Bristol Bells

Emma Marshall

Description

First published in 1892, this is Emma Marshall's fictional account of Thomas Chatterton's troubled life, misdirected genius, and tragic death. Chatterton, as an 11-year-old boy, began publishing mature works of poetry in 1763. Before long, he was fooling the literary world by passing his work off as that of a non-existent 15th-century poet named Thomas Rowley. Brought up in poverty and without a father, he studied furiously and went on to try and earn a living from his writing. After impressing the likes of the Lord Mayor, William Beckford and John Wilkes, he eagerly looked for an outlet in London for his political works, but was unable to make a decent living and, despairing, poisoned himself at the age of seventeen.
Thomas Chatterton had a significant impact on many writers and poets including Coleridge, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats; with a wealth of literature and poetry having been dedicated to him since his untimely death. Contents of this story include: “Longing For Flight”, “The Squire”, “An Elegy”, “The Letter Delivered”, “The Orchard Gate”, “The Sympathy Of Poverty”, “Consultation”, “The Songs Of Rowley The Priest”, “The Poet's Friends”, etc.
Emma Marshall (1830–1899) was a prolific English children's author of over 200 novels. Other notable works by this author include: “Heights And Valleys” (1871), “A Lily Among Thorns” (1874), and “The Cathedral Cities Of England, English Cathedrals” (1879). Read & Co. is republishing this classic work in a new edition complete with “Sonnet to Chatterton” (1848) by John Keats for the enjoyment of a new generation of readers

Informations

• Publié par: Read Books Ltd.
• Date de parution: 26 mai 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528790420
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

BRISTOL BELLS
A STORY OF THE DAYS OF CHATTERTON
By
EMMA MARSHALL

First published in 1892


Copyright © 2020 Read & Co. Books
This edition is published by Read & Co. Books, an imprint of Read & Co.
This book is copyright and may not be reproduced or copied in any way without the express permission of the publisher in writing.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Read & Co. is part of Read Books Ltd. For more information visit www.readandcobooks.co.uk


The budding floweret blushes at the light,
The meads are dappled with the yellow hue,
In daisied mantle is the mountain dight,
The tender cowslip bendeth with the dew.
Chatterton.


Contents
PREFACE
CHAPTER I LONGING FOR FLIGHT
CHAPTER II THE SQUIRE
CHAPTER I II AN ELEGY
CHAPTER IV THE LETTE R DELIVERED
CHAPTER V THE O RCHARD GATE
CHAPTER VI THE SYMPATHY OF POVERTY
CHAPTER VII C ONSULTATION
CHAPTER VIII THE SONGS OF ROWLEY THE PRIEST
CHAPTER IX THE POE T'S FRIENDS
CHAPTER X A L ONG RESPITE
CHAPTER XI CHRISTMAS AT THE FARM
CHAPTER XII THE FINAL BLOW
CHAPTER XIII AN UNSUCC ESSFUL SUIT
CHAPTER XIV ON T HE HILLSIDE
CHAPTER XV THE L AST EVENING
CHAPTER XVI FORGIVENESS
CHAPTER XV II THE LAST




O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate! Dear child of sorrow — son of misery! How soon the film of death obscur'd that eye, Whence Genius mildly falsh'd, and high debate. How soon that voice, majestic and elate, Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate. But this is past: thou art among the stars Of highest heaven: to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest: nought thy hymning mars, Above the ingrate world and human fears. On earth the good man base detraction bars From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.
John Keats.
Sonnet to Chat terton , 1848
I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
By our own spirits are we deified:
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
William Wordsworth.
An e xcerpt from Resolution and Indepe ndence , 1807
With Shakespeare's manhood at a boy's wild heart,— Through Hamlet's doubt to Shakspeare near allied, And kin to Milton through his Satan's pride,— At Death's sole door he stooped, and craved a dart; And to the dear new bower of England's art,— Even to that shrine Time else had deified, The unuttered heart that soared against his side,— Drove the fell point, and smote life's seals apart. Thy nested home-loves, noble Chatterton; The angel-trodden stair thy soul could trace Up Redcliffe's spire; and in the world's armed space Thy gallant sword-play:—these to many an one Are sweet for ever; as thy grave unknown And love-dream of thine unrecorded face.
Dante Gabri el Rossetti.
Poem of Thomas Chatterton, Five English Poets, Ballads and S onnets, 1881


PREFACE
The incidents in the life of Thomas Chatterton which are introduced into this story are gathered chiefly from Mr Masson's exhaustive essay and a biography of the poet by Mr Cha tterton Dix.
In these books full details may be found of the pathetic life, misdirected genius, and tragic death of t he boy poet.
Several citizens of Bristol, who are connected with his sad history, appear in the following tale; the other characters are wholl y imaginary.
Woodside Leigh Wood s, Clifton , Fe bruary 1892.


Bristol Bells
CHAPTER I
LONGING FOR FLIGHT
'Grandfather! I want to speak to you; ple ase listen.'
'Well, who said I would not listen? But speak up, Biddy.'
The old man put his hand to his ear, and his granddaughter leaned over the back o f his chair.
'Don't call me Biddy, grandfather. I am Bryda.'
'Bryda! Phew! Your poor mother was called Biddy, and you ain't better than she was that I know of.'
'Well, never mind; but this is what I want to say, and Betty is quite of my mind. Do let me go to Bristol. Jack Henderson heard old Mrs Lambert say she would like a bright, sharp girl to help her in the house, and I am bright and sharp, g randfather!'
'I daresay, and make yo u a drudge!'
'No; I shouldn't be a drudge. I should be treated well, and you know Mrs Lambert is a relation.'
'Relation! that's very pretty, when she has taken no heed of you for years. No, no; stay at home, Biddy, and put such silly stuff out of your head. Goody Lambert may find somebody else—not my granddaughter. Come! it's about supper-time. Where's Bet? She doesn't want to gad about; she knows when she i s well off.'
Bryda pouted, and darted out of the large parlour of Bishop's Farm into the orchard, where the pink-and-white blossoms of the trees were all smiling in the westering sunshine of the fair May evening.
The level rays threw gleams of gold between the thickly-serried ranks of the old trees—many of them with gnarled, crooked branches, covered with white lichen—some, more recently planted, spreading out straight boughs—the old and young alike all covered with the annual miracle of the spring's unfailing gift of lovely blossoms, which promised a full guerdon of fruit in after days.
In and out amongst the trees Bryda threaded her way, sometimes brushing against one of the lower boughs, which shed its pink-and-white petals on her fair head as she passed.
'Betty!' she called. 'Bet, are you here? Bet!'
Bryda had come to a wicket-gate opening on a space of rugged down, golden with gorse, and from which could be seen an extensive view of Bristol in one direction, and of the village of Langholm and the woods of Leigh o n the other.
Bishop's Farm was on the high ground of the Mendips, not a mile distant from the church of Dundry, whose tower is a landmark of this district, and is seen as a beacon to the country-side for many miles.
'Yes, here I am. Bryda, what is the matter?'
Betty was seated on a bit of rock, anxiously looking down on a lamb which the shepherd had brought from the fold, as it see med, to die.
'It's just dying, that's what it. It's no use making a to-do Miss Betty. Lor'! the master can afford to lose one lamb, and it's no fau lt of mine.'
'It should have been brought in last evening, Silas. I'll carry it in myself, poor dear li ttle thing.'
'Better not, better not; let it die in peace, miss. No mortal power can save it now. The mother is all but dying, too, and if I save her it's as much as I can do. There, I told you so. It's gone, poor dumb thing.'
For the lamb give one little feeble moan rather than a bleat, drew its thick legs together convulsively, and the n lay still.
'Dead! Oh, take it away, Silas,' Bryda exclaimed; 'I cannot bear to see anything dead. Come away, Betty,' sh e entreated.
'There, there, Miss Biddy, don't take on. I'll carry it off, and don't trouble your heads no more about it. We've all got to die, and the lamb is no worse off than we. Can't say but I am sorry though,' Silas said, in a softer tone, as he picked up the dead lamb. 'I'd sooner see it frisking about in the meadow yonder than lying so cold and quiet.'
And then Silas, in his smock frock and wide hat, strode away over gorse and heather, and left the si sters alone.
Of these sisters Betty was the younger of the two by one year, but older in many ways—older in her careful thought for others, in her unselfish life, in her patience and tender forbearance with her somewhat irascible old grandfather.
Bryda and Betty had lived with their grandfather at Bishop's Farm ever since they could rememb er anything.
Their aunt, their father's sister by the farmer's first marriage, a widow, took the charge of the house after her husband's death, when she had come to her old home at her father's bidding rather than at his invitation.
He had been angry with her for marrying a sailor, had prophesied from the first that no good could come of it, and he was more triumphant than sorry that his prophecy had proved true.
There are some people who feel a keen satisfaction when they are able to say with Peter Palmer of the Bishop's Farm, 'I told you so, and I knew how it would be.' Peter certainly repeated this often in the ears of his daughter, a stolid, heavy woman, whom it was difficult to rouse to any keen emotion, either of jo y or sorrow.
Mrs Burrow was one of those slow people to whom stagnation is life. She could scarcely read, and her writing was so much like hieroglyphics that on the rare occasions when she had to sign her name she used to get one of her nieces to write, 'Dorothy Burrow, her mark,' and then she would ad d the cross.
She did not neglect the homely duties which devolved on her as head of her father's house. She managed the dairy and the poultry, and kept the farm servants up to the mark.
Her world was a wholly different world from that of her young nieces, and the imaginative and enthusiastic Bryda especially had nothing in comm on wit