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?”