He was at Bristol soon after eight. The town being strange ground to
him, he bade a cabman drive him to a good hotel, where he dined.
Such glimpse as he had caught of the streets did not invite him
forth, but neither could he sit unoccupied; as the weather was fair,
be rambled for an hour or two. His mind was in a condition difficult
to account for; instead of dwelling upon the purpose that had
brought him hither, it busied itself with all manner of thoughts and
fancies belonging to years long past. He recalled the first lines of
a poem he had once attempted; it was suggested by a reading of
Coleridge--and there, possibly, lay the point of association.
Coleridge: then he fell upon literary reminiscences. Where, by the
way, was St. Mary Redcliffe? He put the inquiry to a passer-by, and
was directed. By dreary thoroughfares he came into view of the
church, and stood gazing at the spire, dark against a blotchy sky.
Then he mocked at himself for acting as if he had an interest in
Chatterton, when in truth the name signified boredom to him. Oh,
these English provincial towns! What an atmosphere of deadly dulness
hung over them all! And people were born, and lived, and died in
Bristol--merciful powers!
He made his way back to the hotel, drank a glass of hot whisky, and
went to bed.
After a sound sleep he awoke in the grey dawn, wondered awhile where
he could be, then asked himself why on earth he had come here.
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