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 engage Her 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 away Since I promis'd "to honour, to love, and obey," And surely my William's own heart will allow That 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.