When Chatterton left his mother’s house soon after Bryda and Jack Henderson had gone away together he was in one of his most depressed moods.

What did anyone care for him or his disappointments and continually deferred hope that Mr Walpole would at least return the manuscripts, at first so graciously received, and now it would seem thrown aside as worthless?

Everything seemed against him, and the gay throng of pleasure seekers on the fair summer evening was an offence to him.

As he passed over Bristol Bridge he looked down into the river with a strange longing that he could find rest there, and be free from the torments of disappointed life and fruitless aims.

As he leaned over the parapet, gazing down into the dun-coloured waters, a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a cheery voice said,-

’Eh, Tom, my lad, what are you dreaming about?  Come with me to sup at Mr Barrett’s and meet my brother Alexander, the parson.  I’ll warrant you have got some more bits of history for him to put into his big book.  Come, come, don’t look so glum, and we’ll take a glass at the tavern in Wine Street on the way.’

‘No,’ was the reply; ’you are very good sir, but I am in no mood for taverns to-night.’

’Well, a little bird whispered in my ear that you were seen in Redcliffe Meadows walking with a mighty pretty young lady, with a figure like a sylph and a face like an angel.  Now then, Tom, don’t be shy, but out with it, and tell the truth.’

’There’s nothing to tell, sir.  Miss Palmer is so unfortunate as to be under the same roof with me in Dowry Square, and misfortunes make us akin.  She has great literary taste, and-

’Ah, can see the beauties of Rowley’s poems!  Well, I am glad to hear it.  They are wonders-wonders, and, Tom, you are a wonder for bringing them to light.’  ’Then you are a poet, you know, a real poet, and Bristol will be proud of you some day.  Why, there is not a lad of your age who can boast of his verses being taken by a London magazine and printed and admired.  Come, Tom, don’t be downcast; you should hear what my brother the reverend Alexander says of you, and he is a judge.  A man who can write a book about the Deluge must be a judge-eh?’

Mr Catcott was a pewterer by trade, and a simple-hearted, kindly man, a staunch friend of Chatterton from first to last, never wavering in his allegiance nor in his faith in Rowley the priest; no, not even when not long after the great Dr Johnson asserted that the poems were a forgery, though at the same time he acknowledged that it was wonderful how the whelp had written such things.  The honest pewterer now put his arm through Chatterton’s, and soon his sympathy and perfect faith dispelled the cloud, and by the time they reached Mr Barrett’s house Chatterton was his most winning self again.

Mr Barrett was a surgeon in good practice, and a man of culture, who found time to pursue his historical studies without neglecting his professional duties.  In this he was very different from the ordinary general country practitioners of his times, who were for the most part men of scant education.  Mr Barrett’s introduction to Thomas Chatterton was brought about by the boy assuring Mr Burgum, Mr Catcott’s partner in the pewtering business, that he came of a noble race, and that he had discovered a full account of the family of the De Bergheims, and at once presented Mr Burgum with a manuscript copy of the original document on parchment.

Mr Burgum had been so pleased that he gave the boy, then scarcely fourteen years old, in Colston’s School, five shillings.

This success was followed by further particulars of the family, and a poet was found amongst the pewterer’s ancestors, one John de Bergheim, a Cistercian monk, and a poem called the Romaunt of the Cnyghte was inserted in the second document to give the good pewterer a specimen of his skill.

To make the poem more intelligible to the puzzled pewterer a modern English version was appended, and very soon the boy at Colston’s School attracted attention and became celebrated amongst a small circle of the more educated and literary Bristol people.

Mr Barrett received Chatterton on this particular Sunday evening with much cordiality, and the conversation over the supper-table was easy and pleasant.

‘Any news of the manuscripts?’ Mr Barrett asked.

‘No, sir, nor ever will be.  I fear now they are lost beyond recall.’

’Nonsense; that cannot be allowed.  Mr Walpole shall be forced to return them-if he is forced to do nothing else.’

‘Sir,’ Chatterton said, ’you know full well that Mr Walpole’s whole manner changed when he discovered I was the son of a poor widow, and was small, and of no repute.’

’The very information which should have secured his heart and made your literary zeal of more value in his eyes.  But means shall not be wanting to come to the bottom of this conduct of Mr Walpole’s.  Your friends will rally round you,’ exclaimed Mr Catcott vehemently.

‘Gently, gently, George,’ exclaimed his more wary brother Alexander:  ’We must first know that Mr Walpole has any dishonest intentions, which in a person of quality like him is scarce reasonable to suppose,’ and then the author of The History of the Deluge pulled from his capacious waistcoat pocket a bit of fossil, which he handed round for inspection in support of one of his theories.

When the clock chimed the quarter to ten oclock Chatterton hastily rose, saying,-

‘I am late as it is, sir.  Permit me to bid you good evening.’

Mr Barrett followed Chatterton to the door, and laying his hand kindly on his arm, he slipped into his hand half-a-guinea.

’This is a small acknowledgment for the last curious bit of information you handed me on Bristol antiquities.  Be of good courage, my boy; your time will come, and your industry in adding to the history of past ages will meet its reward.’

Chatterton pressed Mr Barrett’s hand fervently.

‘I thank you, sir,’ he said; ’you are my good friend, and were there others like you I might be delivered from the chains which gall me.’  Then Chatterton took a flying leap down the steps before Mr Barrett’s house and sped on his way to Dowry Square.

‘Poor boy!’ the kindly surgeon said, ’poor boy! he is not made to bear the frowns of the rich and great, nor the buffets which all must meet in life.  Poor boy!  I would fain be of some use to him, but it is a hard matter to help such as he.’

In his better moments Chatterton had a longing to throw aside all shams, and be true.

As he stood at the door of the house in Dowry Square, waiting the first stroke of ten before he gave the single knock which should announce his arrival, he, looking up at the starlit sky, felt there was something greater and nobler to strive after than mere fame and recognition of his powers by those around him.

The silent majesty of the heavens has often brought a message, as to the psalmist of old, ’When I consider Thy heaven the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars which Thou hast created, what is man that Thou art mindful of Him, or the son of man that Thou visitest him.’  That this poor boy had moments when he felt after God as the supreme good is shown by his poem which he calls ‘The Resignation.’

     O God, whose thunder shakes the sky,
     Whose eye this atom globe surveys,
     To Thee, my only Rock, I fly,
     Thy mercy in Thy justice praise.

     The mystic mazes of Thy will,
     The shadows of celestial light
     Are past the power of human skill,
     But what the Eternal does is right.

     Then why, my soul, dost thou complain,
     Why drooping, seek the dark recess? 
     Shake off the melancholy chain,
     For God created all to bless.

We, who read these verses after the lapse of a hundred and twenty years, may well feel as sorrowful as if it were but a story of yesterday, that for Chatterton the last verse of this fine poem was, as far as our poor human judgment can go, never fulfilled, when he says,-

     The gloomy mantle of the night
     Which on my sinking spirit steals,
     Will vanish at the morning light
     Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals.

The next day Mr Lambert, standing at the door of his study with his hands full of papers, called Bryda as she passed.

‘Step in a moment, Miss Palmer,’ the lawyer said, surveying her with his keen eyes, which gleamed under bushy eyebrows.

As Bryda obeyed and followed Mr Lambert into the room he shut the door.

‘Mr Bayfield was here yesterday, as you may be aware.’

‘I knew he was in Bristol, sir,’ Bryda said, her voice faltering.

’Well, he has consented to await your decision before proceeding to recover the debt which your grandfather is unable to pay.’

‘My decision, sir,’ Bryda said, with some dignity, ’is made, and can never be altered.’

’Well, well, Bayfield is not the only man who has been taken at first sight with a pretty face.  He says, if you will marry him, he will let your grandfather go scot-free.  He has told you as much, I believe.’

Brydas crimson cheeks was sufficient answer, but she said firmly,-

‘I told the Squire my decision was made.  I will not marry him.’

’That is your own affair, but it seems to me, you’ll excuse me for saying so, you are throwing away a good chance.  Young Bayfield seems to have got a great deal of practical knowledge in America, and I do not doubt will soon retrieve his fortunes.  But he wants ready money, and this three hundred pounds is of importance to him.  Still, he will waive his claim, it seems, if you consent to his proposal, and put in the scale with the gold you appear to weigh a good deal more.  That is all I have to say.  I felt bound to tell you what passed yesterday between me and Mr Bayfield.  And, Miss Palmer, pardon me, but do not encourage that apprentice of mine to talk to you.  You may find him troublesome.  He is half mad, I think, and he does the most preposterous things, aiming the shafts of his so-called wit at those above him in station-his old master at Colston’s School for one, and I thrashed him for his pains.  I am seriously thinking I must break the indentures and be quit of him, with his rubbish and nonsense about old parchments, wasting his time when he ought to be learning his business.  My mother seems very well satisfied with you, Miss Palmer, and I hope you will remain with us, unless you give the Squire the preference!’ This was said with a laugh which made Bryda’s heart swell with indignation as the lawyer bustled off to his office, where Chatterton had been an hour and more before him.

Bryda clasped her hands, and exclaimed,-

’He would not dare to speak to me like this if I were not poor.  The apprentice is right, poverty is a curse, though Betty will not have it so; and how shameful of the Squire to speak of private affairs to Mr Lambert-about me.  No, not even to save poor old grandfather will I have any more to do with him.  After all, if the stock is sold, there will be the garden and the poultry and the dairy.  I forget, though, if there are no cows there will be no milk-still there will be a roof over grandfather’s head, and Silas will stand by him.’

Bryda continued to win favour with Mrs Lambert, and she snatched many an odd half-hour to read, taking a book from the cedar-lined bookcase and reading while Mrs Lambert dosed in her chair, or was engaged with some crony who looked in for a gossip, when Bryda had only eyes for her book, not ears for what was being said by the furthest window of the little parlour.

The Vicar of Wakefield fed Bryda’s romance, and Milton fired her enthusiasm by his lofty strain.  With the book on her knee, and some fine lace of Mrs Lambert’s in her hand, which she was supposed to be darning, Bryda committed to heart ‘Lycidas,’ and ‘L’Allegro,’ while the faithful Abdiel in the larger poem became a living personage to her.

Writing to Bet was more difficult to achieve, but she used to kneel at the window seat in her little attic and set down the thoughts of every day as they occurred to her.  As the month passed she felt some uneasiness for fear Mr Bayfield should make any further sign.

To take a stroll at a slow and measured pace with Mrs Lambert was one of her duties.  Sometimes the old lady would go to the pump-room and drink a glass of the water, and Bryda was quietly amused to watch the gay crowd flitting here and there in the sunshine of the beautiful summer weather.

Sometimes a short cough struck upon her ear, and her heart would go out in sympathy with some hectic invalids who, with the invariable desire of consumptive patients to appear better than they are, would sink exhausted on one of the benches, and then start up again to walk with a gaily dressed beau to the strains of the band playing under the row of trees before the houses.

She will die before July is out, Bryda heard someone near her say of a girl who had just recovered from a violent fit of coughing, and was placed in a sedan chair by her mother, resisting it and saying,-

‘I had much rather walk.  Don’t make a fuss, pray.’

‘Death so near, and life so sweet,’ thought Bryda, and then she recalled the elegy on the dead lamb, and the same shrinking from the unknown and the inevitable oppressed her.

One morning, when the dreaded month had nearly expired, Bryda was dispatched on a message to a shop celebrated for Bath buns, to buy a shilling’s worth for the ‘tea company’ Mrs Lambert expected that afternoon.  And she was also to call in at the grocer’s and buy some allspice and orange peel for a tasty pudding which Mr Lambert wanted for a supper he was to give to some friends.  Bryda looked as fresh as a rose just gathered as she set out on her errand, Mrs Lambert’s large leather purse in her hand, and the directions as to her purchases in her mind, which had been repeated at least a dozen times.

’Mind you insist on having the buns puffy at the top.  Don’t let them press on you those with a sink in the middle where the comfits lie.  They are sure to be heavy; and take care you get the narrow blue ribbon from a roll that is not faded outside at the haberdasher’s in the College Green.’

’Mrs Lambert ought to think twice before she sends out that girl a-shopping,’ Mrs Symes said to Sam the footboy.  ’She is a vast deal too dainty to walk Bristol streets alone.  I’ve seen the fellows turn and stare at her as she crosses the square, and as to Chatterton, he has eyes for nothing when she is by.  I declare if ever eyes were like evil eyes they are that mad boy’s.’

Then Mrs Symes wiped her face with her apron, and said the kitchen was enough to stifle her, proceeded to pursue her scrubbing and cleaning with great vehemence.

Meanwhile Bryda went gaily on her way.  She was very susceptible of the circumstances of the moment, and the summer air playing amongst the sails of the ships, as she got to the quay, and the water rippling at their sides, where the sunbeams danced and sparkled, gave her a sense of life and gladness which for the moment made her forget how near she was standing to the day when the Squire would again put before her the alternative of seeing her grandfather’s stock sold, and so ruining him for the future as a farmer-or marrying him.

The idea seemed preposterous to her, and she shrank from it with the shrinking of a pure, high-minded girl.

She had finished her purchases, and carefully counted the change in the large leather purse, when the cathedral bells, chiming as she passed, made her think she would go in for the service.

There were not more than half-a-dozen straggling worshippers, and the prayers were made as short as possible by the irreverent fashion in which they were hurried over.  But Bryda’s ear caught the words of the anthem, which, by the care of the organist, was really the only devotional part of the service.

It was but a fragment from Handel’s Messiah, but it was well sung, and the words struck home to Bryda’s heart.

As in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.  For as by man came death, by man came also the resurrection from the dead.

Death, on which she had so often meditated-death, which had for her so much of darkness and fear-death could be changed by Him who had conquered death-All be made alive.’

The beauty of the music and the words acted like a spell on her, and she forgot the passing of time, till, as the half-dozen old men and women tottered away to their homes, she raised her head to see the verger beckoning to her.

‘Service over, we clear the church,’ he said, and Bryda rose hastily, and with heightened colour went out again into the summer noontide.