ok holy orders on the death of his wife to
avoid a second marriage pressed on him by King Henry VI., who speaks of
him as 'his beloved, eminent merchant of Bristol.' William Canynge was
made Dean of the College of Westbury, which he rebuilt with his usual
munificence. He died in 1474.]

CHAPTER VIII

THE SONGS OF ROWLEY THE PRIEST.

And now Bryda listened to the song of Rowley, the priest of St John, as
Chatterton poured it in her ear with almost fiery eloquence. She could
scarcely believe the apprentice taking his meals with the footboy in the
dingy kitchen at Dowry Square could be one with the young man who walked
by her side in his holiday attire.

All the latent romance in Bryda's nature was stirred by the history
which her companion told her of the old parchments, used forsooth as
covers of books, or cut up into thread papers, and yet of priceless
value--a value which he alone had discovered.

'Listen,' he said, stopping short, 'and I will recite to you an elegy or
minstrel's song from the "Tragedy of AElla," then tell me whether Rowley
the priest was not a king amongst men. A poor priest--aye, and a poor
apprentice, brought up on the charity of Colston's School, has brought
him to light, and in due time we shall see his memory receive the laurel
crown, denied him perhaps in his life. It is only these dull trading
Bristol folk who are blind as bats and deaf as adders. Curse them! I
hate Bristol and its people for Rowley's sake, and for my own. Yet I
will rise above them, and they shall find they cannot trample on me with
impunity.'

Bryda began to feel frightened at the increased vehemence of her
companion, and looking back, saw they had left Jack Henderson and Miss
Chatterton far behind.

But suddenly his manner changed, and he said,--

'No. I will not sing to you of death, you who are so full of life and
beauty. The minstrel sang in a sad refrain,--

My love is dead,
Gone to his deathbed
All under the willow tree.

Your love shall have a happier fate. Hark!' he said, 'you shall have a
song of springtime, not of the grave--the dark grave, where I wish
myself a dozen times a day.'

'Do not say so. Life is so sweet and beautiful,' Bryda exclaimed.
'Though I have many cares at this time, yet I love life, and even in
Dowry Square I think it is good to be alive.'

'Aye, to you, doubtless,' was the reply. 'But now for the verse from the
"History of Painting."

When spring