self down from the prison wall. Laud is near by, ready to guide her out of the town, and in a few minutes they are hastening together along this same Woodbridge road. In an

14

WOODBRIDGE

CHAP.

empty cartshed the girl puts on a seaman's garb, then strikes out by quiet byways and across lonesome waste lands for the sea. At Sudbourn, however, there are no signs of the longed-for boat, and in the meantime Margaret's escape has become known and the country is being scoured to find her. While she and her companion are still wandering about the beach, anxiously watching for the appearance of the boat which is to carry them to safety, Ripshaw, the Ipswich gaoler, and a constable surprise them, and a struggle ensues in which Laud is shot through the heart. Margaret is retaken, and lodged again in Ipswich Gaol. As her gallant ride ended in disaster, so her last hope of freedom and security in another land is banished by the welding of fresh fetters and the final tragedy of her lover's death.

I had no intention of lingering so long over Margaret Catchpole's story, and, indeed, there was little need that I should, for is it not all contained in the Rev. R. Cobbold's "romantic but perfectly true" chronicles? But I have been loitering on the Woodbridge road, amid scenes with which Margaret must have been familiar and which have tended to keep her story in my mind. Some of these ancient cottages and homesteads around Martlesham can have looked little less ancient when the high-spirited and unfortunate Suffolk girl was still in her native county; and Martlesham Red Lion--with its awe-inspiring sign, said to have been the figurehead of a Dutch warship which fought in the battle of Sole Bay—was a noted hostelry long before she was born. Anyhow, amid the scenes of her loving and daring she has been my companion for an hour to-day, and I wish Edward FitzGerald were alive, and in his old home at Woodbridge, so that I might go to him and tell him what an entertaining companion she has been.

For it is to Little Grange, "Old Fitz's" ivy-clad house, that I make my way even before visiting his favourite resort, the Bull Inn, or hunting up his old lodgings "over Berry the gunsmith's shop" on the Market Hill. There is no difficulty

in finding it. You ride along the main street of the town until you almost come to an end of the houses, then turn

16

EDWARD FITZGERALD

CHAP.

sharply to the left at the top of the hill which slopes downward from the town. About a hundred yards down the branching road, on the left-hand side, is Little Grange, looking much the same as when FitzGerald left it. Except that it stands rather too close to the road, it seems an ideal home for a man who, while he loved to mingle with his fellow men, and found congenial companions even in the Bull Inn bar-room, was never so happy as when among his books. Here he enjoyed his "Book of Verses underneath the Bough"; and if there was no sweet human singer to make his wilderness "Paradise enow," no doubt the nightingales sang to him here in spring, and left him lamenting

"That Spring should vanish with the Rose !

That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!"

There are no nightingales singing around Little Grange to day; but before many days have passed they will be back in their old haunts; and then "Old Fitz's" ghost should walk along the "quarter-deck" in front of the house, where, according to Mr. Hindes Groome, Charles Keene marched and played his bagpipes. "Old Fitz" is well remembered in Woodbridge, for even after he had given up his lodgings on Market Hill and betaken himself to this quiet retreat, he often strolled into the town, cutting a queer figure with his "old Inverness cape, double-breasted, flowered-satin waistcoat, slippers on feet, and a handkerchief, very likely, tied over his hat." He was looked upon as an eccentric, both here and at Lowestoft, where I am sure to hear of him again; and some strange stories are told of him. Mr. Groome has recorded how he sailed over to Holland (he was an enthusiastic yachtsman) with the intention of seeing Paul Potter's "Bull"; but on arriving there, and finding a suitable breeze blowing, set out at once on his homeward voyage; and again, how he started for Edinburgh, but on reaching Newcastle found a train about to leave for London, so took the opportunity of returning home. The Bull Inn-it still looks solid and

I

THE LANDLORD OF THE BULL

17

substantial, though much of its business departed with the mail coaches and post-boys-will always be noted for its association with the translator-or should it be, author-of the immortal quatrains. I wish its former landlord were alive, so that I might recall his old patron to his mind, and, maybe, hear

some saying that might fitly be set down beside that famous one uttered when FitzGerald remarked to him that Woodbridge should feel highly honoured at being visited by Tennyson, who was a guest at Little Grange-" Daresay; but he didn't fare to know much about horses ! "

C