sir William Rowley, Bart.

      Nathaniel Lee Acton, Esq.

      Capel Lofft, Esq.

      Samuel Brice, Esq.

      William Parker, Esq.

      Richard Moore, Esq.

      Robert Walpole, Esq.

      James Oakes, Esq.

      Matthias Wright, Esq.

      Abraham Reeve, Esq.

      John Oliver, Esq.

      John Pytches, Esq.

      Thomas Cocksedge, Esq.

      John Cooke, Esq.

      George Jackson, Esq.

      William Kemp Jardine, Esq.

After the names had been respectively answered, the Lord Chief Baron
addressed the grand jury, in a most powerful and impressive speech, in
which he pointed out to their attention the extraordinary case then
about to come on for trial. The grand jury retired. The prisoners were
led into the cages, under the body of the court, where the people sat.
They could hear all the proceedings, and could see, through an iron
grating, all the witnesses in attendance. After the petty jury had been
sworn, and had appointed John Bloomfield, auctioneer and farmer, their
foreman, they took their seats, and various true bills were handed into
court against the prisoners, whose trials then came on. After an hour or
two, a paper was handed from the grand jury box, to the clerk of
arraigns; it was announced as "a true bill against Margaret Catchpole,
for horse-stealing." She presently after heard herself summoned by name;
and with trembling hand and foot, ascended the steps of the dock, and
stood before the bar. The court was crowded to excess, and upon the
bench sat more ladies than gentlemen. The judge cast a severe glance at
the prisoner, evidently expecting to find a bold, athletic female, of a
coarse and masculine appearance. Margaret was dressed in a plain blue
cotton gown, and appeared deeply dejected. She seemed to be inwardly
engaged in prayer. Once she looked round the court, to see if she could
discover the person of her lover, or the instigator to the crime for
which she was arraigned. Her eye rested only upon her aged father and
her affectionate brother Edward, who stood beneath her, close to the
bar. The workings of nature were too powerful to be resisted, and tears
rolled down the old man's cheeks, as he gave his hand to his daughter.
She kissed it, and let fall upon it the hot drops of agony.

"Prisoner at the bar, you stand committed upon your own confession,
before two of his majesty's justices of the peace for the county of
Middlesex, of having, on the night of the 23rd of May last past, stolen
from the stable of your late master, John Cobbold, Esq., of St.
Margaret's Green, Ipswich, a strawberry roan-grey coach gelding, and of
having rode the same from Ipswich to London that night; and being in the
act of selling the horse next day following, when you were taken into
custody. For this offence you now stand before the court. How say you,
prisoner at the bar, are you guilty, or not guilty?"

Margaret looked at her judge, and in a firm though low voice said,
"Guilty, my lord."

"Prisoner at the bar," resumed the judge, "though you have made this
confession, you are at liberty to retract it, and to plead, 'Not
Guilty,' if you please, and so to take your trial. Your plea of 'Guilty'
will avail you nothing in the sentence which must follow. Consider then
your answer."

Margaret replied, "I am not able now, my lord, to plead 'Not Guilty.'"

"Why not?" said the judge.

"Because I know that I am 'Guilty.'"

This was too sound an argument to be disputed; and the judge did not
attempt any further explanation.

Margaret's appearance was not remarkable for beauty, nor was it by any
means unpleasing. Her figure was not masculine. She was tall, and rather
slender. She had a dark eye, dark hair, and a countenance pale from
emotion.

The judge then addressed her in the following words:--"Prisoner at the
bar, it is my painful duty to address one of your sex in such a
situation. I cannot possibly judge of your motives for committing such a
crime. They do not appear in your confession, and I am at a loss to
conceive what can have induced you to commit it. The sentence to which
you have subjected yourself is death. Have you anything to say why this
sentence of the law should not be passed upon you? Have you any friends
in court to speak to your character?"

There was evidently a stir in the body of the court, and several persons
were seen crowding forward to the witness-box, and all ready to enter
it. At this juncture the prisoner expressed a wish to know if she might
speak a few words to the judge.

"Prisoner at the bar," said the Chief Baron, "I am quite ready to hear
what you have to say."

There was now a hushed and breathless silence in the court, and the
prisoner spoke calmly, clearly, and audibly, in the following words:--

"My lord, I am not going to say anything in defence of my conduct, or to
make any excuse whatever for my crimes. I told your lordship that I was
guilty, and guilty I feel that I am. It is not for my own sake, either,
that I am speaking, but that all in this court may take warning from my
bad example. A kinder master and mistress no servant ever had, nor had
ever master or mistress a more ungrateful servant. I have long since
condemned myself, and more severely than your lordship can do it. I know
my crime, and I know its punishment. I feel that, even if the law
acquitted me, my own conscience would still condemn me. But your
lordship may proceed to pass sentence upon my body. I have already felt
assurance of some peace and mercy where I alone could look for it, and
thanks be to God I have not sought it in vain. It has prepared me for
this moment. My master and mistress have forgiven me. Oh! that all
against whom I have offended by my bad example could here do the same! I
do not ask forgiveness of the law, because I have no right to do so. I
have offended, and am subject to the penalty of death. If your lordship
should even change my sentence, and send me out of the country for life,
I should rather choose death, at this time, than banishment from my
father and my friends. Temptation would no longer assail me, and I shall
hope to see them, and all whom I now see before me, in a better world. I
hope your lordship will forgive my words, though you must condemn me for
my actions."

To attempt a description of the effect of these few words upon the court
would be impossible. The ladies hoped that mercy would be extended to
her. The judge looked at her with mingled astonishment and pity.

"Are there any persons present," said the judge, "who are ready to speak
to the previous character of the prisoner?" Whereupon the prosecutor,
her master, immediately ascended the witness-box. He stated that the
prisoner had, during the time she lived in his service, always
discharged her duty faithfully. He had reason to believe that she was
neither a hardened nor an abandoned character. He knew from experience
that she was most humane and faithful, and ready to risk her own life in
the service of another. He here mentioned her presence of mind, and the
intrepidity she had so signally displayed in saving the lives of his
children. He stated, moreover, that, for his own part, he never should
have prosecuted the prisoner but that the magistrates in London had
bound him over so to do, and a sense of duty compelled him to adopt this
course. He should always entertain, under all circumstances, a grateful
recollection of her. He particularly recommended her to mercy, because
he did not believe that she had committed the crime in question in
conjunction with any gang of horse-stealers, but that she was the dupe
of an infamous villain, who had persuaded her to steal the horse for
him, and for no pecuniary benefit to herself. He believed her to be a
proper object for royal clemency, and hoped that if his lordship could
find any mitigating circumstances in her favour, that he would give her
the full benefit of them.

George Stebbing, Esq., surgeon, Ipswich, stated that he had known the
prisoner from her childhood; that in her earliest years she gave promise
of such good character and conduct as would have merited the approbation
of all men. He mentioned her riding the pony to Ipswich.

Margaret put her head down upon the bar, and, hiding her face in her
hands, sobbed audibly before the whole court.

The doctor stated that, if she was at that moment at liberty, he would
take her into his own house. He assured his lordship that it was a
romantic hope of seeing her lover, that induced her to listen to the
voice of the tempter who induced her to steal the horse. He prayed for
mercy for her, and handed a petition to the court, signed by many
persons who knew her early history, and bore testimony to her former
good character.

Her uncle and aunt Leader next spoke in the highest terms of her general
good character. Her first mistress at the Priory Farm gave her also an
excellent character for honesty and humanity, and assured his lordship
that it was an early but unfortunate attachment which had been the cause
of this rash act; adding, that neither she nor her husband would object
to take the prisoner again into their service.

Several other persons spoke in her favour, and so cordial and so earnest
had been the testimony borne to her character, that in almost every
breast a hope began to prevail that mercy would be extended to her.

The judge took an unusually long time for deliberation. He was in
conversation with the high sheriff, but what passed between them did not
transpire. The longer he delayed his judgement, the stronger grew the
hopes of mercy. At last, turning round to the body of the court, he
looked for one most awful moment steadfastly at the prisoner; and, when
every eye was riveted upon him, he was seen to take the black cap from
beneath his desk, and to place it upon his head. That dreadful
forerunner of impending condemnation struck forcibly upon the hearts of
all the people assembled. Some ladies fainted, and were carried out of
court. The most perfect stillness ensued, as the Lord Chief Baron
addressed the unhappy creature in the following words:--

"Prisoner at the bar, I have paid attention to your address to me, and
to those around you, and am glad to find that you have made a proper use
of the time which has intervened between your committal to prison and
the present moment. Your words show that you are by no means ignorant of
your duty as a member of society, and that you are possessed of strong
sense and much good feeling. I earnestly wish that your conduct had not
been such as to belie that good sense which you possess. It is, however,
the more inexcusable in one who, at the time she was committing an
offence, must have known its heinousness. Your sin, prisoner at the bar,
has found you out quickly, and judgement as speedily follows. I will not
aggravate those feelings of remorse which I am sure you experience, by
any longer dwelling upon the painful situation in which your crimes have
placed you. I trust your own persuasive words will be long remembered by
every one present, and be a warning to all how they suffer themselves to
be betrayed into crime. May your early fate warn them in time to keep
themselves in the path of rectitude and honesty.

"I must say that, in the whole course of my judicial career, I have
never met with a person who so well knew right from wrong, and who so
extraordinarily perverted that gift. I must say, likewise, that I have
never met with any one who has received so good a former character at
such a moment as the present. The representations that have been made of
your past conduct shall be forwarded to the king, with whom alone the
prerogative of mercy in your case exists.

"It would be cruelty, however, in me did I not candidly tell you, that
the crime for which you are now to suffer is one of such frequent, bold,
and in this day, daring commission, as to defy the authority of the law;
so that persons detected and brought to judgement, as you are, stand but
little chance of mercy. It is not in my power to give you any hope of
escaping the full punishment of the law, but I will represent your case
this very night, before I sleep, to the proper quarter whence any
alteration in your behalf can alone be obtained.

"I need scarcely tell you not to rely upon any false hopes which friends
may hold out to you, who would grieve the more could they see the
danger and distress which they thereby occasion. Let me rather entreat
you to continue that attention to the interest of your soul which has
already been well instructed and fortified against the present crisis.
You have to prepare, prisoner at the bar, for a greater trial, a more
awful moment; and I hope you will make good use of the short time which
remains in preparation for eternity. You appear to have been well
assisted hitherto, and the good instruction seems to have fallen upon
productive ground. I hope the increase will continue to the day of your
death.

"It only remains for me to fulfil my duty, by passing the sentence of
the court upon you, which is--

"That you be taken from the place where you now stand, back to the place
whence you came, and thence to the place of execution, and there be
hanged by the neck until you be dead; and may God have mercy upon your
soul!"

At these last words tears of agony overwhelmed many in the court; but
Margaret herself seemed to be less overcome by the sentence than by the
kind words of the judge.

She respectfully curtsied to him and the court, and, in the act of
retiring, fell into her father's arms. She was conveyed back to the gaol
in a swoon.

In the meantime every exertion was made to represent her case favourably
to the judge. A petition was signed by many of the grand jury, as well
as the petty jury, in her behalf, and strong hopes were entertained of a
reprieve.

These things were not mentioned to the prisoner, who returned to the
cell of condemned felons, to employ her time in "seeking that peace
which the world cannot give."

A keeper constantly attended her, and a female sat up with her all that
night. She requested to have a Bible, and pen, ink, and paper: these
were granted her. She did not sleep, but read the Sacred Book, sometimes
aloud, sometimes to herself. She also seemed to find great relief in
writing to her friends. One letter which she wrote to her uncle, and
another to her mistress, on that very night, will best evince the state
of her mind and feelings.

     "MY DEAR UNCLE,

     "This will reach you to-morrow before you leave Bury. Give my love
     and best thanks to my aunt and friends who spoke this day in behalf
     of your unhappy niece; but, when you arrive at Ipswich, be sure and
     call and thank that dear old gentleman, Doctor Stebbing. I know he
     feels very much for me, but tell him not to distress himself, as if
     I were to be lost for ever. Tell him I hope to see him in a better
     world. He has been very kind to me in those days when I was most
     forlorn, and my Saviour, who then guided me to him, will give him
     his reward. For He says, that a cup of cold water given to one of
     His most poor and wretched children, shall not be forgotten.

     "Dear uncle, show this letter to the gentleman in whose hands you
     have placed the money which I gave you for such purpose, and tell
     him that I wish it to be restored to William Laud, its rightful
     owner, if he can be found, and will receive it again. If he is not
     found, after my death, within the space of one year, I wish it to
     be divided into four equal portions: one for my father, one for my
     brother Edward, one for yourself, and one for my aunt.

     "Do not mourn for me, dear uncle, for I sincerely believe in God's
     forgiveness of my past sins, through the merits of Jesus Christ, my
     Saviour. My prayer to God is, 'Increase my faith, O Lord! and
     pardon me, as thou didst the malefactor upon the cross;' for I
     feel, dear uncle, as if I was justly in that thief's condemnation.
     I hope soon, very soon, to be in a better state, and in a happier
     world. I wish you and my aunt to come to Ipswich and see me once
     more before I suffer. Tell my aunt I wish her to purchase something
     decent for my funeral. She will find some money in the corner of
     my box, under the linen. Oh! how little did he, who gave me that
     money, and who so worthily esteemed me, how little did he think
     that any portion of it would be devoted to such a purpose! My dear
     uncle, go and comfort my poor father, and my good young brother: I
     will write to them before another day is past. I wish my bones to
     lie beside my mother's and sister's, in Nacton churchyard. I am
     told that on Saturday week I shall probably suffer death. God grant
     I may then be prepared!

     "We shall all return to Ipswich as soon as the nine prisoners, whom
     Mr. Ripshaw brought to Bury, shall have been tried. Pray for me,
     dear uncle! Warn the dear children by my fate. I should like to see
     them myself. I wish I could impress upon their young minds the
     dreadful feelings of guilt which I have endured, and so prevent
     their commission of any crime. I am going to write now to my dear
     mistress, and, as you return to-morrow, you must take that letter
     and deliver it. God bless you, dear uncle! God's peace be with you!
     So no more from your poor affectionate niece,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "Bury Gaol, August 9th, 1797.
     "To MR. LEADER, Six Bells Inn, Bury."

                                             "To MRS. COBBOLD.

     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "My trial is over, and I dare say my dear master has already told
     you the fate of your unhappy servant. He cannot, however, tell you
     what I can, and what will better please your good heart than the
     account of my trial, namely, that I am not so disconsolate as many
     persons may think I am. No; God be praised, and thanks to those
     dear friends who visited me in the Ipswich gaol; and chiefly thanks
     to you, among them, my dear lady; my heart is consoled with the
     prospect of soon seeing better things than this wicked world can
     show me. Oh! my dear lady, I hope to see you among those bright
     shining spirits who live for ever in harmony and love. Oh! how
     happy shall we then be, free from fear of pain or grief! I have
     just been reading that beautiful passage, where it is written, 'God
     shall wipe all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more
     death, neither sorrow nor crying; neither shall there be any more
     pain.' Oh! what a different world must that be to this; and what
     should make us grieve to leave this world? It is only the fear of
     future wrath that can prevent our joyfully looking up to heaven
     through the valley of death. And, dearest lady, if such a wretched
     being as I am can hope in that Saviour who died for me and all the
     world, surely, you, dear lady, must have a bright, a pleasant
     prospect, before you. Heaven bless you, for all your goodness to me
     in the days of my prosperity, but more for your Christian charity
     in the day of my adversity! The judge, who really, I think,
     reminded me of you, told me I had been well instructed; I wish he
     knew you, dear madam, and he would then be assured of it. Thank my
     kind master for his goodness to his unworthy servant. I had no hope
     of mercy from the first, and the judge told me not to trust in any
     such idea in this world. He spoke much less severely than I
     expected; but I was prepared for his condemnation, and I am now
     preparing my mind for the day of execution. I find great comfort in
     the Scriptures, because I have no secret pangs of unconfessed
     guilt, or any wish in my heart to cover or palliate my offences. My
     trial is over, and the same God who sustained me through it, will,
     I hope, preserve my spirit faithful to the last. Every moment seems
     valuable to me, dear lady, now that I know them to be so soon
     numbered; and I scarcely like to lose one even in sleep. Nature,
     however, is weary with fatigue and anxiety, though my spirit seems
     so wakeful. If I go to sleep, it will be in prayer for you and all
     my friends. That God may bless you and all your dear family, is
     the heartfelt desire of your unfortunate, though ever grateful
     servant,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "BURY GAOL, August 9th, 1797.

     "P.S.--My good uncle Leader will bring this, of whom you can ask
     any particulars, as he was in court during my trial."

On the 11th of August, a letter arrived from the Home Office, in London,
giving full powers to the judge to exercise the prerogative of mercy in
her case, as he might see fit. The judge was not in court at the time,
but in his own rooms. He sent immediately for the sheriff and the
prosecutor, Mr. Cobbold, and explained to them the purport of the letter
he had received. He thought, however, that some punishment should mark
the sense of crime. He therefore commuted the sentence of death for the
shortest period of transportation for seven years; and he signed the
necessary document for such purpose. He intimated that that period might
be shortened by the good conduct of the prisoner in gaol; for as there
was great difficulty now in sending prisoners to the new settlement, her
portion of confinement would most likely be spent in the Ipswich Gaol.
The judge added, that the woman appeared to be a most sensible creature;
and he made many most minute inquiries concerning her education and
habits. He said that she had conducted herself during her trial in a
very becoming manner, and he hoped that her punishment would end with
half the term of confinement. This would depend upon the representations
of the visiting magistrates.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE REPRIEVE AND REMOVAL

The feelings of Margaret Catchpole under the new circumstances which now
awaited her, will be best explained by a letter written by her to Mrs.
Cobbold immediately after the communication of the happy tidings, and
her consequent removal to Ipswich Gaol.

                    "IPSWICH GAOL, Sunday Evening, August 13th, 1797.

     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "You have heard of your poor servant's reprieve. I had no time to
     write you word yesterday, because of the bustle of our return, and
     the general congratulations of the prisoners. Mr. Ripshaw has
     permitted me to have pen, ink, and paper, this evening, and I
     hasten to write my heart. Good Mr. Sharp has been warning me
     against too great exultation in my change, and very kindly says to
     me in words of truth: 'Sin no more, lest a worse thing come upon
     thee.' This was his subject in the chapel to-day. I certainly do,
     even now, feel very different to what I did when I wrote to you
     last, dear lady, from Bury. I had then made up my mind to die, and
     hoped to live for ever. I now make up my mind to live; but I hope
     not to die for ever. No, dear lady; if I thought that life being
     granted to me now was only to make my future dangers greater, I
     should grieve that I did not rather suffer before this time.

     "Life is sweet and to be desired, whilst the hope of becoming good,
     and doing good in our time, exists. God grant that such hope may be
     realized in my life! Oh! my dear lady, if by living I could only
     imitate you more nearly, I should then be full of hope. I feel,
     however, that temptation will assail me, when I leave this place
     and enter again into the world. Here I am well taught and well
     guarded against many temptations. I have many dear friends too, who
     take such an interest in me, that I am afraid of being vain, though
     God has shown me I have indeed nothing to be vain of, except it be
     of such as you, dear lady, who take notice of such a creature as
     myself.

     "Oh! what a happy Sabbath-day has this been to me! I am so thankful
     that my heart can sing psalms all the day long. I am very grateful
     for this paper and pen, that I may be able to speak to you, my dear
     madam, in this way. You taught me to read and write, and these are
     my great recreations. Pray lend me some good books to read, and if
     you would let me see some of your own dear writing, it would be a
     great blessing to me.

     "I have now seven years' confinement to look forward to. Oh! that I
     may greatly improve my time! Beneath your help, what may I not gain
     in my prison! It may be some weeks before I see your dear, loved
     face, as I hear that you are very near increasing your family. I
     would not have you come into this place at such a time on any
     account. But, as I am so near you, a word or a message, just to let
     me know that you, my master, and family are well, would lighten my
     burden.

     "Mr. Ripshaw has promised that I shall have plenty of employment.
     Work of any sort, you know, dear lady, is always agreeable to me.
     To be doing nothing is death to me. He tells me, moreover, that if
     I conduct myself well, he will not fail to represent my case to the
     magistrates for a shortening of the period of my captivity. I
     received some hint of this from the chaplains at Bury. You may be
     sure, dear lady, that I will do all I can to serve Mr. Ripshaw, and
     to merit the recommendation of the magistrates. I hope your dear
     children are well. I never was so happy as when nursing Master
     Roland; I hope I shall see him soon again.

     "Pray, dear madam, give my duty to my master, and to the young
     ladies and gentlemen; and accept the same from your ever grateful
     servant,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE."

Margaret was true to her good intentions. She became very industrious
and trustworthy in the service of Mrs. Ripshaw, the governor's wife; and
made herself useful in every possible way to her new mistress. In fact,
she became an invaluable person in the gaol. She exercised a moral
influence over those of her own sex who were inmates of the prison, such
as no matron could hope to attain.

Her father and brother often came to see her, and occasionally they
brought her a luxury which reminded her of the days of liberty--"a
harvest cake."

The reader will not be surprised to learn that Margaret still,
sometimes, asked after Will Laud. Her brother could give her but an
indifferent account of what he heard of him; one question, however, of
most vital import to the still lingering hopes of poor Margaret,
namely--"Is he single still?" he could answer in the affirmative. As a
set-off against this, she learned that he was still deeply engaged in
smuggling transactions.

In the winter of 1797, Margaret lost her father, who was taken off by a
bad fever, which at that time raged fiercely in the neighbourhood.

The following letter to her brother Edward speaks her feelings on this
event:--

                           "IPSWICH GAOL, December 21st, 1797.

     "DEAR EDWARD,

     "My sins appear to me doubly great, because they have prevented my
     fulfilling my duties to my dear father in his illness. They oppress
     me, because, but for them, I should have found such comfort in
     being able to wait upon him. Oh that I had wings to fly from this
     place to Nacton! if only for once to be present at the last duties
     we can any of us pay to those whom we love. But I cannot come, so I
     send you this letter. My tears fall upon it, whilst I write it. He
     was such a dear good old man to us all. Can I ever forget him?
     Never! You and he both stood near me upon my trial.

     "Ah! Edward, I do think my ill-conduct has killed him. He was
     always so fond of me, that I think he has never recovered the shock
     of that day. Yet he seemed well, and rejoiced to see me, with the
     hope of happier and brighter times. But he is gone, and all our
     grief, dear brother, will be useless. If we continue to walk in the
     right path, we shall meet him hereafter. We shall go to him; he
     cannot come to us. Yet, I wish I could join you in the churchyard;
     but I may not leave the prison for one moment. It is an indulgence
     no prisoner is allowed. Mr. Ripshaw has promised me that I shall
     have the afternoon of to-morrow to myself, which I shall employ in
     reading, and thinking about the burial service.

     "Dear old man! he promised to spend Christmas-day with me in my
     cell. He is in a happier place, where joy and peace will make every
     day his Christmas. I shall think of you to-morrow at two o'clock.
     Do you remember, Edward, the evening of our mother's funeral? Do
     you remember the stranger's visit, and that stranger our brother
     Charles? This melancholy time reminds me of him. You will have a
     dreary home now. Oh that I had power to make it happier!

     "I am glad the Cracknells are still near you, and that they are
     kind to you; though their misfortunes and mine have kept pace with
     each other. Never mind, Edward, what cruel people say to you about
     their prophecies concerning my downfall. They only tell you these
     things to aggravate you. The time may come when they will
     impudently say, they prophesied my rise and progress in the world.
     I hope better days are coming.

     "You must come and see me as soon as you can; for I feel at this
     time very low and sorrowful. So my dear brother, do come and see
     me, when you are able to spare the time. Pray for me, and I will
     not cease to do so for you. My dear mistress has promised to send
     this by an especial messenger. How kind of her to think of one so
     unworthy as your affectionate sister,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE."

In the spring of 1798, Edward Catchpole, finding the notoriety his
sister had obtained occasioned him much annoyance, left the
neighbourhood of Ipswich, and went into Cambridgeshire, where he
obtained a situation as shepherd, and was always a respectable
character. Poor Margaret felt this loss keenly, though a letter from him
now and then cheered her spirits.[10]

Her kind friends in Ipswich made her many little presents, which she
treasured up against the time she should go out. She hoped it might be
in three years. Inquiries were frequently made concerning her conduct,
which was uniformly orderly and good. She was the most useful person
that Mrs. Ripshaw ever had in the prison.

Margaret never made use of one single shilling of that money which Laud
had thrown down for her. She always thought that the time would come
when it might be claimed; and looked upon it as a sort of confidential
deposit, for which she was answerable. No individual could have acted
with more scrupulous and faithful regard.

Time swept on, and Margaret had spent two years of good conduct in the
Ipswich gaol. The magistrates had told Mr. Ripshaw they should recommend
her at the Midsummer assizes, when she was mentioned in high terms to
the Lord Chief Baron. But the crime of horse-stealing still continued,
day by day, to be a growing evil; and, as if Margaret was made to feel
the consequence of others' crimes, no mitigation of her sentence was yet
granted. It had been injudiciously told her by some friend, who, no
doubt, meant it kindly, that an application had been made to the judge
for the shortening of the period of her imprisonment. This made her feel
very anxious; and it proved a great disappointment to her when she found
that the interest made in her behalf was ineffectual. Her mind was
unhinged, and her spirit grew restless, anxious, and oppressed. Her
mistress observed these symptoms with concern, and dreaded a return of
that irritability which had formerly rendered her so miserable.

But where was William Laud? At his old trade. He was deeply concerned in
that affair at Dunwich, where William Woodward and Benjamin Lawsey, two
boatmen belonging to his majesty's Customs at Southwold, were beaten and
thrown into the sea; and the government offered one hundred pounds
reward for the apprehension of any one of the offenders. Forty empty
carts were seen by these two men, standing ready for a run, with horses
and men in a lane at Dunwich. The reward was offered in the county
newspapers of the date of March 2nd, 1799.

Such a system of open fraud was carried on along the whole coast of
Norfolk and Suffolk about this time, that the revenue of the kingdom
began to suffer severely in the customs. In the month of March of the
second year of her imprisonment, Mr. Gooch, officer of excise at
Lowestoft, and Mr. Burdell, of Aldborough, seized 880 gallons of gin,
belonging to Will Laud and his company; and the evidence brought the
affair so clearly home to him that he was taken up and sentenced to be
imprisoned one year in the Ipswich gaol, and to pay a fine of one
hundred pounds to the king. His property was seized and confiscated;
smuggled goods were found upon his premises, and he became a penniless
bankrupt, and an inmate of that very prison where the devoted Margaret
was suffering on his account.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 10: All traces of Edward Catchpole having been lost, the
author is obliged to Henry T. Bourne, Esq., of Alford, in Lincolnshire,
for making known to him, since the publication of the work, the
circumstances which are here briefly narrated.

Edward Catchpole went into Lincolnshire, and resided some time at
Sutton-in-the-Marsh. He was always fond of the sea, and for some years
became mate of the _Argus_ revenue cutter. In this vessel, he was
present at the rescue of an English coal brig, from the _Star_, French
privateer; and having put men on board the brig, sufficient to carry her
into port, he pursued the privateer, brought her to close quarters, and
having only twenty-seven men on board the cutter, he was overpowered,
and at ten o'clock at night compelled to surrender, as the privateer had
eighty-six men against him.

This was on the 18th September, 1807. He was made prisoner, and having
spent seven years in confinement, he made his escape, and reached home
in safety.

He was afterwards appointed chief officer of the coastguard, at
Sutton-in-the-Marsh, in the county of Lincoln. Though a very brave man,
and a steady officer, he did not appear to have any very serious notions
of religion, until he was compelled by a serious wound to keep at home.
It was the blessing of God to him, and others, that this accident
happened to him, for his mind appears to have been awakened to a deep
sense of his past sins, and his soul very much aroused to inquiry, by
the kindness of an excellent neighbour, who dressed his wounds for him,
and did her best endeavours to pour in consolation upon his broken
heart.

He became sensible of his need of a Saviour; and never after forsook the
help he found in his necessity, but became useful and exemplary, and
even the means, by the blessing of God, of saving others of his comrades
and companions. He died on the 17th of December, 1836, after affording
to all around him, a Christian example of patience under suffering
affliction.

He was interred in the churchyard at Sutton, and a stone at the head of
his grave contains the following inscription:--

                            IN MEMORY OF
                          EDWARD CATCHPOLE,
                         A NATIVE OF IPSWICH,
                      IN THE COUNTY OF SUFFOLK,
                    AND LATE CHIEF OFFICER OF THE
                             COASTGUARD
                     STATIONED AT THIS PLACE,
                 WHO DIED DECEMBER THE 17TH, 1836,
                           AGED 58 YEARS.

_Sutton-in-the-Marsh_, Jan. 1847.]

CHAPTER XXV

THE ESCAPE

Margaret had not heard of the capture of Laud; and he, even in his then
degraded condition, looked upon it as a thing not to be desired that she
should hear of. She had been engaged in washing for Mrs. Ripshaw. At
that time the large linen-horses belonging to the gaol stood in the
passage between the debtors' and felons' yards. Margaret had occasion to
remove those horses into the drying-ground. For this purpose she had to
pass through the governor's apartment into the thoroughfare between
these two yards. A strong palisade of oak, with sharp tenter-hooks on
their tops, stood on each side of this stone passage, leading from the
turnkey's lodge to the governor's rooms at the centre of the prison. As
Margaret was in the act of removing one of these horses, she saw a
sailor standing by the wall on the debtors' side. A sailor in prison
would interest her at any time; but this sailor looked so very like Will
Laud that she stood still with astonishment. He evidently saw her, and
as he approached toward the place where she stood, her heart was
convulsively beating, and a tremor came over her limbs. He came nearer:
it was Laud. She saw him again after the lapse of years; him whom her
earliest and warmest feelings had acknowledged as her lover. She had
never in her heart deserted him for an hour; yet he had hardly ever been
constant to anything. He approached, however, and Margaret, pretending
to be engaged in removing the linen-horses, felt her hands and feet
tremble exceedingly. She heard the well-known voice, which sounded like
music in her ears, say, "Margaret, is that you? How are you, Peggy?" She
tried all she could to summon courage to speak, but her heart was so
full, her breast heaved so rapidly, that she could not utter a word;
tears stood in her eyes, and she tried to smile through them; but, in
the act of lifting one of those great horses off the pegs, her hands and
knees could not support the weight, but down fell the horse upon her,
and cast her, with considerable force and clatter upon the stone-flag
pavement.

The noise of the fall brought out the governor and the turnkey at the
same moment, who, both concluding that the weight had overpowered her,
ran to her assistance, whilst the sailor, well knowing he could be of no
use, walked quietly away. No one in the gaol knew that he was Margaret's
lover. She was carried into the governor's house. The turnkey said he
had often removed the horses, considering they were too heavy for a
female to lift, though they were frequently carried by them. Margaret
told Mr. Ripshaw that the over-exertion had for a moment produced a
dizziness in her head, and a sudden faintness came upon her before she
fell. She dreaded, however, lest any one should imagine the real cause
of her accident. Her friend, the surgeon of the gaol, Mr. George
Stebbing, was sent for; and when he saw her he bled her, considering
that she had received some internal injury. It was a good thing he did
so, for it reduced her to such real weakness as confined her some days
to her bed, and afforded time for reflection.

Mrs. Ripshaw had promised Mrs. Cobbold, that if Margaret should be ill
at any time she would let her know it, and she now fulfilled that
promise. She sent her a note to tell her how the accident occurred, and
how she was. Mrs. Cobbold came immediately, and found her in an
unaccountable state of agitation. She at once asked Margaret if
anything particular had occurred, but she elicited nothing satisfactory.

No one in the gaol except Margaret knew Will Laud, and no one took any
particular notice of him but her. A letter, which was afterwards found
upon his person, shows how truly that poor girl had loved so unworthy a
man. Opportunities of occasional words were at different times offered
and seized upon by them, though these were few and far between. By
these, however, Margaret learned that he was a ruined man, sentenced to
a year's imprisonment, and to pay a fine of one hundred pounds to the
king; that in all probability his confinement might be for years, as
everything he possessed had been confiscated; his boats, ships, and
stock, had been seized; and yet imprisonment was to continue till the
penalty was paid.

The letter which Margaret wrote to him about this period, and contrived
to give into his hands, showed how deeply she entered into his past as
well as present feelings, and is a noble specimen of her devoted
affection:--

                          "FELONS' CELL, Jan. 10th, 1800.

     "DEAR WILLIAM,

     "You may guess my surprise to hear you say that John Cook knew
     nothing about you; that he invented a lie to get me to steal the
     horse. This accords, however, with my beloved mistress's opinion.
     Oh! how glad I am that I did not let out the secret that I had
     money of yours in hand! I should have lost everything if I had. He,
     a villain, induced me to go to London with the hope of seeing you
     at the Dog and Bone, Lambeth. He told me that you were hiding from
     the fear of arrest, and had confided to him your place of safety.
     He even showed me a letter purporting to come from you. Oh! what an
     artful villain!--what punishment he deserves!

     "But, dear William, make yourself easy about the fine. I will send
     for my uncle Leader before the time of your imprisonment expires,
     and the hundred and thirty guineas shall be given up to you. He
     shall pay the fine for you, and shall give you the remainder. You
     will own now that I am trustworthy. Oh! how happy I am that I did
     not make away with it, nor suffer others to do so! I kept it for
     you, and it comes into use at the moment it is most wanted. Nobody
     need know how it is disposed of; only remember your poor Margaret,
     that she longs for the shortening of her confinement, that she may
     join herself with your fortunes wherever they may be.

     "You will soon regain your liberty. I may have to complete my seven
     years here. But will you be faithful and wait for me? You promise
     fairly. You say you will live at Sudbourn, and try to get an honest
     living. Every hour of the day I am thinking about you; and at night
     I dream sometimes that I am sailing upon the ocean with you;
     sometimes that I am living with my father and brother. But dreams
     are deceitful. I hope you will never prove such to me again. I am
     willing to join my fate to yours whenever I obtain my release. Pray
     God that may be soon. Oh! that it could come on the day of your own
     release! but come or not then, believe me ever

                                "Your affectionate
                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE."

Not long after the date of this letter, application was made to the
Secretary of State for her pardon; but, unfortunately for her, the same
causes which had operated against her before still prevailed. The crime
of horse-stealing was at this date at its highest pitch, and depredators
of this kind became so bold, that it was thought necessary to give a
positive denial to the application in Margaret's favour. The prospect of
her release, therefore, did not appear a bright one, and every month
seemed to make it less probable.

The time for the departure of Laud out of prison now drew nigh, and
Margaret wrote to her uncle, requesting him to come and see her, which
he did; and she then gave him full powers to withdraw the 130 guineas
from Mr. Smith, and requested him to pay £100 into the hands of Mr.
Ripshaw on a certain day; namely, the 5th of March, the day previous to
Laud's term of imprisonment expiring.

Mr. Leader was well assured that she would never draw the money, except
to restore it to Will Laud. He asked her the plain question. She gave
him an honest answer. She told him that Will was then in prison, and
that his liberty depended upon the punctuality of the payment. Her
honesty with her uncle saved her from detection, for, in all
probability, had not Mr. Leader had more prudence than she had, it might
have been suspected by the gaoler. He at once suggested that Mr. Smith,
who was not known to have any connexion with her, should be requested to
pay the fine to Mr. Ripshaw, in behalf of the prisoner. It struck
Margaret, the moment it was mentioned, and she felt surprised that the
hurry and anxiety of her own feelings should have so greatly blinded her
as to leave her destitute of common prudence in this matter.

It was on the 3rd of March, in the year 1800, that Margaret was destined
to undergo the severest temptation she had ever yet experienced. She had
been employed in washing for the prisoners, and was engaged hanging out
the linen in the passage on one of the clothes-horses used for that
purpose, when she was accosted from the debtors' side in a well-known
voice, "Margaret! what a capital ladder one of those horses would make,
if set against the wall!"

She turned round, and there stood Will Laud. Cautiously she looked along
the passage to see if any one was near. She pretended to be busily
engaged; at the same time she said,--

"Ah, William! I understand you. I wish I could make my escape with you,
and I would; but I fear the thing is too difficult."

"You might manage it, Margaret, when the governor goes to Bury with the
prisoners."

"How, William! How?"

"You have the horse, and you have the linen line. Look around the wall,
and see if you cannot find a place of escape. You must be tired of your
captivity. I owe my liberty to you; and if I can once get you out of
this place, no power on earth shall separate us again."

"But where should I go, William, if I got out?"

"To my sister's at Sudbourn, Lucy Keeley. I will tell her to expect
you."

"That would do. I will look round and see if it can be done. On the 19th
or 20th of this month, Mr. Ripshaw goes to Bury with the prisoners. On
Monday the 24th, and Tuesday the 25th, are our two great washing days.
It must be one of those nights. Will you be waiting for me at the end of
the lane, near St. Helen's Church?"

"I will be waiting for you, never fear. I will have a sailor's jacket
and hat to disguise you in."

"Well, the trial is worth the risk. I will confide in you once more,
Laud; but if you deceive me, then, indeed, I care not what becomes of
me. But I will trust you. Go!--There is some one coming."

Laud departed, and Margaret busied herself with the linen. That day she
had many things given her to mend. She contrived also to get a candle,
under the pretence of working late. And such was the confidence which
was placed in her, and such the quantity of work she performed, that she
was trusted beyond any other prisoner in the house.

Margaret knew nothing of the penalty the law would compel her to pay for
breaking out of prison. She knew nothing of the bond by which the gaoler
was bound, in case of the escape of any of his prisoners. She saw but
her lover and liberty, and did not suppose it any great offence, even if
she should be detected in the attempt.

Her uncle Leader paid her a visit on the 5th, and gave her the thirty
guineas, telling her that the hundred guineas were lodged in the hands
of Mr. Ripshaw for the discharge of Will Laud.

"I will give William this money myself," thought Margaret; but she
breathed not one word of her intended escape to her uncle; and the good
man left her with the conscious happiness, that let her term of
confinement be what it might, she had been instrumental in procuring the
release of her lover.

It was a proud day for Margaret, that 6th of March, 1800. From the
felons' side she could see her lover depart out of gaol in company with
Mr. Ripshaw. She saw him go to the turnkey's lodge; and with a heart at
the same time bounding with the hope of liberty, she walked quietly
round the felons' yard, looking anxiously up at those long spikes to see
where the widest place could be found for her to get her body through.
That very hour she discovered a place where one of the spikes had been
broken off. She looked at it and sighed. She was very thoughtful about
it. It dwelt upon her mind night and day, till she had fully resolved to
make the attempt at that very spot.

At night, and early in the morning, she was at work for herself. Out of
one sheet she contrived to make a smock-frock, such as shepherds wear
over their clothes. Out of the other she made a pair of sailor's
trousers. These she laid upon her bed in such an ingenious manner, that
no one going into her cell would discover any difference in the usual
make of it.

Anxiously did she watch the hours for the departure of Mr. Ripshaw with
the prisoners for trial at Bury. In the very cell next to her own was a
felon to be taken away. The anxious time came, and Margaret saw the
governor and prisoners take their departure.

Meantime, Laud, directly he left the gaol, went to his sister's house at
Sudbourn. He reached that place the same night. He told his sister who
it was that had paid the fine for him, and thus completely won her heart
for Margaret. His plan was fixed to get off with Margaret in a
smuggler's boat, and get a cast to Holland, where he intended to marry
and settle. He told his sister his plan, and she approved it, and
promised to receive Margaret.

He was not long in ascertaining what boats were expected on the coast.
He had an interview with one David Shaw, the master of a cutter
belonging to Captain Merrells, and with him came to an understanding
that, some day after the 25th, when wind and weather should suit, he
should send a boat ashore for him. A red handkerchief tied round his hat
should be the signal that he was ready. He told him that he should be
accompanied by a friend, whom he wished to go over the water with him.
All these things were arranged, and, as far as they went, were in some
sense honourable. In the meantime he promised to assist in landing any
cargoes along the shore. And this part of the contract he performed.

On the 19th of March, Mr. Ripshaw, with seven prisoners, departed for
Bury. The business of the assizes began on Thursday, the 20th, and did
not terminate until that day week, the 27th. On Monday and Tuesday the
wash took place. On these occasions the female convicts are all locked
up in one large room, from seven o'clock in the morning until seven in
the evening; their food being brought to them in the washing-room. At
seven in the evening they all go into the felons' yard for exercise and
air. They usually give their signal that the wash is finished by rapping
the door about seven o'clock. This evening, Tuesday, the 25th, Margaret
contrived by various means to prolong the wash till nearly eight
o'clock, and as she had some kind of acknowledged authority and
influence among her fellow-convicts, she insisted upon the signal not
being given till the work was completely finished; so that at eight
o'clock it was quite dark. They were let out of the room into the
felons' yard at that time for one half hour. Some were accustomed to
saunter about, or to have a game of romps. Some, when the season
admitted, would weed the flower-beds; for Mr. Ripshaw was a great fancy
florist, and used to raise the best ranunculuses, carnations, and
polyanthuses, of any person in the town. His garden adjoined the felons'
walk, and was only separated from it by a very low paling. Margaret had
continual access to the garden, and used to take considerable interest
in the culture of the plants.

She was greatly disappointed to find that all the linen-horses stood on
the stone area, between the debtors' and felons' yards. She had hoped
that they would have been carried by the turnkey to the drying ground in
the garden, as usual, ready for the linen in the morning. Owing to some
cause or other, they were not there that night.

This was a sad disappointment, for she had made up her mind to escape
that very night. Could she be suspected? Had anybody betrayed her? No,
it was impossible. As the turnkey passed the palings she cried out to
him, "You have not put out the horses for us to-night?"

"No, Margaret," he replied, "we have all been too busy cleaning the
cells and yards; but they shall be put out the first thing in the
morning."

The reply was both satisfactory and unsatisfactory. It convinced her she
was not suspected; but declared that she must expect no help from the
linen-horses. She was glad, however, to see that the lines were on the
posts for the coarse linen, and the crotches, or props, in their proper
places.

She looked around for something to help her. The gaol wall was nearly
twenty-two feet high, and the _chevaux de frise_ three feet from the
point of one revolving spike to its extreme point. What could she get to
assist her? At one time she thought of pulling up a portion of the
paling for a ladder. She tried her strength at it, but it was too much
for her. She then turned her eye upon a large frame, which was used for
the flower-beds. It covered a long bed, and the awning usually placed
upon it to keep the sun off the flowers in the summer was not there. She
tried her strength at this, and lifted the legs upon which it stood
about a foot upwards. This she resolved to make her ladder. She looked
up at the narrow spot where the iron spike had been broken, and which
was close to the shoulder or prop of the _chevaux de frise_. Hope beamed
brightly upon her as she thought of her liberty. Margaret resolved to
make the attempt at midnight. At half-past eight the convicts all went
in to supper, and afterwards retired to their cells. But Margaret, the
moment she reached hers, contrived to slip out of it again, with the
things she had made for her disguise, into the adjoining one, which
stood open; and she crept under the bed of the felon who was gone to
Bury for trial. She had, as usual, closed her own door, and lay
anxiously waiting in her hiding place the turnkey's approach. She heard
him coming along, and asking the several prisoners, as he came, if they
were in their cells. They answered his summons, and then she heard them
locked up; and now came the challenge to her own door.

"Margaret, are you there?"

She put her lips to the wall of the cell where she was, and answered,
"Yes." It sounded exactly as if she was in bed in her own cell; and to
her great joy she heard the key turn in the iron lock, and the bolt
shoot into its place. She breathed for a moment freely, but the next
moment she experienced such a sudden revulsion as few could have borne
without detection. To her confusion and dismay, the turnkey entered the
very cell where she lay concealed under the bed. He walked up to the
iron-grated window, and, as usual, the casement stood open for the
benefit of air through the passage, and, in a soliloquizing manner,
said, "Ah! poor Sarah! you will never sleep upon this bed again!"

In breathless agony did Margaret dread two things equally fatal to her
project. One was, that he should hear her breath in the stillness of the
night, and discover her; the other, that he should lock the door upon
her. She knew that it was not usual to lock the doors of those cells
which contained no prisoners, but she dreaded lest the same absence of
mind which made him saunter into Sarah Lloyd's cell should make him look
the door. What a state of suspense! How did her blood course through her
frame! she could hear her heart beat! She was presently relieved from
her suspense, for the turnkey, having completed his duty in locking up
all his prisoners, quietly departed out of the cell, and left the door,
as usual, standing wide open. Never was relief more opportune or welcome
than this to her overcharged heart. The clock struck the hours of nine,
ten, and eleven, and Margaret had not stirred. She now rose, took her
shoes in her hand, and her bundle under her arm; she then managed to tie
it up with an apron-string over her shoulders, and, with the slightest
tread, stole along the stone passage. A mouse would scarcely have been
disturbed by her as she descended the front of steps that led to the
felons' yard.

To her great comfort she found the door unbolted; for the turnkey,
having locked every one up, saw no necessity for bolting the yard door.
Silently she opened it; it creaked so little, that the wind prevented
any sound reaching beyond the precincts of the door. She made her way to
the flower-stand in the governor's garden, lifted the frame out of the
ground and set it up endways directly under the broken spike. It reached
a little more than half way up the wall, being about thirteen feet long.
She then went and took the linen line off the posts, and made a running
noose at one end of it. She then took the longest clothes-prop she could
find, and passed the noose over the horn of it. She mounted the frame by
the help of the prop, and standing upon it she lifted the line up and
passed the noose over the shoulder of the _chevaux de frise_, then,
pulling it tight and close to the wall, it slipped down the iron and
became fixed.

Now came the greatest difficulty she had ever overcome in her life. She
drew herself up by the line to the top of the wall, and laying her body
directly upon the roller where the spike was broken, with the help of
one hand grasping the shoulder of iron, she balanced herself until she
had pulled up all the line and let it fall down the other side of the
wall; then, taking hold of the rope with both hands, she bent her body
forward, and the whole body of spikes revolved, turning her literally
heels over head on the outer side of the gaol wall. Was there ever such
a desperate act performed by any woman before? Had not the fact been
proved beyond all doubt, the statement might be deemed incredible. But
Margaret Catchpole did exactly as here described; and after the
oscillation of her body was over from the jerk, she quietly let herself
down in perfect safety on the other side.

Just as she alighted on the earth St. Clement's chimes played for twelve
o'clock. It was a gently sloping bank from the wall, and a dry fosse,
which she crossed, easily climbed over the low wooden palings against
the road, and made her way for the lane against St. Helen's church.
There she found Will Laud in readiness to receive her, which he did with
an ardour and devotion that told he was sincere.

They fled to an empty cart-shed on the Woodbridge road. Here Laud kept
watch at the entrance whilst Margaret put on her sailor's dress. She
soon made her appearance on the road with her white trousers, hat, and
blue jacket, looking completely like a British tar. They did not wait to
be overtaken, but off they started for Woodbridge, and arrived at the
ferry just as the dawning streaks of daylight began to tinge the east.
Their intention was to cross the Sutton Walks and Hollesley Heath to
Sudbourn. Unluckily for them, however, who should they meet at the ferry
but old Robinson Crusoe, the fisherman, who, having been driven round
the point at Felixstowe, was compelled to come up the Deben to
Woodbridge for the sale of his fish. The old man gave them no sign of
recognition, but he knew them both, and, with a tact that few possessed,
saw how the wind blew. But without speaking to either of them, he
proceeded with his basket to the town.

At this they both rejoiced, and as they took their journey across that
barren tract of land, it seemed to them like traversing a flowery mead.

CHAPTER XXVI

PURSUIT AND CAPTURE

The morning after Margaret's escape the turnkey was alarmed by the call
of the gardener, who came early to the prison to prune some trees in the
governor's garden. He told the turnkey there was a rope hanging down the
wall, as if some one had escaped during the night. They soon discovered
the frame against the wall; footmarks along the beds, and the linen
crotch, all told the same tale. The turnkey then ran to the men's cells,
and found them all bolted. He did the same to the women's, and found
them likewise fastened just as he left them the night before. He then
examined every window. Not a bar was moved. He did this without speaking
a word to any one. At the usual hour he called up the prisoners, and
marched them out of their cells. Margaret's was the last, at the end of
the passage. When he opened it, no one answered his summons. He walked
in; no one was there. The bed had not been slept in, and was without
sheets. He then made Mrs. Ripshaw acquainted with the facts.
Astonishment and alarm were depicted upon her countenance. Her husband's
absence made the circumstance the more distressing.

Search was made in every part of the gaol, but no trace of Margaret
could be found. The women with whom she washed the day previously all
declared that they knew nothing of her escape. They declared that they
saw her go before them to the farther end of the passage to her own
cell. But how could she escape and lock the door? The turnkey was quite
sure he had secured her in her own cell, for that he went into the one
adjoining after he had, as he supposed, locked her up in hers. It came
out, however, in the course of inquiry, that he remembered her asking
him about the horses not being set out for the wash; and the women
declared that Margaret had been very peremptory about not giving the
signal before eight o'clock. These things seemed to indicate a design to
escape, and carried some suspicion of the fact.

Mrs. Ripshaw, however, was not satisfied, but sent a swift messenger on
horseback to Bury St. Edmunds, with a note to acquaint her husband with
the circumstances. Mrs. Ripshaw also wrote to Mrs. Cobbold in the
greatest agitation, begging of her, if she knew where she was, to give
information of it, as her husband and two sureties were bound, under a
penalty of five hundred pounds each, to answer for the escape of any
prisoner from the gaol. Such a stir was created in the town of Ipswich
by this event as was scarcely ever before witnessed. People flocked to
the gaol to see the spot whence Peggy had made her escape, and many were
the reports falsely circulated concerning her.

It is not easy to describe the grief and consternation which was truly
felt by Margaret's dearest and best friend. She knew the consequences of
this rash act; that, if she was taken, it was death, without any hope of
reprieve.

She ordered her carriage, and went to the gaol, and was as much, or even
more astonished than the inmates of the prison could be. She soon
convinced Mrs. Ripshaw that she had not the slightest idea of any such
intention on the part of her late servant, neither could she tell where
she was gone. She made inquiries whether she had been seen talking with
any of the male prisoners; but no clue could be gained here. Mrs.
Cobbold was one of those whose decided opinion was, that she must have
had somebody as an accomplice; but every soul denied it. This lady
returned home in the greatest distress and uncertainty. Messengers were
dispatched to Nacton, to Brandiston, and even into Cambridgeshire, to
inquire after her.

When Mr. Ripshaw returned from Bury, he found some of the magistrates
in the gaol. He had formed a very strong opinion in his own mind, and
requested the visiting magistrates to examine the turnkey immediately.
He was summoned, and examined before Colonel Edgar, Mr. Gibson, and Mr.
Neale, and closely questioned. His answers were not deemed satisfactory.

The magistrates remanded him for a time, and conversed together upon the
subject. They were of opinion that somebody must have bribed the man,
and that he must have let her out, and have put the things as they were
found, as a blind to turn suspicion from himself.

He was again summoned, and given in custody, on suspicion of having
assisted the prisoner's escape.

In the meantime, every exertion was made to discover the prisoner, but
without any success. The following hand-bill was printed and circulated
in every direction:--

                              "FIFTY POUNDS REWARD.

     "Whereas, on Tuesday night, the 25th of March, or early on Wednesday
     morning, Margaret Catchpole, a female convict, confined in the Ipswich
     gaol, made her escape therefrom, either by scaling the wall, or by the
     connivance of the turnkey, this is to give notice, that the above reward
     shall be given to any person or persons who will bring the said Margaret
     Catchpole to Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler; and one-half that sum to any
     person or persons furnishing such information as shall lead to her
     apprehension. And notice is hereby given, that any person concealing or
     harbouring the said Margaret Catchpole shall, after this notice, if
     detected, be, by order of the magistrates, punished as the law directs.

     "N.B.--The prisoner is a tall and dark person, with short hair, black
     eyes, and of intelligent countenance. She had on the gaol dress, and
     took away with her the two sheets belonging to her bed.

     "IPSWICH GAOL, March 28th, 1800."

This notice was circulated far and near, and furnished topics for
conversation throughout the county.

It so happened that some of the servants of Mrs. Cobbold mentioned the
subject of the reward to the old fisherman, Robinson Crusoe, as he stood
at the back-door with his basket of fish.

"Well, Robin, have you heard of the reward? Have you heard of Margaret's
escape from the gaol!"

"No; but I think I have seen her, or the foul fiend has played me one of
his shabby tricks."

"Seen her, Robin! Where?"

"I saw that fellow Laud, and somebody very like her, go across the
Sutton Ferry together. She might deceive anybody else, but the foul
fiend showed her to me, though she was in a sailor's dress. I told your
mistress, long ago, that no good would come of Margaret."

This news reached the parlour, and was soon communicated to Mr. Ripshaw,
who quickly had an interview with Mrs. Cobbold, and from her he learned
the intimacy existing between Will Laud, his late prisoner, and
Margaret, and could not doubt that he had assisted in her escape. He
soon ascertained the probable bearings of Laud's destination, and lost
no time in prosecuting the pursuit. He went off for Woodbridge and
Sutton Ferry directly. The ferryman corroborated the testimony of old
Colson as to two sailors, a slight one and a stout one, passing over the
river in his boat, on the morning of the 26th. They went off directly,
he said, for Eyke. Thither the gaoler pursued his course, and thence to
Sudbourn.

He found out that two sailors had been seen in that neighbourhood such
as he described them, and that they lodged at Mrs. Keeley's. He took a
constable along with him to the cottage, and at once demanded his
prisoner. The woman at first denied all knowledge of the persons he
sought, but, after threatening her with taking her off to gaol at once,
she confessed that her brother and Margaret were down on the coast,
waiting for a boat to carry them off to sea; she even confessed that
Margaret slept with her only the night before, and that a report having
reached them of the reward offered for her capture, she had put a
smock-frock over her sailor's jacket, and was assisting Keeley, her
husband, in keeping his flock upon the marsh saltings.

The constable of Sudbourn and Mr. Ripshaw went off immediately for the
saltings. They met Keeley, the shepherd, returning with his flock, to
fold them upon the fallows; but no one was with him. He was a shrewd,
sharp, surly fellow, and in a moment understood what was in the wind.

Mr. Ripshaw began the attack. "Constable, take that man into custody."

"Where's your warrant, Mr. Gaoler? 'Old birds are not to be caught with
chaff.' Now, then, your warrant for my apprehension, and I am the man to
go with you. Come, show me the warrant at once; or, you no sooner lift
your hand against me than I will show you what resistance is, and you
shall take the consequences of an assault upon my person."

The fellow stood with his brawny limbs displayed before them, and his
two fierce, rough-coated, short, flap-eared dogs wagging their stumps of
tails, and looking earnestly in their master's face, to see if he gave
the signal for them to attack either, or both the gaoler and the
constable. It was clear that they must go upon another tack.

The shepherd gave a shrill whistle to his dogs, and on they dashed,
driving the sheep towards the fold.

They proceeded directly along the shingled hardware to the beach, or
rather to the shore of the river-side, which in those parts much
resembles the sea-shore. The revenue cutter's boat was then going across
the stream of the Alde; they hailed it, and the officer in command
ordered his men to return.

It was young Barry who came on shore from the boat, and he immediately
walked a little way apart with the gaoler, who explained to him the
nature of his business; and painful as its connexion with Margaret
Catchpole made it to Barry, his sense of duty compelled him to render
the assistance required. Accordingly, they were soon seated in the stern
of the boat, and were rowed by his men towards the spot, where, on the
main shore, Laud and Margaret stood, anxiously watching the approach of
a boat from a vessel on the sea.

There they stood, not only unconscious of approaching danger, but
congratulating themselves upon the prospect of a termination of all
their troubles. Joyfully did they watch the boat coming over the billows
of the sea, not seeing the other boat approaching them from the river. A
few minutes more, and they would have been beyond the reach of gaolers
and of prisons.

Neither Laud nor Margaret saw them until they came down upon them,
headed by the gaoler, whose voice Margaret instantly recognized. With a
wild shriek that made the welkin ring, she rushed into the sea, and
would at once have perished, had not Laud caught her, as a wave cast her
back upon the beach and suddenly deprived her of sense and speech.

He stood across the seemingly lifeless body of that devoted girl, and
with a pistol in each hand cocked, and presented to the foremost men,
the officer and the gaoler, he exclaimed, "Let us go--we are not
defrauding the revenue--you have no business with us!"

"_You_ may go unhurt," replied the gaoler, "if you will deliver up the
body of Margaret Catchpole. I must and will have her in my custody."

"If you do, Mr. Ripshaw, it shall be at the peril of your life, or the
cost of mine. The first man who approaches to touch her shall be a
corpse, or he shall make me one."

There was such determination in his words and attitude, that every one
saw he would not flinch. It was a painful moment for young Barry; he
wished to save the life of Laud; he did not wish to risk that of any of
his men; he stepped forward, and said,--

"Will Laud, let me entreat you to give up the person of Margaret
Catchpole; she has escaped from the custody of the gaoler, and is under
sentence of transportation. I promise that you shall depart in safety,
and that she shall take no hurt. Do not force me to shed blood--we
_must_ take her!"

The next instant two pistols flashed, and Laud lay stretched upon the
sand. He had first fired at Barry and missed him, and the next moment,
in self-defence, Barry was compelled to fire in return. The ball, which
was intended only to have disabled his arm, passed through his heart and
killed him on the spot. So ended the career of a man who, only in the
few latter days of his life, seemed steadily resolved to act fairly by
the woman who had devoted her life to him, and to follow some honourable
occupation in a foreign land. Poor Susan's words at last proved true:
"Margaret you will never marry William Laud."

The bodies of Laud and Margaret were both carried by the sailors to the
preventive-service boat, and laid upon the men's cloaks at the bottom of
it. After a while, Margaret began to revive, and her awakening dream
was, that she was on board the smuggler's boat, which was coming to meet
them. But the men in that boat, observing the fearful odds against them,
had only rested on their oars to see the fatal result which took place,
and then turned back and steered for their own vessel.

Margaret looked wildly round her as the moonlight shone upon the
sailors. She whispered, "Laud! Laud!" She saw something lying in a line
with herself upon the same cloaks, but could not distinguish anything
but a sailor's dress: she heard a voice at the helm which was familiar
to her; she recognized it to be Barry's; she lifted her head, and saw
the banks of the river on both sides of the water. The truth seemed to
flash upon her, for she fell backwards again, fainted away, and became
insensible.

She and her lover were conveyed to the Ship Inn at Orford. The sailors
who carried her, sensible of the devoted heart of the poor girl, seemed
oppressed with heaviness, and could not refrain addressing one another,
in their own peculiar style, upon the bad job of that night. Margaret
became too soon and too fully acquainted with her situation. She shed
tears of the deepest agony; her mind was distracted, and without
consolation. She did not speak to any one; but between sobs, and groans,
and lamentations upon her loss, she seemed the most melancholy picture
of human woe. By what she had heard from some of the pitying sailors
around her, she understood that it was young Edward Barry who had shot
her lover. When he came into the room where she was seated in an
arm-chair, with her head resting in an agony upon her hand, he went up
to speak to her. She lifted up her hands, turned her head aside, and
exclaimed--

"Begone, wretch! Did you not voluntarily promise you would never hurt
him?"

"And so I would, Margaret, if he would have permitted me to do so. But
he would not. He first fired at me, and then I returned it; but only
with the intention of disarming him."

"You have done a noble deed, and one which will immortalize your name,
one which will form a source of happy reflection to you hereafter, most
noble man of war! You have killed a harmless man, and have taken captive
a poor fugitive female! Happy warrior! you will be nobly rewarded!"

"Do not reproach me, Margaret, but forgive me. I have only done my duty;
and, however painful it has been, you would not reproach me, if you did
but know how much I really grieved for you."

"Your grief for me will do me about as much good as mine will poor
William!" and here Margaret burst into a flood of tears, which words
could not in any way repress.

A post-chaise was ordered to the inn-door, and Margaret, apparently more
dead than alive, was placed within it, and the gaoler taking his seat
beside her, they were conveyed immediately to Ipswich.

She was once more confined within those walls which she had so recently
scaled; she made no secret of the manner in which she had effected her
escape; she fully confessed her own work, and perfectly exonerated every
other person in the gaol.

It was well for the poor turnkey that she was captured. He was
immediately released from confinement, and reinstated in his office.

Margaret was now kept in almost solitary confinement, to mourn over her
unhappy lot, and to reflect upon the death of one whom she had loved too
well.

CHAPTER XXVII

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