How entirely free John Clare was from the common failing of literary jealousy, is shown by his admiration of Bloomfield. He not only freely acknowledged the high standard of Bloomfield's works; but, what was more, held him up to all his friends as a poet far greater than himself. Untrue as was this comparison, it strikingly exhibited the innate nobility of soul of the poor 'Northamptonshire Peasant.' Yet even this humility, the true sign of genius, was ill-construed by some of Clare's lukewarm patrons, who reproached him for being a flatterer when he only wanted to be just.



GLIMPSES OF JOHN CLARE AT HOME.

During the summer of 1821, Clare gave up his agricultural labours almost entirely. The greater part of the time he spent in roaming through woods and fields, planning new poems, and correcting those already made. Visits to Stamford, also, were frequent and of some duration, and he not unfrequently stayed three or four days together at the house of Mr. Gilchrist, or of Mr. Drury. The stream of visitors to Helpston had ceased, to a great extent, and the few that dropped in now and then were mostly of the better class, or at least not belonging to the vulgar-curious element. Among the number was Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend, a dandyfied poet of some note, particularly gifted in madrigals and pastorals. He came all the way from London to see Clare, and having taken a guide from Stamford to Helpston, was utterly amazed, on his arrival, to find that the cottage, beautifully depicted in the 'Village Minstrel,' was not visible anywhere. His romantic scheme had been to seek Clare in his home, which he thought easy with the picture in his pocket; and having stepped over the flower-clad porch, to rush inside, with tenderly-dignified air, and drop into the arms of the brother poet. However, the scheme threatened to be frustrated, for though the village could easily be surveyed at a glance, such a cottage as that delineated in the 'Minstrel,' with more regard to the ideal than the real, was nowhere to be seen. In his perplexity, Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend inquired of a passer-by the way to Clare's house. The individual whom he addressed was a short, thick-set man, and, as Mr. Hare Townsend thought, decidedly ferocious-looking; he was bespattered with mud all over, and a thick knotted stick, which he carried in his hands, gave him something of the air of a highwayman. To the intense surprise of Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend, this very vulgar person, when addressed, declared that he himself was John Clare, and offered to show the way to his house. Of course, the gentleman from London was too shrewd to be taken in by such a palpable device for being robbed; so declining the offer with thanks, and recovering from his fright by inhaling the perfume of his pocket handkerchief, he retreated on his path, seeking refuge in the 'Blue Bell' public house. The landlord's little girl was ready to show the way to Clare's cottage, and did so, leaving the stranger at the door. Mr. Townsend, now fairly prepared to fall into the arms of the brother poet, though not liking the look of his residence, cautiously opened the door; but started back immediately on beholding the highwayman in the middle of the room, sipping a basin of broth. There seemed a horrible conspiracy for the destruction of a literary gentleman from London in this Northamptonshire village. Mrs. Clare, fortunately, intervened at the nick of time to keep Mr. Townsend from fainting. Patty, always neatly dressed—save and except on washing days,—approached the visitor; and her gentle looks re-assured Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend. He wiped his hot brow with his scented handkerchief, and, not without emotion, introduced himself to the owner of the house and the neat little wife. The conversation which followed was short, and somewhat unsatisfactory on both sides, and the London poet, in the course of a short half an hour, quitted the Helpston minstrel, leaving a sonnet, wrapped in a one-pound note, behind him. Clare frowned when discovering the nature of the envelope; but he liked the sonnet, and for the sake of it, and on Patty's petition, consented not to send it back to the giver.

Shortly after this curious visit, there came another, which gave Clare much more pleasure. Mr. John Taylor, of London, having been on an excursion to his native place, Retford, in Nottinghamshire, on his return spent a few days at Stamford, with Mr. Drury; and, while here, could not help looking-in at the home of his 'Northamptonshire Peasant.' His survey of Helpston, Mr. Taylor described in the 'London Magazine' of November, 1821, in a letter 'to the Editor,'—that is, to himself. The sketch thus given furnishes an interesting glimpse of the poet and his quiet home life at this period. Mr. Taylor's letter, dated Oct. 12, 1821, set out as follows:—'I have just returned from visiting your friend Clare at Helpston, and one of the pleasantest days I ever spent, was passed in wandering with him among the scenes which are the subject of his poems. A flatter country than the immediate neighbourhood can scarcely be imagined, but the grounds rise in the distance clothed with woods, and their gently swelling summits are crowned with village churches; nor can it be called an uninteresting country, even without the poetic spirit which now breathes about the names of many of its most prominent objects, for the ground bears all the traces of having been the residence of some famous people in early days. "The deep sunk moat, the stony mound," are visible in places where modern taste would shrink at erecting a temporary cottage, much less a castellated mansion; fragments of Roman brick are readily found on ridges which still hint the unrecorded history of a far distant period, and the Saxon rampart and the Roman camp are in some places seen mingled together in one common ruin. On the line of a Roman road, which passes within a few hundred yards of the village of Helpston, I met Clare, about a mile from home. He was going to receive his quarter's salary from the steward of the Marquis of Exeter. His wife Patty, and her sister were with him, and it was the intention of the party, I learned, to proceed to their father's house at Casterton, there to meet such of the family as were out in service, on their annual re-assembling together at Michaelmas. I was very unwilling to disturb this arrangement, but Clare insisted on remaining with me, and the two cheerful girls left their companion with a "good bye, John!" which made the plains echo again.'

Walking along the road, Mr. Taylor, under the guidance of Clare, came to Lolham Brigs, a place sketched in the second volume of the 'Village Minstrel,' in a poem entitled 'The last of March.' The curious publisher and editor, anxious to gather facts for his 'London Magazine,' wanted to know the origin of the poem, and got a full account of it, which, accompanied by some lofty criticisms, he communicated to his readers. 'John Clare,' Mr. Taylor reported, 'was walking in this direction on the last day of March, 1821, when he saw an old acquaintance fishing on the lee side of the bridge. He went to the nearest place for a bottle of ale, and they then sat beneath the screen which the parapet afforded, while a hasty storm passed over, refreshing themselves with the liquor, and moralizing somewhat in the strain of the poem. I question whether Wordsworth's pedlar could have spoken more to the purpose. But all these excitations would, I confess, have spent their artillery in vain against the woolpack of my imagination; and after well considering the scene, I could not help looking at my companion with surprise: to me, the triumph of true genius seemed never more conspicuous, than in the construction of so interesting a poem out of such common-place materials. With your own eyes you see nothing but a dull line of ponds, or rather one continued marsh, over which a succession of arches carries the narrow highway: look again, with the poem in your mind, and the wand of a necromancer seems to have been employed in conjuring up a host of beautiful accompaniments, making the whole waste populous with life, and shedding all around the rich image of a grand and appropriate sentiment. Imagination has, in my opinion, done wonders here.'

From Lolham Brigs, the poet and his publisher turned towards Helpston, passing by 'Langley Bush,' also sung in the 'Village Minstrel.' The Bush furnished an opportunity for some moralizings on the part of Mr. Taylor, interesting as giving the impressions of an eye-witness as to Clare's character and the working of his mind. Says Mr. Taylor:—'The discretion which makes Clare hesitate to receive as canonical all the accounts he has heard of the former honours of Langley Bush, is in singular contrast with the enthusiasm of his poetical faith. As a man, he cannot bear to be imposed upon,—his good sense revolts at the least attempt to abuse it;—but as a poet, he surrenders his imagination with most happy ease to the allusions which crowd upon it from stories of fairies and ghosts. The effect of this distinction is soon felt in a conversation with him. From not considering it, many persons express their surprise that Clare should be so weak on some topics and so wise on others. But a willing indulgence of what they deem weakness is the evidence of a strong mind. He feels safe there, and luxuriates in the abandonment of his sober sense for a time, to be the sport of all the tricks and fantasies that have been attributed to preternatural agency. Let them address him on other subjects, and unless they entrench themselves in forms of language to which he is unaccustomed, or take no pains to understand him according to the sense rather than the letter of his speech, they will confess, that to keep fairly on a level with him in the depth and tenour of their remarks, is an exercise requiring more than common effort. He may not have read the books which they are familiar with, but let them try him on such as he has read,—and the number is not few, especially of the modern poets,—and they will find no reason to undervalue his judgment. His language, it is true, is provincial, and his choice of words in ordinary conversation is indifferent, because Clare is an unpretending man, and he speaks in the idiom of his neighbours, who would ridicule and despise him for using more or better terms than they are familiar with. But the philosophic mind will strive to read his thoughts, rather than catch at the manner of their utterance; and will delight to trace the native nobleness, strength, and beauty of his conceptions, under the tattered garb of what may, perhaps, be deemed uncouth and scanty expressions.'

Arrived at Helpston with his companion, Mr. Taylor was somewhat surprised at the outer aspect of Clare's humble home. Of the inside, he furnished the following neat sketch:—'On a projecting wall in the inside of the cottage, which is white-washed, are hung some well engraved portraits, in gilt frames, with a neat drawing of Helpston Church, and a sketch of Clare's head which Hilton copied in water colours, from the large painting, and sent as a present to Clare's father. I think that no act of kindness ever touched him more than this; and I have remarked, on several occasions, that the thought of what would be his father's feelings on any fortunate circumstance occurring, has given him more visible satisfaction, than all the commendations which have been bestowed on his genius. I believe we must go into low life to know how very much parents can be beloved by their children. Perhaps it may be that they do more for them, or that the affection of the child is concentrated on them the more, from having no other friend on whom it may fall. I saw Clare's father in the garden: it was a fine day, and his rheumatism allowed him just to move about, but with the aid of two sticks, he could scarcely drag his feet along; he can neither kneel nor stoop. The father, though so infirm, is only fifty-six years of age; the mother is about seven years older. While I was talking to the old man, Clare had prepared some refreshment within, and with the appetite of a thresher we went to our luncheon of bread and cheese, and capital beer from the Bell. In the midst of our operations, his little girl awoke: a fine lively pretty creature, with a forehead like her father's, of ample promise. She tottered along the floor, and her father looked after her with the fondest affection, and with a careful twitch of his eyebrow when she seemed in danger. Our meal ended, Clare opened an old oak bookcase, and showed me his library. It contains a very good collection of modern poems, chiefly presents made him since the publication of his first volume; among them the works of Burns, Cowper, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, Crabbe, and other poets. To see so many books handsomely bound, and "flash'd about with golden letters," as he describes it, in so poor a place as Clare's cottage, gave it almost a romantic air, for, except in cleanliness, it is no whit superior to the habitations of the poorest of the peasantry. The hearth has no fire-place on it, which to one accustomed to coal fires looked comfortless, but Clare found it otherwise.'

The idea of a man being happy without a regular fire-place evidently staggered Mr. John Taylor. However, he recovered from his surprise, and having sent his servant—a stately domestic from town, introduced as 'my man'—in front, to prepare the way, the great publisher of Fleet Street solemnly took farewell from his poet, accompanied a proper distance along the road. This duty fulfilled, Clare buttoned up his smock-frock, and trotted away in great haste to meet Patty, and 'such of the family as were out on service.' Very likely, in the company of these 'cheerful girls,' John, for the rest of the evening, felt a great deal more at ease than in the presence of the learned and inquisitive gentleman, his editor and publisher.



SECOND VISIT TO LONDON.

Before Mr. Taylor left Helpston, he gave his client an invitation to come up to London, and spend a few weeks at his house. Perhaps the offer was meant only as a polite phrase, or a 'general invitation;' however, Clare, unaquainted with the ways of good society, took it to be a special summons, and, after due reflection, made up his mind to visit the great metropolis once more. He fixed the journey, to him a great undertaking, for the spring of 1822, and, remembering former miseries, decided upon going this time in a new suit of clothes, expressly ordered at Stamford. The winter of 1821-2 Clare spent at home, in comparative idleness. Visitors continued to drop in from various places, and the little cottage being too small to entertain them, he got into the regular habit of meeting them at the 'Blue Bell.' The custom, originating in this way, became a fatal one before long. Clare began to look upon the public house as his second home, and the corner seat near the fire-place as one specially appropriated to him, and which he ought to fill every evening. Fortunately, he was not enabled to indulge the habit to its utmost extent. Frequent excursions to Stamford, and sometimes to Peterborough, where he found a few good friends, drew him away from the 'Blue Bell,'—though sometimes to places where ale and spirits flowed as rapidly and were consumed with as much relish as at the little inn at Helpston. It was altogether a fatal period of excitement, threatening to the future of the warm-hearted and but too susceptible poet.

The winter thus passed, and Clare got ready in the spring to start for London. He had hoped to travel, as before, in the company of Octavius Gilchrist; but found, at the last moment, that this was impossible. Poor Mr. Gilchrist was lying ill at his house at Stamford, the dreadful battle with the Rev. Mr. Bowles and all the Bowles family having thrown him on a bed of sickness. Unaccustomed, like his more hardy brethren of the metropolitan press, to fight with the windmills of periodical literature, and to throw fire from his nostrils without burning himself, he had taken the whole Bowles campaign too much to heart, and was bleeding from the strokes which he had given as much as the wounds he had received. His mind was deeply impressed with the notion, that he had suffered defeat on some, if not on many points, and there being no stout-hearted literary lion within reach of his grocery store, to cheer his spirits and console him in his affliction, he began to feel sick and weary. All entreaties of his friends to come to London he absolutely refused, and there remained nothing for Clare but to set out alone. The due preparations having been made, he went to Stamford, one fine morning, in the month of May, mounted the outside of the coach, and was whirled away, through Northamptonshire, Huntingdon, and Beds, to the metropolis. Discharged, once more, at the 'George and Blue Boar,' Holborn, he was bold enough to steer, unaided, through the intricate thoroughfares of London, and reached the haven in Fleet Street without accident. Mr. John Taylor looked somewhat surprised on beholding his poet, carrying a big stick in one hand, and in the other a large bundle tied in a coloured pocket handkerchief, with a pair of hob-nailed boots sticking out on each side. However, a gentleman born and bred, he smiled pleasantly, helped to unpack Clare's bundle, and made him welcome to his house. Supper and wine contributed to break the ice, and Mr. John Taylor discovered, for the first time, that his guest from the country was a very pleasant companion.

The busy bookseller of Fleet Street had no time to play the cicerone; therefore, on the morning after Clare's arrival, he delivered him formally over to Mr. Thomas Hood, subeditor of the 'London Magazine.' But Mr. Hood, too—just rising into fame, thanks to 'Elia' and other friends—thought he had no time to spare, and left him to Tom Benyon, the much-respected head-porter of the firm of Taylor and Hessey. When Thomas Hood came to know John Clare a little better, he paid more attention to his charge; but this did not happen till at the end of two or three weeks. Meanwhile Clare amused himself as best he could, guided wherever he wished to go by the faithful Tom. One of his first visits was to Mrs. Emmerson, who received him in the most affectionate manner, and invited him to dine daily at her house. The invitation was freely accepted, and Clare for some time spent his afternoon and the early part of the evening regularly at the lady's house at Stratford Place, Oxford Street. Clare here met again his old friend and patron, Lord Radstock, besides a goodly number of the literary and artistic celebrities of the day. He found few friends, or men he liked, among the authors; but more among the painters into whose company he was thrown. With some of them he struck an intimate acquaintance, particularly with Mr. Rippingille, an artist of some note in his day. The latter was very fond of long rambles through London, and very fond of pale ale, too; and Clare sharing both these likings, the two were constantly together. Many an evening, after leaving Mrs. Emmerson's house—which happened, nearly always, immediately after dinner—the artist and poet set out together on a journey of exploration, visiting unknown parts of the metropolis, the haunts of thieves and vagabonds. When getting tired of this amusement, they directed their researches into other quarters, inspecting all the small theatres, exhibitions, and concert rooms, down to the very lowest. The progress of this movement was interrupted by an unexpected event. One evening, when visiting the Regency Theatre, in Tottenham Court Road, both were fascinated by the charms of a beautiful young actress, a native of France, figuring in the play-bills as Mademoiselle Dalia. Clare's susceptible heart took fire at once; and friend Rippingille was not behind in the sudden burst of his affections. They both vowed eternal love to the fair actress, and, as a commencement, Rippingille drew her portrait, after the dictate of his fancy, while Clare added to it a passionate effusion in verse. The artistic-poetical gift was duly despatched to Mademoiselle Dalia, but elicited no reply. Night after night, poet and painter took their seat within the temple of the muses in Tottenham Court Road; but night after night they waited in vain for a glance from the beautiful eyes of Mademoiselle Dalia, although they had taken care to inform her that they were sitting, arm in arm, in front of the pit. The neglect of Mademoiselle preyed upon their minds; they pined away, the two friends, and drank more pale ale than ever.

Clare's excursions with his friend kept him generally till after midnight from his residence, which was a great source of annoyance to the methodical bookseller of Fleet Street. Mr. Thomas Hood thereupon got instructions to tell Clare that early hours would be more acceptable to his host; which instructions were communicated by commission, in due business course, through the faithful Tom, the head-porter. Clare felt offended, and informed Mrs. Emmerson of what had happened; making a full confession of his sorrows, even those concerning the too beautiful Mademoiselle Dalia. Mrs. Emmerson deeply sympathised with her poetical friend, telling him at the same time that he would be welcome to stay at her house if he liked. The offer was accepted, and Clare marched back straightway to Fleet Street, gathered his property, including the boots, within the coloured pocket-handkerchief, and came back in triumph to Stratford Place. That same evening, thinking himself more at liberty in his new quarters, he undertook a somewhat longer excursion with Mr. Rippingille. After staying punctually through the performance in the Tottenham Court Road Theatre, sighing over the enchanting looks of Mademoiselle, the friends adjourned to a neighbouring public-house, and from thence to a tavern known as Offley's, famous for its Burton ale. The ale was unusually good this evening, and the company too was unusually good, which combined attraction made the friends remain in their place till long after their wonted time. Talking about poetry and high art, and talking still more about Mademoiselle Dalia and her angelic charms, the hours slipped away like minutes, and the first rosy clouds of a bright June morning began to appear in the east before they were able to quit Offley's hospitable roof. Shaking hands once more at the door, Rippingille took his way, with somewhat faltering step, to his lodgings in Oxford Street; while Clare, rather more steady in his gait, went straight to Mrs. Emmerson's residence. He discovered Stratford Place with the help of a sympathetic watchman; but was unable to get an entrance into his temporary home. Mrs. Emmerson, after waiting for her guest till towards the dawn of day, had gone to bed, thinking that he might have taken his way back to his old quarters in Meet Street. The combined efforts of Clare and the friendly watchman having proved fruitless to get into the house, nothing remained but to seek some other shelter. But there were no places open anywhere, and the poet, beginning to feel very tired, resolved to take the advice of his companion, and creep into the inside of a hackney coach, drawn up in a yard. The kind watchman carefully shut the door, and Clare, finding the place uncommonly snug and comfortable, fell asleep immediately.

Sweet dreams soon filled the mind of the poet. There dame visions of green fields decked with flowers; of large banqueting rooms thronged with beautiful ladies; and of theatres crowded by joyous multitudes; and right in the midst of all these apparitions stood the enchanting fairy of Tottenham Court Road. She approached him; she pierced his heart with a smile of her dark eyes; at last she kissed him. The touch of her lips was like an electric shock, and he sprang to his feet. But he could not stand; something was moving under him. He rubbed his eyes; rubbed them again and again; and at last discovered that he was inside a square box, drawn along by two horses. Gradually the events of the past day and night arose from out the mist of his dreams and fancies, and he began to be conscious that he was sitting in the identical hackney coach into which his friend, the watchman, had put him. The difficulty settled as to how he got in, there came the more perplexing question as to how he should get out again. The coachman was evidently unaware of the presence of a poet in his box, and a too sudden revelation of the fact, Clare feared, might produce the worst consequences. Viewed from the back, he seemed a grim, ferocious-looking fellow, the terrible driver of the hackney-coach. He kept whipping his horses continually, and faster and faster the vehicle jolted along, Clare hiding his face in the cushions, in bitter anguish of heart. At last the coach stopped in front of a public-house. A fervent prayer arose in the mind of the traveller that his coachman would go inside and take something to drink. Part of the prayer was fulfilled, for the man did take something to drink, though he did not go inside. A lounger at the gate, with whom he seemed on familiar terms, appeared in a moment with a glass in his hand, containing a steaming liquid, which the man with the whip gulped down in an instant, and then prepared to ascend his seat again. But Clare now began to think that he had travelled far enough, and, in a desperate leap, jumped out of his coach, and nearly overturned the astonished driver. The latter, however, had him by the collar in an instant, crying, 'And who are you?' Clare tried to explain; introducing himself as author of 'Poems of Rural Life,' and the 'Village Minstrel,' in two volumes, with engravings. But the hackney man, learning these facts, frowned more grimly than ever, his mind evidently full of grave doubts. After short reflection, he carefully examined the inside of the coach, and giving his victim a good shake, asked him how much money he had in his possession. Clare, trembling all over, took out his purse, and found he had ten shillings and a few pence. The terrible coachman grasped the purse, gave the owner a slap on the back as a receipt, and with a valedictory 'Go along, you scamp!' dismissed the unhappy poet. John Clare felt faint and ready to sink to the ground; but fear gave him courage, and he ran away as fast as he could. It was not long before he discovered that he was, after all, not far from his dwelling in Stratford Place. Having obtained entrance, he sank down utterly exhausted in an arm-chair, to the intense astonishment of Mrs. Emmerson.

When Clare had somewhat recovered himself, the questioning commenced. Although reluctant to tell his whole story, his vigilant hostess extracted it piece by piece, and finally broke out into an immoderate fit of laughter. Clare was surprised, and somewhat offended; but felt too weak for opposition or remonstrance. Even his desire that the affair should be kept as secret as possible was met with renewed merriment, the reply being that, before saying more, he should take some refreshment. A good luncheon, with liberal supply of sherry, had the effect of bringing Clare's feelings more in accordance with those of Mrs. Emmerson. He was himself inclined to laugh at his droll adventure in the hackney coach, and thought he should be ready almost to shake hands with the terrible driver. In this vein of good humour, Mrs. Emmerson got ready permission to tell his curious adventure to whomsoever she liked—even in his presence at the dinner-table. The stipulation was fulfilled to the letter. There was a grand party that evening at Mrs. Emmerson's house, and, towards the end of the entertainment, when all were in good spirits, the fair hostess told the story of the poet in the hackney coach. She told it in good dramatic style, embellishing it a little, and heightening the effect of some of the incidents. But she was not allowed to tell it uninterruptedly. There broke forth such a storm of laughter on all sides as seemed to shake the very table, and not a few of the guests appeared absolutely convulsed with merriment. Clare good-humouredly joined in the general hilarity, for which he was recompensed by having his health drunk, with full bumpers, by the whole assembly. After which, in special honour of Clare's ingenious method of declaring his identity to a hackney coachman, there came, amidst universal delight, another toast to 'The Village Minstrel in London.'

At the house of Mrs. Emmerson, Clare stayed about a week, and then accepted an invitation of the Rev. H. T. Cary, the translator of Dante, who had met him previously at Mr. Taylor's office. Mr. Gary was living at Chiswick, in an old ivy-covered mansion, formerly inhabited by Sir James Thornhill, the painter, and after him by his famous son-in-law, Hogarth. Clare spent some pleasant days here, his kind host pointing out to him various memorials connected with the great satirist and moralist—the window through which Hogarth eloped with old Thornhill's only daughter; the place where he painted the 'Rake's Progress;' and the spot in the garden where he buried his faithful dog, with the inscription, 'Life to the last enjoyed, here Pompey lies.' There were agreeable excursions, too, from Chiswick to the neighbouring places, particularly to Richmond, where Clare visited Thompson's monument on the hill, as well as his tombstone in the old church, which, covered as it was with cobwebs, he thought much less beautiful than that of Hogarth's dog. It was Clare's intention to stop at least a week with his kind host at Chiswick, but an awkward circumstance occasioned his departure at the end of a few days. The reverend translator of Dante's 'Inferno' introduced his guest in a careless sort of way to his house, without presenting the various members of his family, and the consequence was that Clare fell into a grievous mistake from the beginning. Mr. Cary had several grown-up children, and a beautiful young wife, looking of the same age as his daughters. In the round of excitement through which he had gone, and with his head still full of the charming Mademoiselle Dalia, of Tottenham, Court Road, Clare thought it incumbent upon him to write verses at the old ivy-covered mansion, the more so as the owner had emphatically introduced him as author of 'I love thee, sweet Mary.' So he began by penning delicate sonnets, dedicated to the lady whom he deemed the fairest of the daughters of the Rev. Mr. Cary, or, in point of fact, to his wife. Mrs. Gary, on getting the first poetical epistle, held it to be a declaration of lore, and, very properly, burnt the paper. But getting a second piece of poetry, somewhat mystic in expression, she showed it to her husband, who, being an elderly gentleman with a wig, got very excited over the matter. He took Clare aside on the instant, telling him, with much warmth, that it was not the custom at Chiswick to make love to other men's wives, and that, however much he admired his sonnets, he did not like his mode of distributing them. Clare was thunderstruck on learning that he had been addressing Mrs. Gary instead of the fair daughter of the house, and, for a moment, was almost unable to speak. Recovering himself, he stammered forth his simple tale, hiding nothing, nor trying to excuse his conduct. It was impossible to listen and not believe his words. The Rev. Mr. Gary perceived at once the ridiculous error into which he had fallen, and shaking Clare's hand in a most affectionate manner, bade him think no more of the whole affair, and for the future distribute as many specimens of his poetry as he liked to his wife and daughters. Clare fully appreciated the kindness which distated this offer; however, he thought that it was impossible for him to stop any longer at the house. He insisted upon leaving at once, and Mr. Gary, finding all his persuasions fruitless, accompanied him back to London. It was Clare's intention to return to Helpston immediately, but going to the shop of his publishers in Fleet Street, he heard that Octavius Gilchrist had arrived the previous day, and wished to see him. He therefore took up his quarters once more at the house of Mr. Taylor. The great battle with the Bowles' family and the book-grinding windmills had made poor Mr. Gilchrist really and seriously ill. The doctors of Stamford shook their heads, talking of nervous affection, of change of air, and of rest from the cares of grocery and literature. With every succeeding day, the men of science got to look more and more mournful, until the patient felt as if he was going already through the process of being buried. One morning, thereupon, he took a desperate resolution. Although ordered not to leave his room on any account, he went to the stage coach, engaged the box-seat, and bravely rode up to London. Mr. Gilchrist was really fond of Clare, and had no sooner arrived than he went in search of him. Clare consented to stay a little longer in town, partly at the house of Mr. John Taylor, and partly at that of Herr Burkhardt, Mr. Gilchrist's brother-in-law. The jolly watchmaker in the Strand was overjoyed on seeing his rural friend again, fancying to get another opportunity to show the lions of London. But Clare soon proved to him that by this time he knew more about the big metropolis, its theatres and concert-rooms, its taverns and alehouses, and even its beggars' and thieves' slums, than many a native of Cockaigne, and Herr Burkhardt, therefore, was compelled, much against his wish, to leave him alone. Mr. Rippingille having meanwhile taken his departure for Bristol, vainly trying to persuade his friend to follow him thither, Clare was left almost entirely in the company of Mr. Gilchrist. The latter introduced him to a great many of his acquaintances; first and foremost to Mr. William Gifford. Clare felt somewhat abashed when admitted into the presence of the renowned editor of the 'Quarterly Review,' whose pen had so much contributed to his rise in the world. Mr. Gifford, who was sitting on a couch, surrounded by an immense quantity of books and papers, received the poet in a very friendly manner, making some judicious remarks about the 'Village Minstrel,' which he declared to be vastly superior to the 'Poems of Rural Life.' This gave Clare courage, and he freely entered into a lengthened conversation, in the course of which the editor of the 'Quarterly' took care to warn him, with much emphasis, to be on his guard against booksellers and publishers. Leaving Mr. Gifford, Octavius Gilchrist, somewhat maliciously, took his friend direct to one of the dreaded class of publishers against which he had just been warned. They went to the house of Mr. Murray, in Albemarle Street, in front of which stood a number of brilliant carriages. Mr. Gilchrist and his friend had to wait some time in an anteroom; but, once admitted, both were received with great cordiality. Clare was much pleased with the simple, hearty manner of the great patron of literature; and the pleasure appeared to be mutual, for Mr. Murray, in his turn, began to converse in a very unrestrained manner, and, on leaving, bade Clare never to come to London without seeing him. Quitting the house in Albemarle Street, Clare ran right against Mr. Gifford, who was coming up the steps. Both apologised, and both felt somewhat confused concerning the thankless old business of giving and taking advice.

During the remaining part of his stay in London, Clare was much in company with Mr. Thomas Hood. The genial sub-editor of the 'London Magazine' had found out by this time that Mr. Taylor's guest was something more than a mere spinner of verses and glorifier of daisies and buttercups, and, having made this discovery, he got anxious to be in Clare's company. The acquaintance soon grew intimate, and Clare followed his new friend wherever he chose to take him. First on the list stood the house of Mr. Charles Lamb, to which they went on a pilgrimage late one evening. 'Elia' was in splendid good humour; comfortably ensconced in a large arm-chair, with a huge decanter at his right hand, and a huge bronze snuff-box, from which he continually helped himself, on his left. Clare having been formally introduced, Charles Lamb took a whole handful of snuff, and falling back in his armchair, stuttered out an atrocious pun concerning rural poets and hackney coaches. Seeing that his guest looked somewhat displeased, he took him under closer treatment at his right hand, and with the help of the big decanter, soon put him into excessive good humour. The conversation now became general, and Clare thought he had never met with such an agreeable companion as the great 'Elia.' Till late at night, the drinking and talking continued, until at last Charles Lamb's sister, the motherly Bridget, came into the room, delivering an eloquent lecture upon the value of sobriety. When Clare looked serious: 'Do ... do ... don't be offended, my boy,' quoth Charles, 'we all know the virtue of rustic swine-I me ... me ... mean of a rustic swain!' Which saying, 'Elia' pushed on his decanter. But it was too much for Clare. 'I must goo,' he said. And go he did accordingly.

The return journey to Stamford which Clare and Octavius Gilchrist had arranged to make together, was made impossible, on the part of the latter, by his continued illness. In order to find absolute rest, together with kind attention, Mr. Gilchrist resolved to go on a lengthened visit to two of his brothers at Richmond, in Surrey. Having stayed already more than a month in London, Clare now had to think of returning, which he did after taking solemn farewell from all his old and new friends. Faithful Tom Benyon, on a sunny morning in June, carried the poet's well-stocked handkerchief, with the boots, to the 'George and Blue Boar,' in Holborn, and the streets were just beginning to swarm with life, when the Stamford coach went rolling through them into the green fields. Clare was the only outside passenger, besides a stout elderly gentleman who went as far as Islington. The stout person had seen Clare somewhere before, and, being extremely pleased to meet a famous poet on such a fine morning in June, ordered brandy and water at three successive taverns where the coach stopped for passengers. The effect was such that Clare went to sleep on his seat, and, having been carefully strapped to the cushion by the experienced guard, slept all the way to Stamford—last result of a visit to the great metropolis.



DARKENING CLOUDS.

Clare's second excursion to London was productive of many evil consequences. From the first trip he returned with a renewed love for the simple life of the country, and a renewed desire to spend his days peacefully in his humble cottage, earning bread and health by hard labour in the fields; but from this new visit he came back with wild visions of glory and fame, a restless, fretful, discontented man. A feeling he had never before known now got hold of him—the silent dread of poverty. The month he had stayed in London, sitting down every day at a well-filled table, moving every day and night among bright and genial men, among beautiful and intelligent women, had opened to him a new mode of life of which he had scarcely been conscious before. His vivid imagination painted it even brighter than it was in reality. He did not see, and could not see, the petty cares and miseries hidden behind all the brilliant scenes which met his eyes; and though he discovered the great truth in course of time, he was not aware as yet that real happiness is found distributed with tolerable equality among all ranks and classes. But John Clare was only getting towards thirty, and not yet a philosopher. Returning to his humble home, he fondly kissed his wife and little girl, and fondly embraced his aged father and mother; but the first transport of love gone, he sat down moody and discontented. During his absence large parcels of books, the presents of old and new friends, had arrived at Helpston, and, eagerly as he looked over the volumes, particularly those of poetry, his heart grew sad in thinking that there was nobody near to share his pleasures with him. While in London he had become accustomed to constant conversation on poetical and artistic subjects, his daily routine being to spend his mornings in reading all the new works within his reach, and during the afternoons and evenings to discuss the matters treated in these books. It seemed a terrible want to miss these delights on returning to his narrow home. He felt it, for the first time, as a personal affliction and source of misery that his wife was unable to read and write; that his parents were talking of nothing but their illness and physical sufferings, and that all the inmates of his home alike had no more sympathy with him and his poetical joys and sorrows than if they had been inhabitants of another world. It seemed to him as if he had been banished from the Eden of intellect into a lower and grosser existence, and every letter and every book he received had but the effect of making him more sad and fretful. He had not been long at home when there came a richly-bound volume, inscribed on the title-page, 'The gift of Admiral Lord Radstock to his dear and excellent friend, John Clare, August 1st, 1822.' The gift gave him no pleasure, but, awakening thoughts of the past and the present, only brought tears into his eyes.

The reaction from this unmanly and morbid state of feeling came in time, and Clare's pride and native strength of mind got the better of his sickly yearning after lost pleasures. Nevertheless, one lasting source of unhappiness remained. He found that his regular income of forty-five pounds a year, secured to him by his friends and patrons, was quite insufficient, with his new wants and desires, to cover his expenditure, and the profits derived from his books being fluctuating and altogether inconsiderable, he experienced the worst pangs of poverty in the terrible knowledge of being constantly in debt. To improve his position, he formed a thousand plans, some practicable and some visionary; but all equally barren as to the net result. The first and most natural idea that occurred to him was to write as many verses as possible and to sell them immediately. In order to effect this, and seeing the very moderate success of his last published two volumes, he resolved to print his poems separately, and offer them to readers in this form. Mr. Drury, to whom he communicated this somewhat singular plan, approved it, suggesting at the same time to have the poetry set to music. This struck Clare as exceedingly appropriate, and he set to work at once to produce a liberal supply of verses. He began with such eagerness as to bring forth no less than seventy-six poems in less than three weeks; and though physically and mentally exhausted by this effort, he felt exceedingly joyful and buoyed up by bright anticipations of the future, when handing the whole of these manuscripts to Mr. Drury. But hard as was the toil, and prodigal the waste of mental power, it absolutely came to nothing. Mr. Drury, having entered into arrangements with a small publisher in Paternoster Row, despatched the poems to London, and a number of them were set to music by Mr. Crouch, and issued on picturesque sheets of paper, with flaming dedications to fashionable singers, and to supposed generous noblemen, patrons of all the arts. Clare was much surprised on seeing his verses turn up in this unexpected shape; however, he consoled himself with the hope, in which he was strongly backed by Mr. Drury, that the profits on his poetry would be as bounteous as the expenditure of gold and colours upon the picturesque sheets. But, to his utter dismay, he got no payment whatever for his verses. All applications to Paternoster Row proved ineffectual to secure even the return of the verses not printed, which were found afterwards coming to the surface in albums, reviews, and periodicals, in wonderful disguises and with new names attached. To crown the misfortune, Clare received a reproachful letter from Mr. John Taylor, complaining of his connexion with Mr. Crouch and the flaming dedications, and intimating that these dealings with small composers and publishers would damage his reputation, Clare felt utterly dejected at the result of the whole speculation, although it gained him the valuable experience that able as he was to write verses, he was utterly unable to convert them into money and bread.

Having recovered from this great disappointment, Clare resolved upon another experiment for getting a living, and, provisionally, getting out of debt. He thought that if he could become the possessor of a small farm, not so extensive as to require the use of valuable stock and cattle, but large enough to produce food for his family, with something to sell at the market-town, he should be able, together with his annuity, to place himself in a respectable and comparatively independent position. This was an excellent idea, and had it been realized, might have saved Clare from despondency and final ruin. Unfortunately, its realization, though easy at one moment, depended not upon the poet, but upon his patronizing friends, who proved painfully lukewarm at this momentous period of his life. It so happened that in the winter of 1822-3, an opportunity offered itself for acquiring a piece of freehold land of about seven acres, close to the poet's cottage, known to the people of Helpston as 'Bachelors' Hall' and already noticed as belonging to two brothers of the name of Billing. The brothers were somewhat improvident, leading gay bachelors' lives; and, getting into debt gradually, they were compelled at last to mortgage their small property to a Jew for the sum of two hundred pounds. For some years, the interest was duly paid, but this failing at last, on account of the growing infirmity of the brothers, the Jew stepped in, threatening to sell the property. This roused Clare to a desperate effort for raising the necessary sum to pay off the mortgage, and, by acquiring the small estate, benefit both himself and his staunch old friends, the brothers Billing. The latter agreed to let him have 'Bachelors' Hall' with its seven acres, on condition of discharging the encumbrance, and allowing them a very small sum for the remaining few years of their lives, which they intended spending with some relatives in a neighbouring village. The offer was a very favourable one, and the more so as freehold property was extremely scarce at Helpston, the ground being, as in most agricultural counties, the property of a few large landowners. The more Clare thought upon the subject, the more anxious did he become to enter upon the proposed arrangement, and, in settling on this little piece of ground, shape his whole future career into a more fixed direction. But his boundless anxiety met with no assistance on the part of those who called themselves his friends. Though it was for the first time in his life that he claimed help for himself, he, to his immense distress, found all doors resolutely closed against him.

To get the two hundred pounds required to pay off the mortgage upon 'Bachelors' Hall,' Clare addressed himself first to Lord Radstock, whom he looked upon as one of his wannest and most sincere friends. What he asked was not to lend him the money, but to take it from the sum standing in his name in the funds. To Clare's surprise, Lord Radstock told him that this could not be done, as the four hundred and twenty pounds were invested in the name of trustees, who had no power to withdraw any portion of this amount. Glare looked upon this as a personal humiliation, fancying that he was treated like a child, or like a man not responsible for his own actions, and deeming the refusal a new attempt to keep him in leading strings. For a moment, Clare felt quite angry with his noble patron, who, he thought, might have easily advanced him the small sum of money had he so liked. The explanation was that Lord Radstock, like most other of Clare's patrons, was entirely ignorant of the poet's character, regarding him in the light of a genial infant, full of intellect, but without strength of character. What chiefly produced this impression on his lordship, otherwise decidedly the truest friend of the poet, was that Clare, notwithstanding repeated advice to that effect, had neglected to make a good arrangement, or, in fact, any arrangement at all, with his publishers, so that he stood to them in the position of a helpless client. Probably, Lord Radstock reasoned that as his friend had shown himself thus unable to carry on the ordinary affairs of life, he would not be better qualified to be the manager of a farm, although one of only seven acres. In consequence, he not only refused to get the two hundred pounds, but strongly advised Clare to have nothing to do with the purchase of 'Bachelors' Hall.' The poet saw through the motives which dictated this advice, and keenly felt the distrust and want of appreciation of him whom he held to be one of the best of his friends.

Much downcast, however, as Clare was by Lord Radstock's refusal, he did not give up the struggle for his great object. His next attempt was to get the required sum of two hundred pounds from his publishers, to whom, he offered, in return, a sort of mortgage on his writings, for a period to come. He addressed himself to Mr. John Taylor in a very pathetic letter, vehement almost in the anxiety manifested to gain the little plot of land, and thus become an independent man. 'The cottage with land,' he wrote to Mr. Taylor, in a letter bearing date January 31, 1823, 'is a beautiful spot of six or seven acres. There are crowds for it if it be sold; but if I could get hold of the mortgage, it would be mine, and still doing a kindness to a friend. I should like to alter it into Poet's Hall, instead of its old name of Bachelor's Hall, which must soon be extinct if I don't succeed. I'll do this way if you like. I'll sell you my writings for five years for that sum, which can't be dear.' Fervent though this appeal was, it left the great publisher in Fleet Street very cold. Mr. Taylor replied, with some sarcasm, that he could not see what put the ambition into Clare's head to become a 'landed proprietor.' Very likely, Mr. Taylor thought it would raise the cost price of the verses, if they were to be manufactured at a 'Poet's Hall.' Therefore, while declining to advance the two hundred pounds, he told his friend, in a long letter, not to be ambitious, but to remain in the state in which God had placed him. The counsel was seasoned, somewhat unnecessarily, by quotations from the Bible.

'Bachelors' Hall' did not become 'Poet's Hall,' but went to the Jew. Clare, seeing all his efforts vain, sunk into a state of low despondency, followed by a long and serious illness. It was the turning period of the poet's life. His career, hitherto, had been strange and anomalous. Tossed about in the surging waves of existence, now in deepest poverty, and now again amidst wealth and splendour, he was beginning to feel weary and faint-hearted, doubting whether he should ever be able to reach the haven of rest and of ease. At the age of thirty now he fancied he had a glimpse of this blissful haven. He felt, and the feeling was undoubtedly just, that the possession of a small independent property would secure to him the much-wanted support in life, not only as furnishing him with additional means of subsistence, but in raising his mental energies, dependent hitherto upon the fitful accidents connected with his position of farm-labourer. His fancy painted to him, in glowing colours, how happy he should be in his roomy 'Poet's Hall,' standing on his own land, 'a beautiful spot of six or seven acres,' full of flowers and fruit trees, with hedges of roses and laurel, and songbirds nestling under the green leaves. No more necessity, then, to take his visitors to the public-house for entertainment; no more necessity to hide in hollow trees in the wood, seeking poetical inspiration; no more necessity to go about, with downcast look, among the insolent farmers, in that most humiliating of all pursuits, asking for work. A charm to even the coarsest minds, the overwhelming consciousness! of being owner of a fraction of the surface of great mother earth, had countless allurements to the poet. He knew it would not only raise him in the world, but would make him a better, a nobler, a wiser man. Yet for all that, and though the haven was so near, he was not allowed to reach it. With patrons in abundance, there was not one willing to advance the small sum of two hundred pounds, which, he said, would make him happy for life; with friends who praised his genius to the skies, there were none who thought it safe to entrust him with the means for purchasing independence otherwise than 'under trustees.' The patrons and friends admired the poet's genius, but they never forgot that he was a 'Northamptonshire peasant,' the son of a pauper. As such, even kind Mr. John Taylor thought proper to preach humility, and refer the 'Village Minstrel' to the Bible.

With the failure of all his schemes, the great truth began, to dawn upon Clare that he was destined, notwithstanding all his friends and patrons, to remain a farmer's drudge and poetical pauper; destined to plough and thresh for others, and, in his spare hours, to make pretty songs for ladies and gentlemen—something better than a clown, and something less than a lackey in uniform. Clare was meek and accustomed to suffering, yet for a long time he could not reconcile himself to the thought that this was part of 'the eternal fitness of things.' So he chafed and fretted under his new burthen of sorrow, and finding it weigh too heavily upon his heart, again sought forgetfulness in the wretched refuge open at the tavern. He drank not much, for he was too poor to do so, at this moment; but even the small quantity of ale or spirits which he imbibed to drown his mental anguish acted like poison upon a weak and ailing body, now more than usually debilitated by insufficient food. In the winter of 1823, Clare found himself almost penniless; yet with inborn loftiness of mind, he hid the fact from his family, so as not to distress them. His wife and parents, therefore, lived as well as ever, while he, to save expenditure, got into the habit of absenting himself at meal-times, pretending to call upon friends and acquaintances. Instead of doing so, he went forth into the fields, munching a dry crust of bread, and, when breaking down under hunger and fatigue, crept to the 'Blue Bell' for a glass of ale. Such a diet, always fatal, was doubly so after the liberal style of living to which he had got accustomed in London, and which he had kept up for some time after, as long as his hope lasted to get payment for the poems delivered to Mr. Drury, as well as for others contributed to the 'London Magazine,' When these sources failed, and the succeeding schemes to acquire 'Bachelors' Hall' broke down one after another, there was bitter want staring him in the face, to stave off which he resolved to make an application to one of his first and best friends, Mr. Gilchrist. It seemed impossible that help, and, what was almost as precious under the circumstances, good advice, should be wanting from this quarter.

Mr. Gilchrist had been absent from Stamford for a long time. His illness, which first seemed slight, and merely due to temporary overwork, had taken a more serious turn after his journey to London, chiefly in consequence of a severe cold caught on the outside of the coach. It was for this reason that he was advised to seek rest and strength at the house of his brother, living, with some members of his family, at Richmond. Retired to this new home, it seemed for a while as if he was getting better; but the old spirit for journalistic controversy stirring within him, he took pen in hand as soon as he felt sufficient strength, which brought on a fresh attack of the disease. Hasty and impatient in all his movements, he now refused to submit any longer to the treatment prescribed by his medical advisers. He fancied that absolute quiet did him more harm than good, by weakening his energy of mind, and, expressing this to his friends, he, notwithstanding their earnest opposition, left Richmond at the beginning of 1823. It was a severe winter; all the streams and rivers being thickly frozen, and the roads covered many feet deep with snow. Under these circumstances, a journey from Surrey into Lincolnshire was no easy undertaking, particularly to an invalid; and when Mr. Gilchrist arrived at his own home, he found that his illness was so much aggravated that he was scarcely able to move. John Clare, on the first news of his friend's arrival, hurried up to Stamford. He had long wished to see him and to speak to him, under the impression that if he could have had his advice, his own circumstances would have taken a very different turn. At present, it was his intention to lay before Mr. Gilchrist a clear statement of his affairs, entreating him to act as a guide in his difficulties, and, as a beginning, to assist him with a small loan, so as to enable him to pay off the most pressing of his debts, and purchase a few necessaries for his family. Clare had been ill for some weeks when, setting out for Stafford; however, he forced himself from his bed of sickness, and slowly crept along the frozen snow-covered road. He reached at length the well-known shop in the High Street; but was surprised, on coming face to face with Mr. Gilchrist to see that he was far worse than himself. Mr. Gilchrist received Clare with a smile, yet was scarcely able to speak, lying on his couch in utter prostration, physical and mental. Clare felt moved by infinite compassion, and, forgetting all his own sufferings, asked what he could do for his friend. The patient again smiled; he would soon be better, he said; there was nothing the matter with him, except a slight rheumatic fever and a little overwork. Mr. Gilchrist then inquired after his friend's circumstances, and got replies similar to his own. Clare, too, would have it that he was quite well, and, on being questioned, accounted for his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes as due to previous attacks of his old enemy, the ague. Of his embarrassed circumstances he said nothing; no more than of all the other matters he had come to discuss, nobly thinking that such a discussion might do harm to his friend in his feeble state. He even refused some slight refreshment, in order not to give trouble; but, seeing the waning day, took his farewell, dragging himself with great difficulty back to his cottage, along the dark road covered with snow and ice. It was late when he arrived, his weakness partly owing to want of nourishment, having compelled him to sit down, every few minutes, on the lonely high road. Entering his hut, his mind seemed wandering; he muttered incoherent words, and crept to his bed, from which he did not arise for months to come.

There was little intercommunication at this time between Stamford, Helpston, and London. Mr. Gilchrist's literary friends scarcely knew of the serious turn his illness had taken, and as for Clare, his name was scarcely ever mentioned. Entirely ignorant of the great art of 'keeping before the public,' he had no sooner become known than he fell again into oblivion, from which even his warmest admirers did little to rescue him. Clare's correspondence with his publishers, too, had lapsed after his unsuccessful attempt to get the small sum of money for the purchase of a freehold; and they were entirely ignorant that he was lying ill in his little hut, and almost dying. For a while, Clare's indisposition seemed quite as serious, if not more so, than that of Mr. Gilchrist. However, under the tender care of his wife and his aged mother, the poet rallied gradually, and in the month of April he was able once more to walk to Stamford, and inquire after the health of his friend. He was not admitted, this time; but the servant, in reply to his inquiries, told him that Mr. Gilchrist was getting better. Clare was still extremely weak, and could not come back till at the end of a month, when he had the satisfaction of seeing his friend, and hearing from his own lips that he was gradually advancing to recovery. Thus reassured, and not willing to intrude himself more than necessary, he remained quietly for another month, and, feeling now almost restored to health, walked with brisk step to Stamford. It was a glorious summer morning—date, the last day of June, 1823. The green fields glistened in the sunshine, and the nightingale sang in Burghley Park; more beautiful, the poet fancied, than he had ever known her sing before. He felt full of joy, in the glow of newly-recovered health, and, while walking along the sunny path, kept revelling in golden day-dreams, in none of which the image of his dear friend Gilchrist was wanting. Thus he got into the old town of Stamford, and before the familiar shop, which, to his surprise, was closed. He knocked, and a female servant opened the door. The girl stared Clare full in the face, and slowly said: 'Mr. Gilchrist died an hour ago.'



PHYSIC AND PHYSICIANS.

The parish doctor of Helpston was called in to see John Clare on the first day of July. Mrs. Clare gave it as her opinion that her husband had worked too hard, by writing verses day and night, and thus had brought on the mysterious illness which confined him to bed. Clare himself could not explain his exact condition; he only intimated that it was a sort of stupor, which came over him at intervals, like an apoplectic fit. The doctor shook his head, looked very learned, and promised to send something to cure the disease. He was as good as his word; for a messenger brought the same evening two large bottles, containing a greyish fluid, with directions to take portions of it at stated times. Clare obeyed the order, but did not get better; on the contrary, his fits of stupor became more frequent and his lassitude more overwhelming. He was lying on his bed, almost unconscious, on the fifth day of July, when a visitor entered the cottage. It was Mr. Taylor, of Fleet Street, who had been to the funeral of his friend Gilchrist, and, returning, passed through Helpston. He was surprised and alarmed at the sight which met his eyes, and set to work immediately to render all the assistance in his power. Messengers were despatched in various directions for medical aid, and Mr. Taylor himself watched at the bedside till they returned. The doctors came, but only repeated what the parish surgeon had said already; they proposed to send some medicine at once, and afterwards to 'observe the symptoms.' It required no great penetration to see that these medicine-men knew less of Clare's disease than the patient himself; and Mr. Taylor, having come to this conclusion, looked forth in other directions. He told Mrs. Clare that he was unable to stay longer, having to return to London the same day; but that he would take the road by Peterborough, and send the best medical aid from that place. The Peterborough physician arrived late at night, when Clare felt a little better—having left off taking the greyish concoction—and was able to explain the particulars of his illness. The new doctor ordered absolute rest, plenty of fresh air, and some nourishing food; all which being provided, a visible improvement began to manifest itself. There was some difficulty in getting the second part of the prescription, the fresh air, Clare's narrow bedroom having no ventilation whatever. The energetic doctor, however, got over the obstacle by the simple expedient of knocking a brick out of the top of the wall, which furnished a channel sufficiently large to let in the warm summer air. Perhaps this thrown out brick, as much as anything else, saved the life of the poet.

Under the treatment of the Peterborough physician, Clare's health improved greatly, though it was a long time before he was able to leave the room. His brain was haunted by fantastic visions, reflecting all the scenes of his past life, and mingling together his doings in the lime-kiln of Casterton, the fields of Helpston, and the gilded saloons of London. In the midst of this phantom existence there came the report that Robert Bloomfield had breathed his last, in utter poverty and misery, broken down alike by physical want and mental suffering. The news made a deep impression upon Clare. He had never personally met the author of the 'Farmer's Boy,' yet looked upon him almost as a brother, feeling that his career was not unlike his own in its chief incidents. A shudder came over him now in reflecting that his end might be as terribly sad as that of the brother poet. Full of this thought, he composed, on his bed of sickness, a sonnet, dedicated 'to the memory of Bloomfield,' expressing his conviction that "the tide of fashion is a stream too strong for pastoral brooks that gently flow and sing." After this sudden effort, there came a relapse, not without danger for some time. The medical gentleman, while carefully watching all the symptoms of the disease, now began to fear that he would be unable to master it, and wrote to this effect to Mr. Taylor, entreating him to use his influence to get Clare removed to some hospital, or other house where he might have the necessary attention. In the letter it was stated without disguise that the illness of the poet was mainly the effect of poverty. His dwelling, the Peterborough physician argued, was altogether unfit for a human habitation, being dark, damp, and ill ventilated, with, a space so circumscribed as to be worse than a prison for the two families. He insisted, therefore, that to make recovery possible a better home should be found for Clare himself, and, if possible, for his wife and child, pending the removal of his aged and suffering parents. A copy of this note the writer sent to Lord Radstock, knowing that his lordship had taken, from the beginning, a deep interest in Clare's welfare.

The appeal, energetic and well-meant as it was, had no result whatever. Mr. Taylor even thought it presumptuous on the part of the provincial doctor to give his counsel as well as his medicine, and wrote to Clare an order to dispense with his attendance, and come up to London to be cured. This was impossible, under the circumstances, Clare being so weak as to be unable to leave the room. Fortunately, the good Samaritan of Peterborough did not leave him at this critical position, but seeing that neither Mr. Taylor nor Lord Radstock felt inclined to do anything for his charge, determined to undertake the task himself. Soliciting help from some wealthy persons in the neighbourhood, he set to to collect a small sum of money, by means of which he procured a regular supply of strengthening food for his patient. The winter having set in now, Clare's cottage also was put under repair, with such improvements as had become necessary. The help was timely, for Mrs. Clare, too, was now an invalid, having given birth to a son, baptized Frederick, on the 11th January, 1824. There was a real affection for the poor poet in the heart of the Peterborough doctor, which moved him to incessant labour for his client, and had the effect of instilling somewhat of the same feeling into others with whom he came into contact. Lady Milton visited the poet, and sent welcome presents of game and fowl; and after her came the wife of the Bishop of Peterborough, her hands full of warm clothing and victuals. The latter lady, previously acquainted with Clare's writings, was so eager in her desire to afford assistance as to induce her husband to drive over into the obscure village, and give Clare his episcopal blessing, together with half a dozen bottles of good port wine. The right reverend Dr. Marsh, obedient to the commands of his active wife, delivered the wine, but reported that he did not like Helpston, nor the poet of Helpston—the village not being sufficiently clean, nor the poet sufficiently humble. His lordship's opinion, however, nowise influenced Mrs. Marsh into discontinuing her visits.

The assistance and sympathy thus shown to Clare had a visible effect upon his health. Gradually recovering, he was strong enough when the first blossoms of spring came peeping in at the window, to issue forth once more into the open air. To him the first walk was such boundless enjoyment as to be almost overpowering in its intensity. Never seemed the green fields more glorious, the song of the birds more enchanting, and the whole wide world more full of ecstatic bliss. In vain the good Peterborough doctor entreated him not to risk his yet imperfect health in long excursions, but to keep as quiet as possible, and only venture upon short walks during the middle of the day. Clare promised to attend to the injunction, and honestly meant to obey it, yet was lured into forgetfulness whenever the birds sat piping in the trees, and the sun's rays came streaming into his narrow hut. They witched him away almost against his own will, making him creep forth into the fields and woods, heavily leaning on his stick. One day he stayed out longer than usual, and, the doctor arriving, a search was made after him. It was fruitless for some time; at last, however, he was found in his favourite hollow oak, sitting as in a trance, his face illumined by the setting sun. Enraptured joy seemed to pervade his whole being; unutterable bliss to fill his mind. The doctor looked serious, and made an attempt to upbraid his patient, but which was entirely unsuccessful. 'If you loved the sun and flowers as I do,' quietly said Clare, 'you would not blame me.' The words somewhat startled the Peterborough man of science.

Sunshine and the hollow oak, nevertheless, if conducive to his worship of nature, were not beneficial to Clare's health. Again and again the lengthened excursions brought on a relapse, until at last it seemed as if his old illness, a compound of ague and other afflictions, would throw him anew on his bed, perhaps to arise no more. In fear of fatal consequences, Clare's medical friend now advised him to accept the former invitation of Mr. Taylor, and to seek benefit both from a change of air and the consultation of the best physicians of the capital. Clare did not feel much inclined to go to London, oppressed with the idea that he might not be really welcome at the house of his publisher, and looked upon as but an unfortunate alms-seeker. Being pressed, however, to undertake the journey, he frankly stated his case in a note to Mr. Taylor, and receiving a fresh invitation, couched in very friendly terms, resolved to set out on another pilgrimage to the big town. It was the third visit to London, and as such bereft of many of the startling incidents of former journeys. The Stamford coach was no more the mysterious vehicle of olden days, nor the scenery on the road imbued with that charm of novelty so conspicuous on the first, and partly on the second, trip to town. Moreover, he felt very weak and melancholy, and his heart was oppressed by sad thoughts. Even a merry Irishman, a fellow-traveller, could not induce him to open his lips; and it was not until the coach rolled upon the pavement of London that he roused himself from his lethargy, preparing to meet former friends. He found them nearer than he expected, for at the 'George and Blue Boar,' Holborn, there stood faithful Tom Benyon, the head-porter, ready to carry any amount of Helpston luggage, and, if necessary, the owner himself. The latter was unnecessary, though the poor traveller felt rather giddy when dragging himself along the crowded streets, grasping his Tom by the arm. Mr. Taylor's house was soon reached, and being received in the kindest manner, Clare was not long in recovering from his fatigue and depressed spirits.

At this third visit, Clare remained above two months in London, from the beginning of May till the middle of July, 1824. Immediately after his arrival, Mr. Taylor introduced him to Dr. Darling, an eminent Scotch physician, who, in the kindest manner, consented to give his advice without any charge whatever. But Dr. Darling did more than merely give his advice; he attended Clare as if he had been his own son, devoting every hour that could he spared from his extensive practice to intercourse with his patient. He first of all ordered that Clare should be kept absolutely quiet; in cheerful society, if possible, but not allowed to read too many books, or to discuss abstruse subjects. It might have been difficult to carry out these orders; but, fortunately, friend Rippingille, the painter, was drinking pale ale at Bristol for the season, so that Clare, having nobody to lead him through his favourite taverns and concert-rooms, and being still afraid to hazard alone into the whirlpool of London life, was almost compelled to stop at home. For the first few days the sojourn at Mr. Taylor's house in Fleet Street appeared to him somewhat dreary, though it was not long before he came to like it, and at last got into a real enjoyment of his new mode of existence. He spent the whole day, from early morn till dark, at a window on the ground floor, overlooking the street. The endless stream of vehicles and pedestrians which passed before his eyes was to him like a vast panorama, in the contemplation of which he forgot, for the moment, even his beloved fields and woods. Of the life of the majority of human beings, particularly the dwellers in large towns, Clare had as yet but very vague and indistinct notions, and was surprised, therefore, at many of the scenes before him. What struck him most was the feverish anxiety manifested in the countenances of the hurrying crowds, and the restless tumult of the never-ending wave of human life which kept floating up and down the narrow street, without interval and without rest. At his former visits to London he had frequently asked the question what all these thousands of hurried wanderers were doing; and though only laughed at by his friends, he now repeated the query. Mr. Taylor was too busy himself to be able to tell why others were busy, nor was Mr. Hessey, his partner, sufficiently wise or simple to give a clear answer; and John Clare, therefore, in the last instance, addressed himself to Tom Benyon. Tom was a shrewd man, a real Londoner, with not much education, but plenty of mother-wit. He explained to his friend, in a very clear manner, the complex organization of the trade of the great city, together with its result, the universal thirst for wealth, Clare perfectly understood the short lesson in political economy; nevertheless, he was yet at a loss to comprehend how there could be full a million of men upon earth willing to relinquish all the charms of fields, and flowers, and green trees for the mere sake of making money, useful, he conceived, only for procuring a certain amount of food and clothing. It was in vain that shrewd Tom, not a little a philosopher in his own way, explained that the delight consisted, not in possessing wealth, but in hunting after it. The view was not appreciated by Clare, who still thought that seven acres of land, with a cottage, a row of trees, and a few flowers, were worth all the money-bags of the city. Tom Benyon on his part had a contempt for green trees, and liked the smell of roasted apples better than that of fresh ones, so that the interchange of ideas converted none of the disputants.

For full three weeks Clare stuck with his face to the window in Fleet Street. The hurrying crowds, when once he understood the object of most of them, ceased to amuse him, but there remained another interest, deeper than questions of political economy, which preserved its attraction for him to the end. Clare, passionately fond of every shape of beauty upon earth, did not get tired of looking at the throng of fair forms which passed before his eyes in the busy city thoroughfare. He had never seen so many handsome women under what he conceived so very favourable circumstances. Deeply imbued with the consciousness of possessing none of the attractions which render men agreeable in the eyes of women of superior rank, he always felt a morbid shyness to converse with ladies into whose company he was thrown, and in many instances was not able even to look them in the face. This feeling was greatly increased by that exalted worship which the poet paid, as to all shapes and symbols of beauty, so to that highest type, the female form. Even to come near a beautiful woman made him tremble, and the touch of so much as the hem of her garment sent his blood coursing through his veins. Thus, though he knew no other enjoyment than the communion with beauty, his very worship of its splendours kept him away from it. At the receptions of Mrs. Emmerson, and other entertainments, at which he was present on his former visits to London, he could never be induced to go into the drawing-room, where the ladies were awaiting him; or, as he fancied, lying in wait for him. At the risk of being called rude, he always left the room on these occasions, as soon as the dinner was over. Only here, at his Fleet Street window, the poet felt quite at ease in contemplating female beauty. To see and not to be seen was what his heart enjoyed in full delight, and he fervently expressed his opinion to Tom Benyon that the only thing that made the big city endurable, and even money-hunting excusable, was the presence of all these fair women. Tom felt much gratified at this declaration, considering any praise of London as a personal flattery.

Dr. Darling's treatment had such a good effect, that at the end of three weeks the last symptoms of Clare's illness had vanished. He now gave his patient permission to read, of which Clare availed himself to the fullest extent, beginning to feel somewhat satiated with the Fleet Street panorama. The season of June, dull in the book trade, having set in, Mr. Taylor also had more leisure on his hands, and gave frequent evening parties, to which he invited many of the literary stars of the day, particularly those contributing to the lustre of the 'London Magazine.' Clare was invariably present at these entertainments, though he managed to hide his person as much as possible, being occupied in watching the lions at the table, like the fair women in the street, from a convenient bird's-eye view. The view, altogether, was highly attractive, for the lions were numerous, and of a more or less superior kind. Among the first who visited Mr. Taylor's evening parties was Thomas De Quincey. Clare had read with the deepest interest the 'Confessions of an English Opium-eater,' which appeared in the 'London Magazine,' of September and October, 1821; and the picture of the outcast Ann haunted his imagination whenever walking the streets and meeting with any of her frail sisters. Mr. De Quincey being announced one day, just when they were sitting down to dinner, Clare quickly sprang to his feet to behold the extraordinary man; but was much astonished on seeing a little, dark, boyish figure, looking like an overgrown child, oddly dressed in a blue coat, with black necktie, and a small hat in his hand. Clare's astonishment became still greater when this singular-looking little man began to talk, not, as the listener innocently expected, of such abstruse subjects as he was wont to write on in the 'London Magazine,' but in a banter about the most ludicrous and vulgar things. He kept Mr. Taylor and his friends in a roar of laughter, until another guest was announced, in the person of Mr. Charles Lamb. The latter, outwardly friendly to De Quincey, seemed, as Clare observed, not altogether partial to him, but stuttered forth more than one witticism which evidently displeased the 'opium-eater.' Further arrivals, the same evening, continued to enliven the scene. There came the Rev. Mr. Cary, translator of Dante's 'Inferno,' a tall, thin man, with a long face and a vacant stare, not much given to talk; Mr. George Darley, a young Irish poet, afflicted with a stutter worse than that of Charles Lamb; Baron Field, every inch a country gentleman, constantly informing his hearers of the fact of being a magistrate in South Wales, but claiming allegiance to literature as writer of several articles on and about Wales; and, last on the list, Mr. Allan Cunningham, arriving late, and stalking into the room, as Clare fancied to himself, 'like one of Spenser's black knights.' Allan seemed a great favourite of Baron Field and De Quincey, though not of Charles Lamb, who fixed his targets upon him as soon as he had opened his lips, with some remarks upon Scotch poetry. Clare remembered Elia's words: 'I have been trying all my life to like Scotchmen, and am obliged to desist from the experiment in despair.'

There were more lions at a 'London Magazine' dinner which Mr. Taylor gave at the end of another week. It was a kind of state reception, and Clare was put for the occasion in pumps and dress-coat. He would have gladly kept away from the table, but was not allowed to do so, the occasion being deemed favourable as an advertisement of the 'Northamptonshire Peasant.' About three-fourths of the guests were patrons of literature, titled and untitled, and the remaining visitors were called for the purpose of being exhibited. Samuel Taylor Coleridge was the chief lion of the evening. Clare was once more surprised on finding the great philosopher a heavy, stout, phlegmatic-looking man, instead of the pale dreamer pictured by his imagination. He was slightly annoyed, too, on hearing the famous sage talk incessantly, to the exclusion of every one else, notably of William Hazlitt, who sat close to him, and of Charles Elton, the translator of the 'Hesiod,' whom Clare had at his right hand, and whose quiet, sensible conversation he greatly enjoyed. Coleridge left, after having spoken, with little interruption, for nearly three hours, and at his departure the talk became general, and, Clare fancied, much more pleasant. The leader of the conversation was William Reynolds, whose sparkling wit, keen as a sword, extinguished even that of Charles Lamb. He attacked everybody in turn, in a good-humoured manner; and by setting his brother wits against himself and each other, produced endless fun and amusement. Even William Hazlitt, who at first appeared low-spirited and ill at ease, began to laugh and talk; and at length Clare himself was drawn into the whirlpool of conversation. When he began to speak, in his broad Northamptonshire dialect, there was a sudden stillness in the room, the whole of the guests feeling startled at the sound of the strange voice, which seemed to come as from another world. Though nerved by sundry glasses of wine, Clare was almost terrified at the sudden quiet around him, his intention having been merely to address his neighbour, and not the entire assembly. He therefore relapsed at once, and somewhat abruptly, into silence, and, not long after, with a nod to his patron at the head of the table, and a quiet 'good bye' to Mr. Elton, quitted the room. It was an immense feeling of relief when, creeping upstairs to his little chamber, he was able to divest himself of his pumps and dress-coat, and march forth, in solid boots and jacket, for a saunter along the Fleet pavement, reflecting, in the cool of the summer evening, on all that he had heard and seen, in the shape of lions, poets, philosophers, wits, booksellers, unfortunate Anns of the Street, and more unfortunate opium-eaters.

Clare's visit to London was now drawing to a close. Dr. Darling counselled that he should quit the town, as soon as possible, fearing that the 'London Magazine' entertainments might undo all the good gained by his former exertions. However, Clare felt unwilling to leave before having met his old friend and patron, Admiral Lord Radstock, who was retained at his country seat by a rather serious illness. He waited, week after week, but his lordship did not arrive. Instead of the admiral, there came friend Rippingille, the painter, rushing wildly into Clare's arms, and declaring that he had left Bristol, and the best pale ale in the world, solely for the purpose of seeing him. Clare rejoiced; but Dr. Darling did not. The shrewd Scotch physician insisted upon his patient leaving London immediately, and it was arranged, finally, that Clare should start at the end of a week. Friend Rippingille, or 'Rip,' as his acquaintances used to call him, was instructed privately not to lead Clare into the old round of taverns and theatres, and, above all, not to tempt him to an undue indulgence in drink. The promise was made, and was kept, too; nevertheless, Clare and 'Rip,' while giving up evening visits, remained companions during the daytime. Clare was introduced by his friend to Sir Thomas Lawrence, and some other famous artists of the day, which led to much interchange of compliments, and many promises of support, but ended, as usual, in nothing. He was likewise taken to Mr. Deville, a noted professor of the art called phrenology, who felt his head, carefully measuring all its bumps, and, having learnt Clare's name, informed him that he possessed all the swellings necessary to make verses. This so delighted 'Rip,' that he insisted on getting a cast of his friend's cranium. Clare submitted in meekness of heart; but found the operation stifling to such a degree, that he ran away in the midst of it, with the loss of a portion of his skin. For the next few days the poet wandered in rather lonely mood through the streets of London, and in one of these excursions became the involuntary spectator of a striking scene, which he never forgot in his life.

It was on the 12th of July, a hot summer day, that Clare went down the Strand, towards Charing Cross, intending to have a stroll in the parks. When near Parliament Street, however, he found the way blocked by an immense crowd, and on inquiry learnt that a great funeral was coming up the street. Taking his place among the idlers, he did not know at first whose funeral it was, and only at the last moment learnt that the body of Lord Byron was being carried to its last resting-place. A fervent admirer of Byron, he yet had never heard of his death till this moment, when standing face to face with his mortal remains. He felt startled and almost bewildered at the sight, and when the gorgeous procession, with all its mutes, pages, cloakmen on horseback, and carriers of sable plumes, had come up, he reverently followed in the rear, amidst a confused mass of people in carriages and on foot. The slow and solemn train went up the Haymarket, Coventry Street, Princes Street, and Oxford Street, passing thence along into Tottenham Court Road. At the corner of the latter thoroughfare great confusion was created by another funeral train which came up in an opposite direction. In the tumult that ensued, many were thrown down, among them the unknown poet, who followed in the rear of the procession. Clare fell to the ground, and was pushed along by the crowd; but, fortunately, did not suffer much harm, beyond being rolled over and over in the mud, and spoiling the only suit of good clothes of which he was possessed. Mr. Taylor was surprised on seeing his guest come home in a state which made it almost impossible to recognise him. Clare smiled sadly, and in a somewhat serious tone told Mr. Taylor that he thought it was his fate, now as ever, to be a martyr to poetry.

Two days after Byron's funeral, John Clare left London. Previous to starting, he had a long conversation with Dr. Darling, who had come to rank among his most intimate friends. The kind-hearted and shrewd Scotch doctor volunteered some advice, to which Clare listened with great attention. He told him, in the first instance, that he ought to give up all expectations of acquiring either fame or wealth as a poet, but that it would be wisdom on his part to return forthwith to his old occupation as a farm-labourer, and write verses only during his leisure hours. This seemed hard to Clare; however, the doctor proceeded to explain the matter to him in his own prosaic fashion. It was Dr. Darling's opinion that, on the whole, there existed no real demand for verses among the public at large, but that only a few exalted minds were able to appreciate and enjoy true poetry. But the masses, he held, were carried along, now and then, by a kind of fashionable movement, engendered by the appearance of great authors, the renown of whose works was so vast as to spread from the closet of the student, upward and downward, through all ranks and classes. Such a poetical fashion, or poetical fever, Dr. Darling thought England had just gone through, stirred by the almost simultaneous productions of many first-class writers, such as Burns, Byron, and Sir Walter Scott. But as all excitement must be followed by reaction, so, the doctor explained, the reaction was setting in at that moment, proved by the fact that even the works of these famous poets were encumbering the booksellers' shelves, waiting for buyers which did not come. This was a fact which Clare knew to be true, and so far he fully acquiesced in the remarks of his wise Scotch friend. He, therefore, consented to follow the counsel thus tendered, and, at least for a time, return to his old occupation. But Dr. Darling had another piece of advice in store. Taking Clare by both hands, and looking him full in the face, he earnestly exhorted him not to take ale or spirits but in greatest moderation, and, if possible, leave off drinking entirely. Clare promised. An hour after he was on his return, to Helpston, feeling happier in his mind than he had been for a long time.



NEW STRUGGLES.

The promise made to Dr. Darling was faithfully kept. For several years to come, Clare never visited the public-house, and even at home drank little else but water, subsisting chiefly upon bread and vegetables, and such decoctions of weak tea and coffee as his wife was in the habit of distilling. The diet, probably, was not quite what Dr. Darling expected; at least, it did not prove very beneficial to Clare's health. For a long time, he felt weak and debilitated, so as scarcely to be able to do the simplest out-door work. This was very unfortunate, as it prevented him from carrying out the other part of the engagement undertaken towards his medical friend, that of devoting himself again to field labour. He earnestly sought work immediately after his return from London, and though sneered at by one or two farmers, who told him that he was too famous a man again to soil his hands, he at last secured employment near Helpston Heath, part of which was being enclosed for the benefit of the great landowners of the neighbourhood. For a few days, he kept working here with all the strength he could muster, which was not sufficient, however, for the demands of the overseer. There were drains and ditches to be made, which required the use of brawny arms and a body untouched by ague, and the work being done by contract, the foreman was exacting, and saw at once that he was not up to the mark. He, consequently, got his discharge, and went home in a very sad mood. Ever since his marriage, his debts had been accumulating, and though altogether small in amount, they now began to press heavily upon him, the more so as his expenditure kept gradually increasing, which was by no means the case with his income. He found that to maintain his aged parents, his wife, two children, and himself, he could not do with less than sixty-five or seventy pounds a year, and his annuity amounting to rather less than forty-five pounds, there was the absolute necessity of gaining the rest, either by his writings, or as a farm-labourer. It was the fear that both sources might fail, which threw him into a deep melancholy.

After a while, he roused himself to another effort in finding work, and this time submitted to what he fancied to be a deep humiliation. When applying for his quarterly pension to the steward of the Marquis of Exeter, he begged for some employment in the gardens, or, if no place should be vacant, as a labourer on any of the estates of his lordship. The steward promised to mention the subject to the marquis, but did not keep his word. Being overwhelmed with business, he probably forgot the matter entirely; otherwise the noble lord, who seemed to take a real interest in Clare, could not have failed to listen to a request the fulfilment of which would have cost him little or nothing, and been the means of securing the welfare of the poet for life. Indeed, a place as gardener at Burghley Hall, or some other similar employment, into which a mere whisper of the noble owner might have installed Clare, would have been greatly preferable to the pension of fifteen guineas granted to the poet, and the quarterly payments of which he never received but with inward humiliation. A place such as this would have removed at once the whole burthen of cares which weighed him to the ground, and, while giving him a maintenance for his family, with a comfortable home, would yet have left him abundant time to attend to the inspirations of the muse. Clare himself perceived this very clearly, and once or twice started with the intention of laying his case before the marquis in person, explaining his whole situation, his hopes, troubles, and fears. But each time he approached the stately gates of Burghley Hall, his courage failed him. He trembled to be looked upon as a beggar, and the apprehension of being refused was constantly before his eyes. There were faint hopes, moreover, that the steward, who seemed a friendly man, would succeed in getting him some employment, without personal application to his lordship. However, the promised message from Burghley Hall did not arrive, and Clare at last gave up all expectation of getting anything else but alms from his greatest patron, the Marquis of Exeter.

Having not much else to do, Clare kept up an active correspondence with his friends in London, during the latter part of the summer and the whole of the autumn of 1824. To Allan Cunningham in particular, with whom he had contracted a close friendship during his last visit to the metropolis, he sent long letters, discussing poetical and other topics. One of these letters, rather characteristic in its way, as showing Clare's opinion of Bloomfield, as well as of his own position in 'the fields of the Muses,' deserves to be given. It was sent to Allan Cunningham, together with an enclosure containing Bloomfield's short note to 'Neighbour John,' already given.

'To Allan Cunningham,

(Left at Messrs. Taylor and Hessey's)

93, Fleet Street,

London.

Helpston, September 9th, 1824.

Brother Bard And Fellow Labourer,

I beg your acceptance according to promise of this autograph of our English Theocritus, Bloomfield. He is in my opinion our best Pastoral Poet. His "Broken Crutch," "Richard and Kate," &c. are inimitable and above praise. Crabbe writes about the peasantry as much like the Magistrate as the Poet. He is determined to show you their worst side; and, as to their simple pleasures and pastoral feelings, he knows little or nothing about them compared to the other, who not only lived amongst them, but felt and shared the pastoral pleasures with the peasantry of whom he sung. I had promised that I would visit him this summer at Shefford, but death went before me. He was a warm-hearted friend and an amiable man. His latter poems show that his best days were by. His "Remains" are very trifling, but these have nothing to do with his former fame. I never forgave Lord Byron's sneering mention of him in the "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers;" but, never mind, he has left a genius behind him that will live as late as his lordship's; and, though he was but a "Cobler," his poems will meet posterity as green and growing on the bosom of English nature and the muses as those of the Peer. I could hazard a higher opinion for truth, but this is enough. Titles and distinctions of pride have long ago been stript of their dignity by the levellers in genius; at least they have been convinced that the one is not a certain copyright or inheritance of the other. I should suppose, friend Allan, that "The Ettrick Shepherd," "The Nithsdale Mason," and "The Northamptonshire Peasant," are looked upon as intruders and stray cattle in the fields of the Muses (forgive the classification), and I have no doubt but our reception in that Pinfold of his lordship's "English Bards" would have been as far short of a compliment as Bloomfield's. Well, never mind, we will do our best, and as we never went to Oxford or Cambridge, we have no Latin and Greek to boast of, and no bad translations to hazard (whatever our poems may be), and that's one comfort on our side.

I have talked enough on this string, so I will trouble you a little with something else. I can scarcely tell you how I am, for I keep getting a little better and a little worse, and remaining at last just as I were. I was very bad this morning, but have recovered this evening as I generally do, and I really fear that I shall never entirely overset it. I have written to Hessey for Dr. Darling's assistance again today, and I have desired him to forward this letter to you. Drop a line to say that you receive it, and give my kind remembrances to your better half, Mrs. Cunningham. I will try your patience no longer with this gossip, so believe me, friend Allan,