In Colston's days, a story of old Bristol

Front matter

A STORY OF OLD BRISTOL By Emma Marshall A uthor of " Life's Aftermath St. Werburgh's and AU Saints. SEELEY, JACKSON & HALLIDAY, FLEET STREET LONDON. MDCCCLXXXIV All rights reserved 'i i, TO THE DEAR AND HONOURED MEMORY OF JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS, M.D., WHO IN HIS DAY AND GENERATION ADDED SO GREATLY TO THE PROSPERITY OF CLIFTON, BY ATTRACTING THITHER MANY, IN WHOSE HEARTS HE STILL LIVES, BY HIS RARE MEDICAL SKILL, HIS HIGH CULTURE AND INTELLECTUAL GIFTS, AND HIS EVER-READY HOSPITALITY, WHICH MADE CLIFTON HILL HOUSE, WITH ITS TREASURES OF ART AND LITERATURE, THE CENTRE OF ALL THAT WAS BRIGHT, BEAUTIFUL, AND GOOD. I DEDICATE THIS STORY OF OLD BRISTOL, AS A TOKEN OF UNCHANGING AFFECTION.

Preface

'"THE days of -** the years " of the great Bristol philanthropist cover a wide area, and it is therefore impossible to do more than bring into the story of his times the salient points of his long life. I have ventured to throw round the early youth of Edward Colston the halo of romance — not, indeed, following in the track of the many stories which are told of his love, and the causes of its rejection by the woman of his choice. For, as not one of these stories is confessedly reliable, I have taken leave to invent one, on the ground of probability, but

PREFACE.

. VIII with no pretence of certainty. I think, how ever, we may reasonably suppose that the life of this great man was coloured by the love of some woman, who may have quickened in him the universal benevolence which made the widow and the orphan his especial care. Thus I have assumed, that this unrequited love of his, was centred on a noble, gracious woman, who, though for her own reasons refusing to be his wife, yet influenced him for good ; — rather than on a selfish and frivolous one, who, as one of the popular stories to which I have referred sets forth, refused to be his wife on the plea of his lavish generosity to a poor suppliant for charity in the streets of Bristol. Edward Colston's affection for his mother, and devotion to the memory of both parents, must naturally take a prominent place in any story of his early life ; and we may imagine that a mother so dearly loved must have been — as all true mothers should strive to be — the sympathetic friend and the coun sellor of her first-born son.

The characters I have introduced are, I need hardly say, for the most part wholly imaginary. At the same time, I have borrowed names from the old records of Bristol ; and when I have

PREFACE.

. IX dealt with facts and historical events in which the city of the west had its part, I have carefully adhered to verified dates, and done my best to keep the action of the story within the limits of the time when such events really took place. All that is known with any certainty of the man, of whom Bristol is justly proud, is to be found in Mr. Thomas Garrard's life, ably edited by Mr. Tovey. I have to acknowledge my obligations to that work, and also to the three beautiful volumes entitled " Bristol : Past and Present." which ought to be in the library of every one who wishes to realise the history of this ancient city. I must also express my thanks to Miss Emily Holt for her valuable information as to the costumes of the period — a subject which, with its Christian names, she has studied so carefully, that she is an undoubted and reliable authority upon it, and many other like questions of interest, connected with the past of her country. The illustrations — sketches from some of the old buildings which remain in Bristol — may add to the interest of the tale. These old build-

PREFACE.

. X ings, alas ! are becoming less and less in number, as streets are widened and new thoroughfares opened out, to meet the requirements of modern life. But no changes can blot out the memory of the man who bravely rose as the champion of education in a time when it was thought a " grave error in judgment " to teach the son and daughter of the mechanic and tradesman to read and write. His work lives : it reaches far back into the past, and it stretches out to the future. Many brave and useful men have traced the beginning of their career to Colston's School ; and may we not hope that in the time to come these shall be followed by others, who shall bear witness to the truth of the words of the wise man ? — for " the good name " of the Bristol philanthropist is better than his "great riches.'' 10, Worcester Terrace, Clifton, All Saints' Day, 1883. CONTENTS.

Book I. In The Cradle

There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased, The which observed, a man may prophesy With a near aim, of the main chance of things, As yet not come to life, which in their seeds And weak beginnings lie intreasured. Shakespeare. P.

BOOK I DECEMBER,

1636. IN THE CRADLE. The sun was setting in a sky, which was painted with every shade of amethyst and gold, ethereal green, and tenderest sapphire, melting into opal tints of indescribable loveliness. A few detached clouds floated over the old city of Bristol, sent as messengers from the sunset ; their snowy breasts were tinged with bright crimson, and reflected a ruddy glow upon the dull waters of the Avon, flowing swiftly out under the arches of the bridge, seaward ; while the cross on the chapel dedicated to the Virgin, midway on the crowded thoroughfare, shone like a ruby set in gold. In the year of grace 1636, Bristol Bridge was a narrow street, with houses built on either side, and the chapel, raised over a vaulted arch under which carriages could pass, stood in the centre. Of all the busy streets in Old Bristol, the bridge was perhaps the busiest.

Many of the rich merchants lived IN COLSTOaW'S DA YS. 4 here, above their stores and low shops, where much weighty business was transacted, of which the selling of wares was the least important. The Bristol merchants were, even at this date, deep in the gains and losses of foreign ventures and trading with Spain and Portugal, while re presentatives of most of the leading houses were to be found in Madrid, Oporto, and in the islands which in the last century had tempted many a brave adventurer over the great Atlantic to seek his fortune in the El Dorado of the West. The houses on the bridge had the advantage over the houses in the narrow streets, for the backs commanded a fine prospect either way along the river, while the houses in the streets, often spacious and highly decorated within, could from the projecting lattice bays, but dimly discern a strip of sky between the roofs, and but glimpses of what was passing at the opening of the narrow street at either end.

Although scarcely half-past three of the clock it was nearly dark in St. Mary le Port Street. The glories of the winter sunset could not penetrate the dim spacious room in the house of Master Thomas Standfast, where, in the wide lattice bay window, his little daughter Damaris had been keeping watch for a long time. Damaris pressed her face close to the window, and peered out steadily in one direction, now and then changing her position from the left foot to the right, and playing a tune upon the diamond panes with her small fingers. OLD BRISTOL BRIDGE. The room behind her was dark and gloomy. The oak panels were not relieved by any colour, and a tall bureau, with brass fittings, alone caught the flickering of the wood fire now burnine low on the wide hearth. The oak EX COLSTO-N'S DA YS. boards were polished and slippery ; they were covered here and there by strips or squares of carpet, and the straight-backed chairs stood, like sentinels, against the walls.

A piece of heavy and moth-eaten tapestry hung over a door at the further end of the room, and by it, away from the fire, sat a young woman who was dressed in a coarse brown stuff gown, with a muslin kerchief crossed on her breast, and her hands busily employed with the distaff, while her foot occasionally touched the wooden cradle where a baby was asleep. The window where Damaris stood was raised a step from the room, and from her superior elevation the child looked down, as well as back, at the figure by the tapestry, and said, in a quick petulant voice, " I am sick of waiting ; mother will never come from the christening feast. Thou art like a mole or a bat, Cicely, working in the dark. Leave thy stupid distaff, and come here and look out. There is a tiny cloud just over the top of the cross beyond Master Aldworth's house.

It is rosy red ; come and see it." " I fear to wake thy sister ; she has been over fretful, and slept not a wink last night. Talk not so loud, Damaris." " Come near then, and I will whisper." And as the girl's figure moved softly across the room and emerged from the shadows, Damaris con tinued, " That's a good Cicely ; now tell me why my mother should don her very best flowered taffety and velvet kirtle, and make such an ado as to her ornaments, and strut up and down to be admired forsooth, and leave me dull at home ? I should have liked a chrisom feast, and to have beheld all the fine things at Master Colston's. I don't care a whit sor the baby. I doubt not he is a little ugly monkey, like the one Will Purdy showed me in the stores the other day. Moreover, we have got a baby here. I hate a fuss— about babies !

" " Damaris, thy idle words make a long account ; thy tongue wants a bridle." " Nay, Cicely, thou canst not tell how I crave for my own mother. Dost think she would have pranked herself out in finery, and stepped out to the christening, nor taken me with her ? My blessed mother, who is safe with the holy angels ! I need her sore." " Dear child, I know thou dost often need her ; but oh ! Damaris, methinks she is taken from the evil to come. There are no times of peace before us, but rather dread times. The enemies of the Lord are gathering for the battle, and we know not where it will end. For myself, I would not go anear a chrisom feast, nor taste one of the viands, for it seemeth to me a fearful mockery to mark the child's brow with the sign of the cross which he will never take up, nursed in the lap of luxury and godlessness."

Cicely's face, which had been so quiet and unmoved a minute before, was now aglow with a strange light. " Thou should'st hear Mistress Dorothy on this matter." " That will I not. I love her not. With her groans about sin, and her long face and whines. I love her not. And when she comes here preaching at mother, I would as lieve tell her to let the minister speak of such things, and mind her own affairs. Father cannot abide her; he said so." Cicely only sighed, and her sweet face re sumed its usually placid expression. " Thy father loveth peace," sighed Cicely ; " but hark, it is the child stirring." Cicely stooped down from the raised dais by the window, and taking the baby in her arms caressed it lovingly. " Now then, sweetheart, do not fret ; come and see thy sister. Sure, Damaris, a child more like an angel never lived in this sin struck world.

Alas ! that she is a child of wrath, and doomed to punishment, if God's grace fall not on her." This stern doctrine did not seem to fall naturally from those sweet serene lips. " Here," said Damaris, "let me dandle her, it will pass the time till they return." She took the child rather roughly from Cicely's arms, and tried to amuse her by shaking the beads of her necklace, and swaying her backwards and forwards. The baby, little Margery, lay quite quiet, with her blue eyes raised to the light, still seen through the roofs of the houses. The babies of those days were swathed in garments which gave but little room for stretching their limbs. They wore tightly-fitting caps, from under which the soft rings of golden hair made a fringe round little Margery's fair forehead. Damaris, at scarcely ten years old, was dressed as a woman, in stuff petticoat and over gar ment of flowered camlet, her gay kerchief girt in at the waist by a broad belt.

She wore on her dark hair something between a snood and a cap, and had a falling fringe of gilt beads, which had belonged to her mother, hanging from it at the back. "She is fairer to look on than the baby in Small Street, I'll warrant, though I do account her a plague at times. I'll allow she is comely enough. There, Cicely, art satisfied now ? It is getting so dark I can scarce see one from another below. Ha ! there is Will Purdy out gaping, and there's the flicker of a torch. They are coming now. Take thy babe, Cicely, and let me go to meet mother." "Madam Standfast, at your service," Damaris said, with a low curtsey, as she threw open the heavy door, and a lady, hooded and covered with a long cloak, entered with a waiting-maid, who was Mistress Standfast's especial property, as she had brought her to her new home as her only dower when she consented to be the second wife of Thomas Standfast.

" Well, I've had enow," she said, " of this christening, but it was mighty grand. Take my cloak and hood, Hannah, and bring in a cup of water with a dash of canary in it. I am ready to drop." " Tell us about it, mother," Damaris said, taking a tabouret and sitting down at her mother's feet. " Tell us all about it. I've had a dull day and I'd have liked to be there. This Mistress Colston said — " " Tush, prythee, silly child, thou art old enow sor thy ten years, and dost not need bringing forward. One thing I can tell thee, that Colonel Taylor swore there was no dress to beat mine. He asked where I got this gold brocade, and said he never saw such a fitting robe sor one who walked like a swan. Ha, ha ! how men will flatter," and Mistress Standfast arched her pretty neck, and patted the costly lace which filled in the somewhat low bodice.

Damaris shrugged her shoulders, and said, " We have seen your gown, and heard of its grandeur ere now ; tell us of the company, mother." " The company — oh, they were not amiss, and the room where the banquet was spread is a grand one. Master Colston must be getting money by ship-loads. A fine marriage for Counsellor Batten's daughter. The baby had a grand christening robe, and he screeched thrice, they said, at Temple Church, when he felt the water. He seems a weakly child, and his mother said she would have fain had him plunged in, and not sprinkled only. They are mighty stiff church folk, and it's better so, than to be like those ill-conditioned people, of the Kelly set, who think all the town will go to perdition but their precious selves. Ah ! Cicely looks as if she would place me with the goats.

How has the baby Margery prospered ? Is she less restive ?" •' She is as good as gold, madam," was Cicely's demure answer. The baby's lady mother touched the soft cheek with her fingers, and said, "I am pleased to see she hath little golden ringlets. We will marry her to the babe in Small Street, eh, Thomas ?" " A fine match for her, doubtless," said the good tradesman and merchant, Thomas Stand fast. " There's magic in the way the Colstons prosper — " " Father," broke in Damaris, " I want to hear about the christening feast, and all the folks did and said and wore, and mother only tells me about herself, and that is dull." " Hush thy pert tongue, Damaris, lest I send thee to bed with a crust and a flagon of water," said Thomas Standfast. But Madam Standfast only laughed, and tossed her pretty head.

" Nay, I do not fret about the girl's tongue ; I have something else to do. Did'st hear Colonel Taylor's pretty speech to me ? ' Easy to see,' quoth he, ' that you have gentle blood in your veins, fair lady.' And quoth I, 'You are quick-sighted, sir, for in good sooth I come of the blood of the FitzHardinges, though the wife of a Bristol merchant, by your leave.' ' Ah,' quoth my fine gentleman, ' the Bristol merchants are fast becoming the princes of the earth.' And he added, 'Some of the said princes are like to come down a bit : for there is more to be heard of ship money yet.' " " Tut-tut ! What do womenfolk know of these matters ? Tell us about the gauds, and the comfits, and the brave gowns, and leave prating to such goodwives as Dolly Kelly." Thomas Standfast had put his arm round Damaris and drew her to his side.

" The babe was brought in at the banquet," he said, "and his mother handed him round to each guest, who kissed him on the cheek, and offered a gift. Some were mighty fine, and such rare apostle's spoons, chased and finely wrought, I never saw. They must have cost a fortune. The shining of the plate on the board was grand to see, and there was a preserve of some sweet juicy fruit, which I would fain have got COLSTON'S DAYS. 14 into my pocket for thee. I brought this, however ; and the kind young mistress bid me present it with her dutiful compliments to my little daughter, and she prayed me to send thee and the baby Margery to kiss her boy before many days pass." Thomas Standfast drew from one of the large pockets of his short coat a large slice of cake — all sugar and spice — and as dark and rich as any cake that was ever made.

" Kind father ! " Damaris exclaimed, throwing her arms round her father's neck. " Always kind." " Thy Uncle Dick was a guest, and spoke well at the drinking of healths. He has the gift of the tongue, which thy father has not. They were mostly elderly folks present — grand parents and grand-aunts of the babe. The youngest present was the mother — a most fair young mother, and so proud of her boy." Thomas Standfast sighed ; he was thinking of past days, when Damaris lay in her mother's arms, and she sang soft and low, to hush her to sleep in the twilight. Now as the babe Margery began to make little pitiful noises, for she was cutting her first teeth, the fine lady mother, in whose veins coursed noble blood, exclaimed, " Take her away, Cicely. I cannot bear to hear her whine. I mislike her when she puckers up her face."

Madam Standfast thought it her bounden duty to show her high lineage by calmly ignoring her maternal duties. A spoiled beauty, left an orphan and friendless, she had touched the heart of the worthy Thomas Standfast, who had been a faithful widower sor six years, when he married, for the second time, Mistress Margaret FitzHardinge, whose father had been a scion of the younger branch of the Berkleys, and had died early, leaving a widow and daughter in very straitened circum stances. Thomas Standfast assisted the mother to eke out her scanty income by investing her slender capital in his flourishing business, and at her death Mistress Margaret and her waiting-maid, Hannah, were received into his house, and found a comfortable home — the one as wife, the other as servant. Madam Standfast was poor in all things but beauty and pride.

Of these she had a goodly supply. She was vain and selfish, but so equable was her temper, and so quiet her DA YS. self-assertion that she managed to pass sor a sweet-tempered woman. She had everything her own way, was contradicted by no one, and flattered by the admiration of Thomas Stand fast's household. The only openly professed unbeliever in Madam Standfast's perfections was her step-daughter, Damaris. But when her eyes flashed and her spirit rose, or her tongue ran beyond the ordinary limit, from some great provocation, it was she who always bore the brunt of her father's indignation, and her step-mother got off scot free. Not that anything Damaris could say or do affected Madam Standfast. She cared far too little about her, or any one but herself, to be deeply moved by anything Damaris might say.

But if she could be provoked into betraying irritation it was on the subject of age and beauty. Her husband's praise of Madam Colston annoyed her, and when after a pause he repeated : " Yes, Mistress Batten is fair enow and young withal. May she be spared to be a blessing to her boy and his father for many long years ! " " Fair and young ! Well-a-day ! I am as young as Madam Colston ; and as to fair, I fancy no one calls me a fright." Then she laughed her little laugh, which, heard for the first time, might sound silvery, but when heard often, had a ring in it, which was monotonous, and suggestive of no very deep spring of happiness: " Sarah Batten maybe older than she looks." " And why call her Sarah Batten ? It sounds strangely." " It is long usage, methinks," said her husband. " I say she may be older than she looks ; but her face to-day, as she bore that infant round amongst her kinsfolk and friends, was as pure and child-like as our little Margery's." " I do not affect baby faces on old shoulders.

Now I must away and let Hannah smoothe my train and sold it in the chest." She stood up as she said so, and turned her graceful head from side to side, and passed out of the room behind the tapestry with the easy gliding motion of a swan. " She looks a queen," Thomas Standfast said. " Aye, Damaris, too much of a queen for a Bristol merchant. Supper will be served ere long, methinks. The lads below have had a long fast, and I must away and look into matters before supper." "Father," Damaris said, "Will Purdy takes it ill that mother will not eat with the c apprentices oftener than she can help. Prythee let me come down with thee. It has been a long, long day." " So do then, dear child, and mind thee that my Lady Rogers bids thee to the Bridge House to-morrow." Damaris jumped for joy. " I never heard it.

I am right glad.' " Thy mother forgot to tell thee, perhaps. Dame Rogers is willing to teach thee some new tapestry stitch and embroidery." " I hate the needle," Damaris said, " though I love to go to these grand houses and look out on the river. It is mighty dull here since Cicely has taken to Mistress Kelly's ways." " And my Lady Rogers is bitten with the same disease ; for, child, it is for us to follow humbly in the ways of our fathers, delivered from Popery, for which thank God ; but to keep in good old paths by the ancient discipline of the Church. And now come, as it pleases you, to my lower chamber. I can give thee some strange pictures I found in an old chest of yams, brought in from Saint Kit's by the good skipper, Jordan by name." While Damaris goes with her father to the lower floor of the house, and, seated on a high stool at a desk in the inner shop or office, delighted with the quaint treasures which Thomas Standfast always preserved for his little daughter, Cicely Knight, the nurse and care taker of little Margery, was passing down the wide staircase, wrapt in a long dark mantle, and her head covered with a hood.

At the foot of the stairs the head apprentice of Thomas Standfast's business, Will Purdy, was waiting for her. " Hast thou asked leave, Will?" Cecily said. " No, there is no need. I shall be back ere supper is served." " I would as lief the good master knew of thy absence, Will." " Doth the lady mistress know of thine ? " retorted Will. " Aye, verily. I craved two hours' freedom from my duties, alleging I had slept ill with the care of the babe yesternight." " Then thy leave will halve itself right easily, and I'll take the lesser portion and thou shalt take the lion's share, fair Cicely — my Cicely, eh ? " he continued, trying to take her hand. But Cicely withdrew it quickly. " Nay, then, Will. I did not come forth to listen to thy folly. I am on the way to Mistress Dorothy Kelly's, to be fed with the bread of life."

Will laughed. " Be it so, and drop a few crumbs for me." " Nay, jest not at so grave a matter. Thou didst promise to come as my guide to Mistress Kelly's, and listen quietly to the godly teaching." " I will leave thee there and call anon," said Will. " I cannot do more. I am fit to laugh outright when I see these women pulling long faces. Have a care, Cicely !" And Will Purdy put out his hand, and saved his companion from falling over a heap of refuse which was lying in the street. " There, thou hadst need of my hand then ! In what a vile condition is this roadway. Small use are your Mayors and Aldermen and Corporation if they cannot make the citizens cleanly and decent in their habits. They say the Plague is born and bred in these dirty by-ways, and when it visits us again I would fain see the Mayor and Corporation struck with it in their red gowns.

It is like to break one's neck and give one a swooning fit to walk abroad in the dark." Will Purdy, if wrong in his desire for summary vengeance against the Mayor and Corporation of the ancient and loyal city, was right in the estimate he took of Bristol streets. They were at this time as ill-kept, ill-drained, and difficult of passage as it is possible to conceive. The wonder is, not that the Plague seized its prey in Bristol with a fatal grip at longer or shorter intervals, but that the inhabi tants of houses lil^e Thomas Standfast's in St. Mary le Port Street were ever well. Certainly it is remarkable that, as a rule, except during the visitations of any great epidemic, there is not any extraordinary death-rate recorded. Indeed, very little is said of health in chronicles of this date. People seemed to thrive, in spite of their surroundings ; and when, in about six years from this time, the great rebellion broke out, the men — yes, and the women of Bristol too showed they were in the full possession of much muscular vigour !

Will Purdy left Cicely at the door of Dorothy Kelly's grocery shop in the High Street just as the clocks were striking six. Dorothy Kelly was in the act of closing her business for the day, by the help of a very meek apprentice, who held his mistress in wholesome awe. Dorothy Kelly was a remarkable woman of her time. Her presence was commanding, and her tall shapely figure inspired respect. Her features were regular, her brow low and square, and her mouth was set in firm lines. She was the type of the strong, uncompromis ing Puritan, who with the force of a powerful will, brought weaker ones under complete control. Dorothy Kelly gloried in protesting against what she believed to be unsound doctrine and practices. She set her face as a flint against all expressions of contempt for her favourite creed, and courted rather than avoided persecution "for the truth's sake."

Looking back on her figure, as it rises out of the Bristol of those times, we are tempted to wonder why it is, she escaped the persecution unto death which she by no means took any pains to avoid. Had she not sat serving in her shop as usual on the Christmas Day preceding that now near at hand, and openly displayed her grocery and spices for sale as on other week-days ? Did she not account the observance of the " Christ mass" by ringing of bells and services in the church a popish custom to be abhorred by the faithful ? Dorothy paid as little heed to the coarse jest or ironical laughter which her conduct pro voked, as to the squealing of Punchinello, in the Bullock's Park. What was it to her, whose salvation was assured, that a crowd of poor sinners should gibe and mock, and disturb the meetings held, as they said, in ' a church with a chimney,' as they called Mrs. Kelly's house in High Street, between the Guilder's Inn and the High Cross ?