The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl

Cobbold Richard

The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl

INTRODUCTION

Three personalities interest us in reading the novel of Margaret Catchpole– the author, the heroine, and the author’s mother, in whose service the real Margaret Catchpole was employed. Neither the author nor his mother has been the subject of much biographical effort, although Richard Cobbold was an industrious novelist, poet, and essayist for a long period of years, and wrote this one book that will always, I think, be read. His mother, Elizabeth Cobbold, made some reputation as a writer of verse, and is immortalized for us in Charles Dickens’s Mrs. Leo Hunter. Fortunately we have a sketch of her by one Laetitia Jermyn, dated 1825, and attached to a volume of Poems, published at Ipswich in that year.1 Laetitia Jermyn tells us that Elizabeth’s maiden name was Knipe, and that she was born in Watling Street, London, about 1764, her father being Robert Knipe of Liverpool. In 1787 she published a little volume of verse entitled Six Narrative Poems, which she dedicated to Sir Joshua Reynolds, evidently by permission. It is clear that in girlhood she had made the acquaintance of the great painter. Her biographer says nothing about her being an actress, but it is a tradition in Ipswich that this was for a time her profession. In 1790 she was married at Liverpool to William Clarke, a Portman of the borough and Comptroller of the Customs of Ipswich, who was apparently about sixty years of age and in very delicate health. The sprightly young wife wrote the following lines to her husband on St. Valentine’s Day, soon after their marriage: —

Eliza to William this Valentine sends,While ev’ry good wish on the present attends;And freely she writes, undisturb’d by a fear,Tho’ prudes may look scornful, and libertines sneer.Tho’ tatlers and tale-bearers smiling may say,"Your Geniuses always are out of the way,”Sure none but herself would such levities mix,With the seriousness suited to grave twenty-six.A Wife send a Valentine! Lord, what a whim!And then of all people to send it to him!Make love to her husband! my stars, how romantic!The Girl must be certainly foolish or frantic;But I always have thought so, else what could engageHer to marry a man who is twice her own age?While the tabbies are thus on my motives enlarging,My sentiments William may read in the margin.On the wings of old Time have three months past awaySince I promis’d ”to honour, to love, and obey,”And surely my William’s own heart will allowThat my conduct has ne’er disagreed with my vow.Would health spread her wings round my husband and lord,To his cheeks could the smiles of delight be restor’d;The blessing with gratitude I should receive,As the greatest that Mercy benignant could give;And heedless of all that conjecture may say,With praise would remember St. Valentine’s day.

I quote this valentine at length because it is a fair sample of the quality of our poet’s efforts. At the end of the eighteenth century, and far into the nineteenth, a rhyming faculty of this kind was quite sufficient to make a literary reputation in an English provincial town, and in the case of Mrs. Clarke it was followed up by the writing of a novel, The Sword, published at Liverpool in 1791. It is interesting to find the name of Roscoe the historian among the subscribers for this book. In the same year – within six months of her marriage – the writer lost her husband.

The interest of Elizabeth Knipe’s life, however, begins for us when very shortly after this she became the wife of John Cobbold, of the Cliff Brewery, Ipswich. Cobbold was a widower. He had already had sixteen children, of whom fourteen were then living. When it is remembered that by his second wife he had six more children it will be seen that there was a large family, and it is not surprising therefore that the Cobbold name is still very much in evidence in Norfolk and Suffolk, and particularly in Ipswich. “Placed in the bosom of this numerous family”, writes her biographer, “and indulged in the means of gratifying her benevolent and liberal spirit, ‘The Cliff’ became the home of her dearest affections, the residence of taste, and the scene of hospitality.” One need not complain of the lady that she was not very much of a poet, for she had otherwise a versatile character. In addition to being, as we are assured, a good housekeeper, she was, if her self-portraiture be accepted, a worker in many fields: —

A botanist one day, or grave antiquarian,Next morning a sempstress, or abecedarian;Now making a frock, and now marring a picture,Next conning a deep, philosophical lecture;At night at the play, or assisting to killThe time of the idlers with whist or quadrille;In cares or amusements still taking a part,Though science and friendship are nearest my heart.

Laetitia Jermyn tells us much about her charity and kindness of heart, her zeal in behalf of many movements to help the poor, and she dwells with enthusiasm upon her friend’s literary achievements.2 But the scope of this Introduction to her son’s book does not justify devoting more attention to the mother, although her frequent appearance in Margaret Catchpole’s partially true story demands that something be said about her “mistress”. Elizabeth Cobbold died in 1824. Her husband outlived her for eleven years. John Cobbold (1746-1835) traced back his family in the direct line as landowners in Suffolk to a Robert Cobbold, who died in 1603. He was a banker as well as a brewer, and lived first at “The Cliff” and afterwards at “Holywells”, which has ever since been the seat of the head of the family. It was the fourteenth child of his first marriage – Henry Gallant Cobbold – who was saved from drowning by Margaret Catchpole.

It was Richard Cobbold, one of the six sons of the second marriage of John Cobbold, who was the author of this story. When he was born he had ten nephews and nieces awaiting him, the children of his brothers and sisters of the first family, and he was at school with his own nephew, who was just a fortnight younger than himself. The nephew was John Chevallier Cobbold, who for twenty-one years represented Ipswich in Parliament. For this information I am indebted to a grandson3, who also sends me the following anecdotes: —

When John Cobbold – the father of twenty-two children – was High Sheriff, he once persuaded the Judge to come to dine with him on condition that there should be no one to meet him except his (J. C.’s) own family. When the Judge was shown into a drawing-room full of people, he was very angry, and said loudly before the company, “Mr. Cobbold, you have deceived me.” Explanations followed, and the Judge was introduced to the various members of the family.

Elizabeth Cobbold was in the habit of saying that when she married her husband she found no books in the house except Bibles and account-books.

Brewing was such good business in those days that John Cobbold was able to give to each of his two youngest sons (twenty-first and twenty-second children) a University education, and to buy for each of them a church living worth £1,000 a year.

Richard Cobbold was educated at Bury St. Edmunds and at Caius College, Cambridge, was destined for the Church, and when he married he was a curate in Ipswich4, but his father obtained for him the living of Wortham, near Diss, where he was Rector from 1825 until his death in 1877. He was also rural dean of Hartismere. Several years after celebrating his golden wedding – Dr. Spencer Cobbold informs me – he and his wife died within a day or two of each other; the survivor did not know the other was gone; both were buried at the same time. Of the three sons who survived, one became Rector of Hollesley, another was the father of the well-known amateur footballer, W. N. Cobbold, and the third was the Fellow of the Royal Society, to whom I have already referred, and to whose son I am indebted for so many interesting facts.

That Richard Cobbold was not particularly honoured in his own country may be gathered from many quarters. One writer speaks of his “little vanities, his amusing egotisms, and his good natured pomposity”. It was clearly not Suffolk that helped to make his fame, if we may accept one of the few printed references to him that I have been able to find: —

I confess I never knew a Suffolk man at home or abroad who would take any pride in being the fellow countryman of this clerical novel-writer; but in different parts of England I have seen reason to believe that our division of the eastern counties has a place in the minds of many thousands of people only by reason of the Rev. Richard Cobbold and his works, that the ancient town of Ipswich, which we hail from as if it were a niche in the temple of fame, has never been heard of except as the scene of some of the chief adventures of Margaret Catchpole.5

Other books are assigned to our author in the catalogues, but I doubt if one of them survives other than Margaret Catchpole, which not only survives, but is really a classic in its way. One story, indeed, Freston Tower, held the public for a time almost as well as the present book, but I imagine it has ceased to command the attention even of the most remote village library, where indeed it was long ago worn threadbare.6 Essentially our author is a man of one book, and many adventitious circumstances helped him here. It was no small thing that the heroine should actually have been a native of the very district in which the writer lived. She was not merely a vivid tradition of his boyhood, but had been in the service of his mother and had stolen from his father the horse that gave her so unpleasant a notoriety. Here was a romance ready to hand, which needed but to be set down in passably good writing to attract attention. It might have been worse written than it was by this worthy clergyman and would still have secured readers. How much is truth and how much is fiction in the story will never be known. If Mr. Cobbold had an abundance of documents about this girl Margaret Catchpole and her affairs, inherited from his parents, he must have destroyed them. He claims in the course of the story that, as Margaret three times saved the life of a member of Mr. Cobbold’s family, it is not surprising that the records of her life should be so strictly preserved among them. But these records do not appear to exist any longer. It is doubtful if they ever did exist. The author probably worked from family traditions rather than from documents. He possessed, in addition, a genuine imaginative faculty.

Such documents as do exist do not amount to enough to justify the author’s declaration that here is “a perfectly true narrative". Mr. Frank Woolnough, of Ipswich7, courteously informs me that a letter by Margaret Catchpole, written only a few days before she sailed to Australia, and the lyre bird that she sent to her mistress about a year after her arrival, are the two curiosities of the Museum most eagerly inquired after by strangers. Here is the letter in question: —

ipswich May 25th 1801honred madam

i am sorrey i have to inform you this Bad newes that i am going away on wedensday next or thursday at the Longest so i hav taken the Liberty my good Ladey of trobling you with a few Lines as it will Be the Larst time i ever shall trobell you in this sorrofoll Confinement my sorrows are very grat to think i must Be Banished out of my owen Countreay and from all my Dearest friendes for ever it is very hard inded for any one to think on it and much moor for me to enduer the hardship of it honred madam i should Be very happey to see you on tuesday Befor i Leve englent if it is not to much trobbell for you for i am in grat confushon my self now my sorrowes are dobbled i must humbly Beg on your Goodness to Consider me a Littell trifell of monney it wold Be a very Grat Comfort to your poor

unhappy searventMargreat Catchpole

How small a matter a sentence of death for horse-stealing was counted in the closing years of the eighteenth century may be gathered from the fact that the contemporary newspaper report of 1797 runs only to five lines, as follows: —

"Margaret Catchpole, for stealing a coach horse, belonging to John Cobbold, Esq., of Ipswich (with whom she formerly lived as a servant), which she rode from thence to London in about 10 hours, dressed in man’s apparel, and having there offered it for sale was detected.”

Undoubtedly one of the characteristics of the book that give it so permanent a place in literature is the circumstance that it preserves for us a glimpse of the cruel criminal law of the eighteenth century. Hanging for small offences went on for years after this, until, indeed, public opinion was revolted by the case of the young married woman who in Ludgate Hill lifted a piece of cloth from the counter. She hesitated and then put it down again. But she had been seen, and was arrested, tried, condemned, and hanged, although it was clearly proved that her husband had been seized by a press-gang and that her babe cried for bread. After this time came a reaction against the death penalty for theft. Margaret, then, was more fortunate than that unhappy woman and than the more celebrated Deacon Brodie, who was hanged in Edinburgh, the city which he had adorned as a Councillor, for a house-breaking theft which brought him four pounds or less. She doubtless owed her escape to the powerful influence of the Cobbolds.8

Margaret Catchpole is the classic novel of Suffolk. That county of soothing landscape and bracing sea has produced greater books; it has given us more interesting authors than Richard Cobbold. Within its borders were written the many fine poems of George Crabbe, the many attractive letters of Edward Fitz Gerald. The remarkable paraphrase from the Persian known to all the English speaking world as The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám was composed here. But, although many latter-day novelists have laid their scenes in these pleasant places, made memorable by the art of Constable, not one has secured so fascinating a topic or so world-wide an audience. Margaret Catchpole is one of the few heroines of fiction of whom one loves to remember that she was real flesh and blood.

CLEMENT SHORTER.

TO

THE MARCHIONESS OF CORNWALLIS

Most Noble Lady,

Assured that this simple narrative, the most remarkable events of which are still fresh in your Ladyship’s memory, will be found far more interesting to the public than many highly-wrought works of fiction, and that to none will it prove more acceptable than to your Ladyship, who for many years resided in this county, beloved and respected by all who knew you, for the encouragement you afforded to every amiable virtue; to you it is dedicated, with sincere respect, by your Ladyship’s humble and devoted servant,

RICHARD COBBOLD.

Rectory, Wortham, near Diss, Suffolk.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

Independently of this simple history being a relation of facts, well known to many persons of the highest respectability still living in the county of Suffolk, it is hoped that an instructive lesson may be conveyed by it to many, who may not yet have seen the necessity of early and religious instruction.

These pages will prove, in a remarkable manner, that, however great may be the natural endowments of the human mind, yet, without the culture of religious principles, and the constant discipline of the Holy Spirit, they will never enable their possessor to resist the temptations of passion, but will be as likely to lead to great crimes as to great virtues.

It will be seen that, from the want alone of the early impressions of religion, the heroine of these pages fell into errors of temper and passion, which led to the violation of the laws of God and man; but that, after the inculcation of Christian faith and virtue, she became conspicuous for the sincerity of her reformation and for an exemplary life: that, though it pleased God to grant her ‘a place of repentance’, yet it was through such bitter sorrows and sufferings of mind and body as she most devoutly desired others might be spared.

The public may depend upon the truth of the main features of this narrative: indeed, most of the facts recorded were matters of public notoriety at the time of their occurrence. The author who here details them is a son of the lady with whom this extraordinary female lived, and from whose hands he received the letters and the facts here given. He is persuaded that much will be found in the history of Margaret Catchpole highly worthy of praise and imitation; and, if that which is unworthy shall only be taken as a warning example, he humbly hopes that the public will be both gratified and benefited by the publication.

Rectory, Wortham.

CHAPTER I EARLY SCENES

The heroine of this romantic but perfectly true narrative was born in the year 1773. There was a large tract of extra-parochial land toward the north of the bounds of the parish of Nacton, Suffolk, reaching from Rushmere Heath down to the banks of the beautiful river Orwell. This tract was known by the name of Wolfkettel, and commenced at the Seven Hills, and terminated on the south side of Alneshbourne Priory.

The spot called the Seven Hills, though originally there were sixteen, was, in all probability, the site of the famous battle of Arwell, fought between the Earl of Ulfketel and the Danes, in A.D. 1010. It was a wild waste, and a great part of it to this day remains much in the same state, fit only for sheepwalks or a warren, or as a preserve for game. The tract lying nearest to the Orwell was very early brought into cultivation; and at the time this narrative commences, was famous for the production of the best barley in the county. In a cottage on these lands lived Jonathan Catchpole, an industrious labourer, and father of six children, of whom Margaret was the second daughter, and youngest child but one.

The farm upon which the father and his sons worked was then held by Mr. Denton, who was well known for his famous Suffolk cart-horses – strong bone, short joints, clean legs, stout chests, high crests, light chestnut, with silvery manes, and tails that ought to have swept the ground, but for a barbarous custom of docking them at that period, one of the most insane fashions of the day.

Jonathan Catchpole had a team of these horses to look after, and was the head ploughman on the estate. His boys were engaged in various parts of the farm.

The youngest daughter was made a sort of pet by the rest of the family; and, as the eldest girl was always of a sickly constitution, it fell to the lot of Margaret to carry her father’s and brothers’ meals to them in the field.

Who has not seen the healthy face of childhood in those ever interesting years when activity commences? And what philanthropist, delighting in scenes of genuine simplicity and nature, could fail to admire the ruddy glow of youth, and the elastic step of confidence, with which the young female peasant bounds to meet a parent or a brother, at the welcome hour of noon, bearing the frugal dinner of bread and cheese, or it may sometimes chance to be bread and pork?

The child becomes of some consequence, entrusted with the basket of provision; and, as she stands against the bank of the hedgerow, watching the progressive march of the horses as they come toward her, drawing the plough and turning over the soil, guided as they are by the steady hand of her father, she presents a picture worthy of observation.

On these occasions, Margaret was as punctual to her hour as the sun. On reaching the field she would set her basket down and jump into her father’s arms, and kiss his warm forehead, and receive in return a reward, which even in infancy gave her the utmost delight, viz. a seat upon one of the horses’ backs, and there she would remain until she was taken off by the same hands which placed her there, and gave her the empty basket to carry home.

“May I come in the evening, father?” she used to say, as she looked wistfully round the horizon, to see if any appearance of rain forebode an unfavourable answer; for this request “to come in the evening” contained an imaginative delight, exceeding in its kind the prospect of the fox hunter for a coming run. For Margaret, when she did “come in the evening,$” used to have the privilege of riding home one of the plough-horses.

This was a singular penchant for a female child to imbibe, but with it mingled the pleasure of her father’s and brothers’ smiles; and this, after a day of toil, seemed to give elasticity to their spirits, and formed an agreeable change to the unvarying monotony of ploughing straight lines, the clinking of chains, and their rural “wooah come ather, woree, wooo, jeh!" sounds as unintelligible to some readers as the language of the savages of the Caribbee islands, when first discovered.

Sometimes the crack of the whip would make the horses start, and the young men, her brothers, who would try to frighten their sister, found, instead of so doing, that it only increased the pleasure of her ride. At length, she began to trot the leading horse home.

After a time, this privilege was extended to riding the farm-horses down to water; and this appears to have been the very summit of Margaret’s delight. She used to take her brother’s whip in her tiny hand, drive the whole team before her into the water, keep them in order while there, and then drive them out again, up the sandy lane, into the stable-yard.

It is well known that at such times it is no easy task to sit a cart-horse; for they will kick, and plunge, and exhibit that rough kind of amusement known by the name of “horse-play,” which has as much of shrieking and biting as it has of gambolling in it.

In going out to, and coming home from, water, horses accustomed to the heaviest labour, if at all well fed, will exhibit no mean share of this species of spirit; and woe be to the lad without a whip in his hand, or who has not a very steady seat!

Gainsborough and Constable were both lovers of the scenery around Ipswich; and many are the sketches in the possession of their Suffolk friends, which speak their admiration of the beautiful landscapes which surround the river Orwell.

Had these artists seen Margaret in her equestrian character, they would have immortalized her; for nothing could have been more appropriate to the spirit of their works.

Margaret was fearless as a Newmarket jockey; and never was known to have had a single fall. She kept her seat as well as any of the tutored children of the celebrated but unfortunate Ducrow: indeed, it may be fairly questioned if any one of his troop could have managed to sit a Suffolk cart-horse with the same composure.

The fame of our young heroine’s exploits reached but little farther than the sequestered farm-house to which her parents belonged, excepting now and then at the Ipswich races, when some of the lads saw an awkward rider, they would exclaim to each other, “Margaret would beat him hollow.”

Time flew swiftly on, producing no farther change in the family of the Catchpoles than what may be usually seen in the habitations of the labouring class. Those are generally the most stationary race of all people in a parish, who have constant employment on a large farm: the owners of lands change their places of abode – sell their estates – and leave the country; the tenants frequently change their occupations; but the labourer remains to cultivate the soil, and is always found a resident among those “poor who shall never perish out of the land.” They have their friends and fellow-labourers, and feel as much interest in each other’s welfare as the members of richer or wider-spread fraternities.

The Catchpoles and the Cracknells were two families that principally worked upon the lands of Mr. Denton. Their houses were indeed widely separated; but as their labours were in the same field, their occasions of meeting were frequent, their intimacy became strict, and they were of mutual assistance to each other. One lived near the street at Nacton, and the other upon the farm; so that whenever there was any occasion to go to Nacton, the Catchpoles always had a friend’s house to call at, and the Cracknells were as constantly using the Catchpoles’ cottage at the entrance of the lane leading down to the farm-house.

This intimacy was productive of especial accommodation on the Sabbath-day; for the Catchpoles, being at a great distance from church, they made use of the Cracknells’ cottage, near the street, and used to carry their meals there, with the view of attending the church service twice on that day.