The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl

by Richard Cobbold

Her mistress had married a gentleman who had fourteen children living at the time, and she had every prospect of seeing the number increase. It required a woman of energy to direct the household affairs of such a numerous family, as well as a woman of method and management in the nursery. Well did Margaret second the work which the head nurse had in hand. No one could be more indefatigable in her duties—none more constantly employed.

It was Margaret’s especial province to walk out with the children, to carry the young ones, and to lead now and then an elder one. A retired and pleasant walk it was at the back of the Cliff to Sawyer’s Farm, either along the river’s side to the Grove, or Hog Island, or through the farmyard, up the sandy hill, from the top of which Ipswich and its environs were so conspicuous. In all the innocent enjoyments of children, Margaret took particular delight. She would make chains of dandelions, whistles of cats’ tails; collect lords and ladies, string ladies’ hair; make whips of rushes for the boys, and cradles for dolls for the girls. Her eyes were ever watchful, her hands ever useful. The children loved her, and bounded to her with pleasure, whenever the order was given for a walk. She was equally dauntless in their defence, whether it was against a dog, or the geese, or the cattle of the field, or the gipsy, or the drunken sailor.

During this service, an occurrence took place of a singularly providential nature, which showed the sagacity of this poor girl, and her presence of mind in so striking a light, that it is well worthy to be here recorded. The children were all going for a walk, and Master George and Master Frederic were listening at a rat’s hole, under the foundation of a building, where the workmen were making some alterations, and had taken away a great deal of the soil, upon one side of the brickwork. As Margaret came up with some half-dozen of the young fry, the boys exultingly called to her to come and hear the old rat gnawing something in the hole.

Margaret approached, and with that natural quickness of perception with which she was so gifted, saw danger in the situation of the children. Listening one moment at the hole she was convinced that the creaking sound she heard did not proceed from a rat. In another instant she seized the children by their arms, and exclaimed, with a terror that communicated itself to them all, “Come away! come away! that wall is settling!” Scarcely had she ran with the children half a dozen yards from the spot, when down came the wall in a mass of ruin that must have buried them all beneath it but for the providential sagacity of this young girl. To this day the circumstance is remembered by the parties interested in it, and is looked upon as the interposition of their good angel, in making use of this humble instrument for the preservation of their lives.

Margaret, by this time, could both read and write; for the lady, who superintended the whole management of the nursery, had her regular school-hours in the morning devoted to the minutiae of progressive improvement. It was at one of these morning lessons that she discovered Margaret’s abilities. Hearing the children their lessons in history, and examining them in the chronology of the kings of England, she was surprised to hear Margaret prompting Miss Sophia, in a whisper, when the child was at a loss for the right date. And when she came to question Margaret, she found that this poor girl had been, though unknown to her, her most attentive scholar. This induced her to take pains with her, and to let her be a participator in all the most useful branches of a nursery education. She was taught to read and write, and understand the Bible history and the Gospel scheme of redemption; in all which studies she became as well informed as any of the children. Soon after this, she rose to be the head nursemaid.

As the winter came on, the walks became more circumscribed; and though she occasionally saw the old fisherman, with his basket of soles and plaice, yet from him she could gather no tidings of her lover, good or bad. To hear nothing may be better than to hear bad tidings; but some may even think that bad news is better than none at all. The certain knowledge of any catastrophe, if it has taken place, at ever so great a distance, is always more satisfactory and consoling than years of agonizing suspense.

Perhaps some such ideas might have passed in Margaret’s mind; but she had been so accustomed to hear nothing that was good of her lover, that she began to construe the long interregnum of his non-appearance into the hope of some permanent amendment.

The Orwell, at the period of our narrative, and during the winter season, was famous for its wild-fowl. At some particular times, when the decoy-ponds around were frozen over, the birds used to come into the channel of the river in prodigious flights, covering hundreds of acres of water with their varieties of plumage. Millions of black coot used to darken the waves, whilst the duck and the mallard, the diver, the pin-tail, the bar-goose, and even the wild swan, used to be seen in such numbers, as in the present day would seem to be incredible. Those, however, who can remember this river only fifty years ago will fully corroborate this account. Some live at Ipswich, at this day, who can well remember the time in which they have made dreadful havoc among the feathered tribes of the river. Now and then a solitary flight may here and there be seen visiting the river in the evening, and departing with the dawn. Since the port of Ipswich has so rapidly increased its shipping, the traffic of winter, as well as summer, has been so constant, that the birds have sought some quieter feeding-ground than the ooze of the Orwell.