totally incapable of appearing again that season. I therefore obtained
Mr. Sheridan's permission to visit Bath for the recovery of my repose.
From Bath I went to Bristol--to Bristol! Why does my pen seem suddenly
arrested while I write the word? I know not why, but an undefinable
melancholy always follows the idea of my native birthplace. I instantly
behold the Gothic structure, the lonely cloisters, the lofty aisles, of
the antique minster,--for, within a few short paces of its wall, this
breast, which has never known one year of happiness, first palpitated on
inhaling the air of this bad world! Is it within its consecrated
precincts that this heart shall shortly moulder? Heaven only knows, and
to its will I bow implicitly.

I transcribe this passage on the 29th of March, 1800. I feel my health
decaying, my spirit broken. I look back without regret that so many of
my days are numbered; and, were it in my power to choose, I would not
wish to measure them again. But whither am I wandering? I will resume my
melancholy story.

Still restless, still perplexed with painful solicitudes, I returned to
London. I had not then, by many months, completed my nineteenth year. On
my arrival I took lodgings in Leicester Square. Mr. Sheridan came to see
me on my return to town, and communicated the melancholy fate of Mr.
Thomas Linley,[28] the late brother of Mrs. Sheridan,--he was
unfortunately drowned at the Duke of Ancaster's. In a few days after,
Mr. Sheridan again made me a visit, with a proposal for an engagement to
play during the summer at Mr. Colman's theatre in the Haymarket.[29] I
had refused several offers from provincial managers, and felt an almost
insurmountable aversion to the idea of strolling. Mr. Sheridan
nevertheless strongly recommended me to the acceptance of Mr. Colman's
offer; and I at last agreed to it, upon condition that the characters I