Yes, Clifton was then only a village, and Chatterton had already sung its charms in lines which ought to be known and prized by those who live in the Clifton of these days. It is true Clifton is no longer 'the sweet village' which the boy poet describes, though it may still be
The loved retreat of all the rich and gay,
it is not the Clifton of a century and more ago. Now it is rather a city of mansions and stately crescents, of colleges and schools, than a village. Full of the busy workers in literature and art, of philanthropists and philosophers, of churches and chapels, looking down from the elevation of her rocky fastnesses over the yellow Avon creeping below, 'its sullen billows rolling a muddy tide.'
The poet who sang its praises, and with his wonderful eagle glance over the page of Bristol history seized the salient points to introduce into his ode, is at once one of the most famous and the saddest memories lingering round this City of the West, from which her younger sister of to-day has sprung, and to which she owes her origin and her wealth.
Jack and Bryda parted at the entrance of Dowry Square, and with a long and wistful gaze at the face he loved so well he turned sadly away.
'I am a rough suitor,' he said to himself, 'I shall never win her. She is too far above me, too good, too clever, but'—and poor Jack tore the primroses from his coat and threw them away—'oh, Heaven! how I love her!'