The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl

“Margaret, I have brought you a free pardon from the governor. Need I remind you that God has mercifully sent me before you in this instance to be your friend? To Him I know you will give all the thanks and praises of a grateful heart.”

“To Him I do first, sir; and to you, as his instrument, in the next place. I am afraid to look upon you, and I am unworthy to be looked upon by you. I am a – ”

“You need not tell me, Margaret, what you have been. I know all. Think not of what you were, but what you are. You are no longer a convict; you are no longer under the ban of disgrace; you are no longer under the sentence of the offended laws of man; you are now a free subject; and if your fellow-creatures do not all forgive you, they cannot themselves hope for forgiveness. You are at liberty to settle wherever you please.”

“Oh! dear sir; and to you I owe all this! What will they say to you in England, when I again embrace my dear friends there, and bless you for the liberty thus granted me?”

“Margaret, hear me again. Remember, when I last saw you, I told you then what I dreaded, if you refused to come out to this country with me. How true those fears were, you can now judge. You made a choice then which gave me anguish to be surpassed only by the present moment. You speak now of returning to England. You have got your pardon, and are at liberty so to do. It may seem ungenerous to me, at such a moment, to urge your stay; but hear now my opinion and advice, and give them the weight only of your calm judgement. If you return to England, take my word for it you will not be happy. You will never be as happy as you may be here. I speak this with feelings as much alive to your interest now as they were when I last parted with you. I will suppose you returned. Your own good heart makes you imagine that every one would be as glad to see you there as you would truly be to see them. Your own heart deceives you. I have known those who so bitterly lamented their return to England, that they have come again to settle in this country, and have offended those friends who would have respected them had they remained here. When at a distance they felt much for them; but when they came near to them, the pride of society made them ashamed of those who had been convicts. It may be that some would be glad to see you; your good mistress, your uncle and aunt: but circumstances might prevent their being able to do you any great service. Your former mistress has a large family, your uncle the same; you have no independence to live upon there. The eye of envy would be upon you if you had wealth, and detraction would be busy with your name. People would talk of your sins, but would never value you for your integrity. You would probably soon wish yourself in this country again, where your rising character would be looked upon with respect, and all the past be forgiven, and in time forgotten. Here you would have an established character: there you would always be thought to have a dubious one. Besides all this, you are here prospering. You can have the great gratification of relieving the necessities of your aged relatives, and of obliging your best friends. You would, believe me, be looked upon by them with far greater respect and esteem than if you were nearer to them. Think, Margaret, of what I now state, and divest yourself of that too great idea of happiness in England. You are at liberty to go; but you will enjoy far greater liberty if you stay in this country.”

“What you say, sir, may be true in some respects; but I think I should die happy if I once more saw my dear friends and relatives.”

“God forbid that I should not approve your feeling! I, too, have a father, and mother, and brothers in England, but I hear from them continually, and they rejoice in my welfare. I love them dearly as they do me. Two sisters have come out to me, and both have married and settled in the country. One I have lost, who has left a husband and seven children to lament her loss. I have strong ties, you see, in these young people, to bind me to this country, for they look up to me as they do to their father. But they are without female protection.”

“If, my dear sir, I can be of any service to you or them for a term of years, I shall feel it part of the happiness of that freedom you have obtained for me to abide as long in this land. But I own that I still feel that I should like to return one day to England. I am very grateful for all your goodness, and shall ever bless you for the interest you have taken in one so unworthy your favour.”

“Margaret, I am deeply interested in these children. They have lost their mother, my sister. Their aunt, now resident in the colony, has ten children of her own, and it would not be fair that she should take seven more into her house. The young man, now left a widower, is in such a delicate state of health, and so disconsolate for the loss of his wife, that I do not think he will be long amongst us. These circumstances made me come to my good friend Mrs. Palmer for assistance and advice. Guess, then, my astonishment to hear you recommended to me: you, above all people in the world, whose presence I could have wished for, whose gentleness I know, and who, if you will, can make both myself and all these children happy.”

“My dear sir, I stand in a very different position with regard to yourself to what I formerly did. I do not forget that to your protecting arm I owe the rescue of my life from the violence of one in whom my misplaced confidence became my ruin and his own death. I never can forget that to you I am a second time indebted for liberty, and that which will sweeten the remainder of my days: the consciousness of being restored, a pardoned penitent, to virtuous society. But I cannot forget that I am still but little better than a slave: I am scarcely yet free. I am not, as I was when you first offered me your hand and heart, upon an equality with yourself. How then can you ask me to become your wife, when there is such a disparity as must ever make me feel your slave? No, generous and good man! I told you formerly that if Laud were dead I might then find it in my heart to listen to your claims; but I never thought that I should be in a situation so much beneath you as I am, so very different to that which I once occupied.”

“And do you think, Margaret, that I can ever forget that I was a fellow-servant with you at the Priory Farm, upon the banks of the Orwell? It was then I first made known to you the state of that heart which, as I told you long ago, would never change towards you. You say that our conditions are so very dissimilar: I see no great difference in them; certainly no greater than when you lived at the cottage on the heath and I was the miller’s son. You are independent now. Your good friend, Mrs. Palmer, has made you so, and will permit me to say, that you have already an independence in this country far greater than ever you could enjoy in England.”

Margaret looked at Mrs. Palmer. That good woman at once confessed that all the rent that Margaret had paid for the years she had been in the farm was now placed in the Sydney bank, to her account, and quite at her disposal. She added, that she had made over the estate she occupied at Richmond Hill to her for ever.

What could Margaret now say? She found herself on the one hand made free, through the intercession of a man who loved her, and on the other she was made independent for life by a lady who had only known her in her captivity, but who had respected and esteemed her. That lady now thought it time to speak out.

“Margaret, do not think that I have given you anything more than what you are strictly entitled to. Remember that, from a sense of justice towards me, you refused the hand of a man who probably would have settled all the estate upon you. But you chose to think yourself unworthy of my kindness had you accepted his offer. You acted with great discretion; and in settling this small portion upon you, I was guided by a sense of justice and gratitude, which made me anxious to discharge a just debt, and I do not consider that I have even given you as much as I ought to have done.”

“Indeed, you have, dear lady, and you have bound me to you for ever. Have I, indeed, such dear friends in this country? Then do I feel it my duty to remain in it, and I will learn to sigh no longer after that place where I had so long hoped to live and die. You give me, however, more credit for refusing the hand of Mr. Poinder than I deserve: I never could have married a man who, in such an imperious manner, gave me to understand his will. No; I was his servant, but not his slave. And any woman who would obey the nod of a tyrant, to become his wife, could never expect to enjoy any self-estimation afterwards. He told me his intention of making me his wife in such an absolute way that I quite as absolutely rejected him. I deserve no credit for this.”

“Margaret,” said Mr. Barry, “understand the offer I now make you. If you are not totally indifferent to all mankind, and can accept the offer of one whose earliest affections you commanded, then know that those affections are as honest, and true, and faithful to you this day, as they were when I first addressed you. Think me not so ungenerous as ever to appeal to any sense of gratitude on your part. You cannot conceive what unspeakable pleasure I have always thought it to serve you in any way I might. You cannot tell how dead I have been to every hope but that of being enabled to do good to others. This has been my purest solace under your loss, Margaret; and if in daily remembrance of you I have done thus much, what will not your presence always urge me to perform?

“I sought a servant, a confidential kind of friend, to govern my brother’s household: I little thought that I should find the only person I ever could or would make my wife. I offer you, then, myself and all my possessions. I am willing to make over all I have, upon the contract that you become the aunt of those dear children, and I know you too well ever to doubt your kindness to them.

“As to your respectability, I have already declared to the governor my full intention of offering you this hand. He has promised to recognize you as my wife. Your friend here will not like you the less because you are so nearly allied to me; and I will answer for all my relatives and friends. None will ever scorn you, all will respect you, I will love you. Say, then, will you live my respected wife at Windsor Lodge, or will you still live alone at Richmond Hill?”

“It is you must choose,” replied Margaret; “I cannot refuse. I never can doubt you. I will endeavour to fulfil the station of a mother in that of an aunt; and if my heart does not deceive me, I shall do my duty as an honest wife.”

After this explanation, it is needless, perhaps, to add that Margaret Catchpole changed her name, and became the much-respected and beloved wife of John Barry, Esq., of Windsor, by the Green Hills of Hawkesbury.

CHAPTER XXXI

CONCLUSION

If true love and constancy are noble qualities in the heart of man, and prompt him to deeds of generous philanthropy, they deserve to be recorded and imitated from the example of John Barry. And if sincerity and repentance be qualities worthy the charitable consideration of good Christians, Margaret Catchpole’s career in this life, and especially her latter days, will not afford a bad example of the promise of “the life that now is, and of that which is to come.” The remaining history of this singular individual was one of quiet calm, and yet benevolent exertion in all good works of faith and love. She lived highly respected in the situation to which her husband’s good qualities and good fortune had raised her. She lived a retired, though not a secluded life, on the banks of the Hawkesbury, fulfilling the duties of her station as a good wife, aunt, sister, and mother, in an exemplary manner. Charitable as she was rich, she never thought she could do enough to relieve the distresses of others.

Not many months after her marriage she received another chest of goods from her benevolent mistress in England, and wrote her last epistle of thanks, dated

"Windsor, Hawkesbury, June 25th, 1812.

My dear Madam,

“The contents of this letter will surprise you. I hope that I am not the less grateful for your goodness because God has blessed me with such abundance, that I no longer require that aid from England which has hitherto been such a blessing to me. Indeed, my dearest madam, my good and early friend, I am most grateful for all your past favours, though I do not wish to tax a generosity which I do not now, in the same manner, need. May Heaven bless your warm heart, which will glow with fervent praise to God when you read this letter from your former poor servant!

“Everything that I could wish for, and, oh! how much more than I deserve, have I had granted to me in this place of probation! God grant I may not set my heart too much upon their value! Dearest lady, I have men-servants and maid-servants, horses and cattle, flocks and herds in abundance. I have clothing and furniture above what you can imagine, and a house wide enough to entertain in it all your numerous family. But, more than all this, I have an excellent husband, one whose constancy from his youth has been beyond the praise which I could find language to express.

“You may remember what I once told you of a young man whom I had rejected for a less worthy one. He has proved his love for me in such a manner as I am sure could never have been seen in any but the most noble of his nature. He told me in England that he would never marry any other, and through years of industry and prosperity (and as I have every reason to believe he would have done to the last day of this life) has kept himself single on my account. Did you ever chance to hear of such a case as this? When I reflect upon it, as I often do, I find it more and more wonderful.

“You must remember my telling you of Mr. John Barry’s attachment to me. He left me when I lived at Nacton, and came out here among the earliest free settlers in the country, and has prospered beyond his utmost anticipations. He found me out here by accidental inquiries of my dear Mrs. Palmer, and obtained for me my free pardon. My wishes to return again to my native land became absorbed in the sense of duty and obligation to my benefactor, who, when he had obtained that pardon, gave me the option of sharing my life and freedom with him, or of being independent here or elsewhere. Noble generosity! Does it not win your heart? It won mine. I am his faithful wife: happy, happy, as the days are long. He is good, virtuous, amiable, and truly religious; constant in his love to God and man. I could fill many letters in speaking of his virtues; but I forget that you never saw him, though he lived upon the shores of the same river that you do.

“He is very good to me, so that I want nothing more from England. How proud shall I be to send you now anything which this country produces!

“Herewith I send you a sketch of my present beautiful abode, done by Mrs. Palmer. It will give you a slight idea of my situation. I send you also a present of various seeds, skins of animals (one of the ursine opossum), and dried plants, which I think will be valuable to you; and also some curious weapons and instruments of the natives, for my dear friend, Dr. Stebbing.

“What a wonderful life has mine been! You only, my dear lady, know its reality. There may be others equally eventful; but how few are there who find such a place of unmerited repose as I have? My dear sister’s words often recur to my mind when she told me whom I should not marry: I wonder if she ever thought of the one I have married. There are many very excellent people in this flourishing country. The governor and his family have received us, and have been very kind to me. My dear friend, Mrs. Palmer, is now staying in my house. She is my benefactress here, as you were in England. Oh! if I could but bring you both together, and could sit quietly listening to your conversation, it would be such an intellectual treat as few could more enjoy! She is, like yourself, very clever. I believe I should die happier if I could see your dear, loved face in this land; but if that never may be, nor I see old England again, then may Heaven bless you; and God bestow His brightest gifts of grace upon you and your children!

“I am this moment engaged, and lay down my pen to give directions concerning the work in that most interesting of all female employments, preparing for the coming of a family of my own. Mrs. Palmer, who sees me writing these words, says, ‘How astonished you will be!’ You will rejoice in my happiness. I know you will. Forgive, dear lady, all my errors, both of the weakness of my head and heart. Give my love to all my dear friends. Any person coming to this country, with a recommendation from you to me, will find the warmest reception. In justice to my husband, I would forget what I have been, and I speak seldom of my past errors, though, before God, I never cease to lament and repent of them; and did I not know who ‘died for the ungodly,’ my grief for the past would be without consolation. Blessed faith, that teaches the contrite how to be comforted! Who can value Thee as he ought in this struggling state!

“I can add but a few more words, and I do so with tears and trembling. It is not from pride of heart. Dear lady, you must judge of its propriety. I am likely to increase my family; and I would conceal from them, in future years, their mother’s early history, at least those parts which are so unworthy to be mentioned. But I feel that my maiden name cannot be forgotten in your neighbourhood. Hundreds will speak of it when you and I shall be no more. Oh that it could be represented to the world in its proper light, as a warning to that portion of my countrywomen to which I belonged, that they never give way to their headstrong passions, lest they fall as I did! But ‘the tender mercies of God are over all His works,’ and I can never magnify that mercy too much, as it has been shown to me.

“If, dear lady, as years increase, our correspondence should not be so frequent, because of my altered situation in this country, do not think me proud. Your feelings as a mother will point to the nature of my own. You would not have your children know your faults. Pardon this, perhaps, my greatest weakness.

“Should you ever think fit, as you once hinted in your letter to me, to write my history, or should leave it to others to publish, you have my free permission at my decease, whenever that shall take place, so to do. But let my husband’s name be concealed. Change it, change it to any other; not for his sake, for it is worthy to be written in golden characters, but for mine and my children’s sake! And now, dear lady, farewell. God’s peace be with you! and ever think of me as

"Your grateful and affectionate servant,Margaret Barry."

So ends the correspondence of Margaret with her mistress. That lady wrote one more letter to her, assuring her of her joy and thankfulness at her providential settlement in the land of her adoption. She told her that she had kept the early facts of her history in such order, that on some future day they might perhaps be published, but that her wishes should be strictly attended to, and her parental anxieties respected. She took an affectionate leave of her in that last letter, promising not to intrude anything of past obligation upon her notice, but leaving it entirely to her own heart to recognize any friends of hers, from the county of Suffolk, who might, either in military, naval, or civil capacity, go out to Sydney. How delicately those wishes were observed, some can well remember.

Margaret Barry lived many years at Windsor, greatly respected and beloved. She had one son and two daughters, who received the best education which England could afford, and returned to settle in their native land. Among the foremost for intelligence, benevolence, activity, and philanthropy, is the distinguished son of Margaret; and in the future history of Australia he will bear no unimportant share in her celebrity and greatness. The daughters are amiable and accomplished, and have married gentlemen of the first respectability in the country.

After fifteen years of the tenderest and most uninterrupted domestic comfort, Margaret had the severe affliction to undergo of losing her devoted and excellent husband, who died September 9th, 1827, leaving the bulk of his property at her disposal. She removed to Sydney in 1828, where she was conspicuous only for the mildness of her manners, and the unostentatious character of her habits of life.

She had a great desire that her son should settle in her native county of Suffolk, and he came over to this country with that view; and when the sale of Kentwell Hall took place, he was nearly the last bidder for it. His resolution, however, seemed to fail him at the last moment, and he did not become the purchaser of the estate. He stayed a year in England, and then returned, with a determination not to settle in any other country than his native one. He returned to close the eyes of his affectionate parent, who died September 10th, 1841, in the sixty-eighth year of her age.

SUPPLEMENT

BY THE AUTHOR A. D. 1858

Since the first publication of the Life of Margaret Catchpole, many have been the correspondents who have addressed the author upon the subject of her life and character. Many have been the inquiries made concerning her, and many things, which the author never heard of her, have since come to light. They would fill a volume. The author has no intention of inflicting any further pain upon the sensitive minds of some, who, in writing to him, have quite overlooked the idea that he, the author, had any sensitiveness whatsoever. He has no intention of reviving any feeling of the past, respecting what may or may not be mere local descriptive scenic representation; but there are certain moral representations which the author gave, both of her early respectability and character, which he deems it but a mere act of common justice to her memory to substantiate, and thus furnish the only defence which can ever be in his power to make against those who accused him of wilful misrepresentation. Though all the documents relating to this extraordinary female are duly filed and preserved, – and her own letters in her own handwriting have been transmitted for inspection to several inquirers, – there are some facts which may be interesting as proof positive of the assertions contained in the narrative. To a few of such the author now refers the reader.

The first is a letter from the Reverend William Tilney Spurdens, formerly head-master of the Grammar School at North Walsham, Norfolk; a celebrated scholar, the translator of Longinus, the early and beloved tutor and friend of the author. This gentleman had an uncle at Brandiston in Suffolk, with whom he used to stay, and to that uncle and to Peggy’s aunt he refers in this letter.

North Walsham, 30th Oct. 1846.

My dear Friend,

“I cannot delay to put you in possession of my ‘love-passages' with your heroine, albeit, at this present writing, suffering much pain from asthma and chronic bronchitis, which are both aggravated by our foggy air for some days past.

“In my early childhood I had an uncle, an aged widower with no family, who did me the favour of being very fond of me. He had one domestic in his house, and another out of it, the former a female, the latter a male. The former rejoiced in the name of Nanny, I suppose there was another postfixed to it, but of this I am not cognizant: but Nanny had a niece, or cousin, or something of the kind, named Peggy Catchpole; and whenever the old uncle’s favourite paid him a visit, the maid’s paid a visit to her, 'for,’ as Nanny used to say, ‘it was so comfortable for the children, like; and the little dears helped to amuse one another;' and so it was that Peg and I walked together, played together, and slept together.

“I wish I could give you dates, which are the sinews of history, you know. There is one event which my mind connects very exactly with this period, and which will afford you one date. Peggy and her young swain were going on philandering at supper, at the time of the loss of the Royal George, at Spithead. The newspaper came in while my good relative was playing a hit at backgammon with his neighbour, the doctor, as was their frequent practice; and by dint of spelling, and a lift or two over hard words, I read to them the mournful narrative. For this I received sixpence, and laid it out in figs, of which Peg and her swain each ate so many as to make themselves ill.