I followed, looking in vain for the countryman's straw bed. Not being able to find it, I laid down by the wayside, under some elm trees. Between the wall and the trees there was a thick row, planted some five or six feet from the buildings. I laid there and tried to sleep; but the wind came in between the trees so cold that I quaked like having the ague, and I quitted this lodging to seek another at the "Ram," which I scarcely hoped to find. It now began to grow dark apace, and the odd houses on the road began to light up, and show the inside lot very comfortable, and my outside lot very uncomfortable and wretched. Still I hobbled forward as well as I could, and at last came the "Ram." The shutters were not closed, and the lighted window looked very cheering; but I had no money, and did not like to go in. There was a sort of shed, or gig-house, at the end; but I did not like to lie there, as the people were up; so I still travelled on. The road was very lonely and dark, being overshaded with trees. At length I came to a place where the road branched off into two turnpikes, one to the right about, and the other straight forward. On going by, I saw a milestone standing under the hedge, and I turned back to read it, to see where the other road led to. I found it led to London. I then suddenly forgot which was north or south, and though I narrowly examined both ways, I could see no tree, or bush, or stone heap that I could recollect having passed.

I went on mile after mile, almost convinced I was going the same way I had come. These thoughts were so strong upon me, and doubts and hopelessness made me turn so feeble, that I was scarcely able to walk. Yet I could not sit down or give up, but shuffled along till I saw a lamp shining as bright as the moon, which, on nearing, I found was suspended over a tollgate. Before I got through, the man came out with a candle, and eyed me narrowly; but having no fear I stopped to ask him whether I was going northward. He said, "When you get through the gate you are." I thanked him, and went through to the other side, and gathered my old strength as my doubts vanished. I soon cheered up, and hummed the air of "Highland Mary" as I went on. I at length came to an odd house, all alone, near a wood; but I could not see what the sign was, though it seemed to stand, oddly enough, in a sort of trough, or spout. There was a large porch over the door, and being weary I crept in, and was glad enough to find I could lie with my legs straight. The inmates were all gone to rest, for I could hear them turn over in bed, while I lay at full length on the stones in the porch. I slept here till daylight, and felt very much refreshed. I blest my two wives and both their families when I laid down and when I got up in the morning.

I have but a slight recollection of my journey between here and Stilton, for I was knocked up, and noticed little or nothing. One night I laid in a dyke-bottom, sheltered from the wind, and went asleep for half an hour. When I awoke, I found one side wet through from the water; so I got out and went on. I remember going down a very dark road, hung over on both sides with thick trees; it seemed to extend a mile or two. I then entered a town, where some of the chamber windows had lights shining in them. I felt so weak here that I was forced to sit on the ground to rest myself, and while I sat here a coach that seemed heavily laden came rattling up, and splashing the mud in my face wakened me from a doze. When I had knocked the gravel out of my shoes I started again. There was little to notice, for the road very often looked as stupid as myself. I was often half asleep as I went on.

The third day I satisfied my hunger by eating the grass on the roadside, which seemed to taste something like bread. I was hungry, and eat heartily till I was satisfied; in fact, the meal seemed to do me good. The next and last day I remembered that I had some tobacco, and my box of lucifers being exhausted, I could not light my pipe. So I took to chewing tobacco all day, and eat it when I had done. I was never hungry afterwards. I remember passing through Buckden, and going a length of road afterwards; but I do not recollect the name of any place until I came to Stilton, where I was completely footsore, bleeding, and broken down. When I had got about half way through the town, a gravel causeway invited me to rest myself; so I laid down and nearly went to sleep. A young woman, as I guessed by the voice, came out of a house, and said, "Poor creature;" and another more elderly said, "Oh, he shams." But when I got up the latter said, "Oh no, he don't," as I hobbled along very lame. I heard the voices, but never looked back to see where they came from. When I got near the inn at the end of the gravel walk, I met two young women, and asked one of them whether the road branching to the right by the inn did not lead to Peterborough. She said, "Yes." As soon as ever I was on it, I felt myself on the way home, and went on rather more cheerful, though I was forced to rest oftener than usual.

Before I got to Peterborough, a man and woman passed in a cart; and on hailing me as they passed, I found they were neighbours from Helpston, where I used to live. I told them I was knocked-up, which they could easily see, and that I had neither food nor drink since I left Essex. When I had told my story they clubbed together and threw me fivepence out of the cart. I picked it up, and called at a small public-house near the bridge, where I had two half pints of ale, and twopennyworth of bread and cheese. When I had done, I started quite refreshed; only my feet were more crippled than ever, and I could scarcely bear walk over the stones. Yet I was half ashamed to sit down in the street, and forced myself to keep on the move.

I got through Peterborough better than I expected. When I came to the high road, I rested on the stone-heaps, till I was able to go on afresh. By-and-by I passed Walton, and soon reached Werrington. I was making for the "Beehive" as fast as I could when a cart met me, with a man, a woman, and a boy in it. When nearing me the woman jumped out and caught fast hold of my hands, and wished me to get into the cart. But I refused; I thought her either drunk or mad. But when I was told it was my second wife, Patty, I got in, and was soon at Northborough. But Mary was not there; neither could I get any information about her further than the old story of her having died six years ago. But I took no notice of the lie, having seen her myself twelve months ago, alive and well, and as young as ever. So here I am hopeless at home.'

This wonderfully graphic narrative—extraordinary compound of facts and dreams, illuminated by the lurid flame of a marvellous imagination—Clare accompanied by a letter to his visionary spouse. The letter, addressed, 'To Mary Clare, Glinton,' and dated 'Northborough, July 27, 1841,' ran as follows:—

'My Dear Wife,—I have written an account of my journey, or rather escape, from Essex, for your amusement. I hope it may divert your leisure hours. I would have told you before that I got here to Northborough last Friday night; but not being able to see you, or to hear where you were, I soon began to feel homeless at home, and shall by and by be nearly hopeless. But I am not so lonely as I was in Essex; for here I can see Glinton Church, and feeling that my Mary is safe, if not happy, I am gratified. Though my home is no home to me, my hopes are not entirely hopeless while even the memory of Mary lives so near me. God bless you, my dear Mary! Give my love to our dear beautiful family and to your mother, and believe me, as ever I have been and ever shall be,

My dearest Mary,

Your affectionate husband,

John Clare.'

The poet's glorious intellect was gone; he sat there bereft of reason; body and soul alike shattered and broken to pieces. Yet on the wreck and ruins of all this mass of marvellous life, there still sat enthroned the memory of his First Love. 'For Love is strong as Death,' says the Song of Songs.



FINIS

Happy for Clare if his weary life had been allowed to end here, in dreams of his first, his purest love. But it was ordained otherwise, and he had yet to drag a miserable course of earthly existence for more than twenty years. The period was one of great physical and mental suffering. Much of it might have been, if not prevented, at least softened and alleviated, but for the fresh interference of troublesome foes and ignorant friends. There was clearly no harm in leaving the poet in his little cottage at Northborough, allowing him to tend his flowers, to listen to the song of birds, and to write verses to his Mary in heaven. Now as ever, he was as harmless and guileless as a child; he would not hurt the worm under his feet, and even in his most excited moods not an unkind word to those around him escaped his lips. A little additional assistance—if only from the 'county,' of which a noble earl held him to be 'a great credit'—might have made his own and his wife's existence perfectly free from cares, and softened the evening of their lives. But the great patrons would have it otherwise. Clare had no more books to dedicate to Honourables and Most Honourables, and they thought that the best thing to be done was to get such a useless 'county poet' out of the way and out of sight.

Clare had not been many weeks at his little home, resting from his fatigue, and enjoying the caresses of his children, when he was visited by the Mr. Skrimshaw, of Market Deeping, who had attended him on a former occasion. This person, who called himself a doctor, had a notion that poets were always and naturally insane, and that the very fact of a man being given to write verses was decisive proof of his madness. Mr. Skrimshaw, therefore, had little trouble in consigning Clare to another lunatic asylum. All that was necessary was to engage the help of a brother-doctor to go through a slight legal formality. This was soon done, and 'Fenwick Skrimshaw,' together with 'William Page,' both of Market Deeping, signed the due certificate that John Clare was to be kept under restraint at a madhouse, for the definitely stated reason of having written poetry, or, as literally given by the doctors:—

'After years addicted to poetical prosings.'

On the ground of this new crime, punishable, according to the wise men of Market Deeping, with life-long imprisonment, Clare was torn away from his wife and children, and carried off to the madhouse. He struggled hard when the keepers came to fetch him, imploring them, with tears in his eyes, to leave him at his little cottage, and seeing all resistance fruitless, declaring his intention to die rather than to go to such another prison as that from which he had escaped. Of course, it was all in vain. The magic handwriting of Messrs. Fenwick Skrimshaw and William Page, backed by all the power of English law, soon got the upper hand, and the criminal 'addicted to poetical prosings' was led away, and thrust into the gaol for insane at Northampton.

It was, perhaps, with some regard to Clare being considered, on high authority, 'our county poet,' that he was consigned to the county lunatic asylum at Northampton, instead of being taken hack to the more respectable refuge of Dr. Allen, who was anxious to see him again under his charge, and even expressed strong hopes of an ultimate cure. The change was not a hopeful one; though, as far as the patient's physical comforts were concerned, there was no suffering attached to it. During the whole of his long sojourn at Northampton, the poet was treated with a kindness and consideration beyond all praise, and which, indeed, he had scarcely a right to expect from his position. Earl Fitzwilliam, who had taken him under his charge, only allowed eleven shillings a week for his maintenance, which small sum entitled Clare to little better than pauper treatment. Nevertheless, the authorities at Northampton, with a noble disregard for conventionalities, placed Clare in the best ward, among the private patients, paying honour to him as well as themselves by recognising the poet even in the pauper.

The Northampton General Lunatic Asylum stands at a little distance from the town, on the brow of a hill, in a very beautiful position, overlooking the smiling plain traversed by the River Nene. It is a large establishment, containing, on the average, some four hundred patients, the great majority of them paupers. The private patients have to themselves a large sitting-room, somewhat similar to a gentleman's library, the windows of which overlook the front garden, the valley of the Nene, and the town of Northampton. In the recess of one of these windows, Clare spent the greater part of his time during the twenty-two years that he was an inmate of the asylum. Very melancholy at first, and ever yearning after his 'Mary,' he became gradually resigned to his fate, and after that never a murmur escaped his lips. He saw that the world had left him; and was quite prepared himself to leave the world. During the whole twenty-two years, not one of all his former friends and admirers, not one of his great or little patrons ever visited him. This he bore quietly, though he seemed to feel it with deep sorrow that even the members of his own family kept aloof from him. 'Patty' never once showed herself in the twenty-two years; nor any of her children, except the youngest son, who came to see his father once. The neglect thus shown long preyed upon his mind, till it found vent at last in a sublime burst of poetry:—

'I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows? My friends forsake me like a memory lost. I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. And yet I am—I live—though I am toss'd

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dream, Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys, But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem And all that's dear. Even those I loved the best Are strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod, For scenes where woman never smiled or wept; There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie, The grass below; above the vaulted sky.'

This was the last poem which Clare wrote—the last, and, we think, the noblest of all his poems. Clare's swan-song, we fervently hope, will live as long as the English language.

For the last ten or twelve years of his existence the poet suffered much from physical infirmities. Previously he was allowed to go almost daily into the town of Northampton, where he used to sit raider the portico of All Saints' Church, watching the gambols of the children around him, and the fleeting clouds high up in the sky. When these excursions came to be forbidden, he retired to his window-recess in the asylum, reading little and speaking little; dreaming unutterable dreams of another world. Sometimes his face would brighten up as if illuminated by an inward sun, overwhelming in its glory and beauty. This life of contemplation, extending over many years, was followed by a singular change in the physical constitution. The head seemed to expand vastly; the bushy eyebrows grew downward until they almost obscured the eyes, and the abundant hair, white as snow, came to fall in long curls over the massive shoulders. In outward appearance the poet became the patriarch.

The inmates of the asylum treated Clare with the greatest respect—far greater than that previously allotted to him by the world without. To his fellow-sufferers he always was John Clare the poet; never Clare the farm-labourer or the lime-burner. An artist among the patients was indefatigable in painting his portrait, in all possible attitudes; others never wearied of waiting upon him, or rendering him some slight service. The poet accepted the homage thus rendered, quietly and unaffectedly, as a king would that of his subjects. He gave little utterance to his thoughts, or dreams, whatever they were, and only smiled upon his companions now and then. When he became very weak and infirm, they put him into a chair, and wheeled him about in the garden. The last day he was thus taken out, and enjoyed the fresh air and the golden sunshine, was on Good Friday, 1864. He was too helpless to be moved afterwards; yet would still creep, now and then, from his bed to the window, looking down upon the ever-beautiful world, which he knew he was leaving now, and which he was not loth to leave, though he loved it so much.

Towards noon on the 20th of May, the poet closed his eyes for ever. His last words were, 'I want to go home.' So gentle was his end that the bystanders scarcely knew when he had ceased to breathe. God took his soul away without a struggle.

Clare had always expressed a wish to sleep his last sleep in the churchyard of his native village, close to his 'own old home of homes.' In the very first poem of his earliest published book of verses, he summed up all his aspirations in the one that he should—

'As reward for countless troubles past, Find one hope true: to die at home at last.'

Accordingly, when the poet's spirit had fled, the superintendent of the Northampton asylum wrote to his patron, Earl Fitzwilliam, asking for a grant of the small sum necessary to carry the wish of the deceased into effect. The noble patron replied by a refusal, advising the burial of the poet as a pauper at Northampton.

But this lasting disgrace, fortunately, was not to be. Through the active exertions of some true Christian souls, real friends of poetry, the requisite burial fund was raised in a few days, and the poet's body, having been conveyed to Helpston, was reverently interred there on Wednesday, the 25th of May, 1864. There now lies, under the shade of a sycamore-tree, with nothing above but the green grass and the eternal vault of heaven, all that earth has to keep of John Clare, one of the sweetest singers of nature ever born within the fair realm of dear old England—of dear old England, so proud of its galaxy of noble poets, and so wasteful of their lives.

* * * * *

Allen, Dr. Matthew, of Fair Mead House.

'Anniversary,' annual, edited by Allan Cunningham.

Artis, Edward, friend of Clare.

Bachelors' Hall, Helpston, meeting at.

Bains, Granny, cowherd of Helpston.

Baring, Sir Thomas, patron of Clare.

Bedford, Duke of, patron of Clare.

Behnes, Henry, sculptor, makes a bust of Clare; spends an evening with.

Bell, Dr. makes Clare's acquaintance; defends his friend; threatens him with the 'canister of the Blue Devils'.

Bellamy, 'Mr. Councillor' of Wisbeach.

Benyon, Tom, head-porter of Messrs. Taylor and Hessey; teaches political economy.

Billings, John and James, of 'Bachelor's Hall.'

'Blackwood's Magazine,' on Clare.

Bloomfield, Robert, letter from; death.

'Book of Job,' Clare's rendering of.

Boston, Clare's visit to; the mayor of.

Boswell, king of the gipsies.

Bowles, Rev. Wm. L. editor of Pope; quarrel with Mr. Gilchrist.

Bridge, Casterton, Clare working at.

Bullimore, Mrs. schoolmistress.

Burghley Park, Clare's first visit to; working as gardener at; received as visitor.

Burkhardt, Herr, watchmaker of the Strand.

Burns and Clare, compared by Professor Wilson.

Byron, Lord, funeral of.

Campbell, Mr. at Dr. Allen's asylum.

Cardigan, Earl, patron of Clare.

Gary, Rev. H. T. receives Clare at his home; at the 'London Magazine' dinner.

Chiswick, Clare's residence at.

Clare, John, birth; parents; in search of other worlds; at the dame-school; first pleasures of song; learns threshing; is attacked by the ague; goes to Mr. Merrishaw's school; studies algebra; travels to Wisbeach; interview with Mr. Councillor Bellamy; fails in becoming a lawyer's clerk; promoted to be potboy at the 'Blue Bell;' growing love of nature; takes to reading fairy tales; first love; meets with Thomson's 'Seasons;' efforts to obtain the book; the first poem; attempts to learn a trade; apprenticed to the head gardener at Burghley Park; dissipation; flight from Burghley Park; returns home; poetical aspirations; verses 'wanting fire'; consults a rural critic; becomes conscious of terrible ignorance; devours 'Lowe's Spelling-book;' unable to master 'quartacutes' and 'quintacutes;' in search of a patron; visits 'Bachelors' Hall;' enlists in the militia; swears fidelity to King George; is taught the goose-step; returns to Helpston; Love and the Apocalypse; turns gipsy under King Boswell; limeburning; zeal in writing verses; first meeting with 'Patty;' narrow escape from being drowned; attempts to publish a book; writes a prospectus; issues an 'Address to the Public;' quarrels with his mistress; bids farewell to 'Patty;' enlists in the Royal Artillery; determines to quit Helpston; meets with a patron; makes arrangements for printing his poems; gets intimate with Mr. Drury; meeting with Mr. John Taylor; first interview with Mr. Gilchrist; hears of the success of his 'Poems of Rural Life;' visit to Holywell Park; romance of fugitive love; patronized by Viscount Milton; by Earl Fitzwilliam; by the Marquis of Exeter; marries 'Patty;' first visit to London; troubles of fame; defends himself against patronage; has an annuity settled upon him; ignored by Sir Walter Scott; publication of the 'Village Minstrel;' correspondence with Bloomfield; visited by Mr. John Taylor; second trip to London; adventure in a hackney coach; short stay at Chiswick; visit to Charles Lamb; attempts to purchase a freehold; falls very ill; third visit to London; Fleet Street philosophy; is present at a meeting of lions; returns to Helpston; fails in getting work as a labourer; great poverty; takes to farming; publication of the 'Shepherd's Calendar;' writes for the annuals; Platonic love; last visit to London; turns pedlar; journey to Boston; glimpse of happiness; removal to Northborough; mental alienation; cry for help; publication of the 'Rural Muse;' excitement at the Peterborough Theatre; burst of delirium; is taken to Dr. Allen's asylum; escape from the madhouse; writes the diary of his escape; taken to Northampton asylum; his last poem; physical changes; death.

Clare, Parker, birth; marriage; poverty and sufferings; dependent upon alms; accompanies his son to Burghley Park; reproves John for writing verses; struck down by illness.

Clark, Mr. editor of a literary magazine.

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, at a soiree.

'Cottage near the wood,' Clare's poem of.

'County poet,' our, and county patronage.

Crouch, Mr. issues Clare's poems.

Cunningham, Allan, at Mr. Taylor's house; letter to, from Clare; interview with; attempts to assist him.

Dalia, Mademoiselle, of the Regency theatre.

Darley, George, meeting with Clare.

Darling, Dr. attends Clare in illness; acts as his guide.

De Quincey, Thomas, at the 'London Magazine' dinner.

Deville, Mr. professor of phrenology.

Devonshire, Duke of, patron of Clare.

Drury, Mr. Edward, first meeting with Clare; offers to print his book; inspects the MSS.; submits them to a critic; intimacy with Clare.

Durobrivae, Roman station.

Elton, Charles, makes Clare's acquaintance.

Emmerson, Mrs. first interview with Clare; receives Clare at her house; renews her acquaintance; acts as hostess.

Etton, village near Helpston.

Exeter, Marquis of, first interview with Clare; visits the poet at home; finds Clare unfit for patronage.

Fair Mead House lunatic asylum, Clare's stay at.

Pane, Lady, visit to Clare.

Farrow, Jim, cobbler of Helpston.

Field, Baron, literary country gentleman.

'First Love,' Clare's poem of.

Fitzwilliam, Earl, becomes a patron of Clare; presents him with L100; gives him a cottage; maintains him at the asylum; advises to bury him as a pauper.

'Gentleman's Magazine,' the, on Clare's Poems.

Gilford, William, interview with Clare.

Gilchrist, Octavius, first meeting with Clare; becomes his patron; accompanies him to London; gives his opinion on Sir Walter Scott; disputes with the Rev. Mr. Bowles; engaged in 'Battle of the Windmills;' falls seriously ill; meets Clare at London; last interview with Clare; death.

Glinton, the home of 'Mary;' Memorial of Clare's first love.

Grantham, visit of John Clare to.

Gregory, Francis, landlord of the 'Blue Bell.'

Grill, Monsieur, cook at Milton Park.

Hall, Mr. S. C. editor of the 'Book of Gems.'

Hazlitt, William, at Mr. Taylor's house.

Helpo, founder of Helpston; 'mystic stipendiary knight.'

Helpston, origin of; the parish clerk patronises Clare; removal of Clare from.

Henderson, Mr. friend of Clare.

Henson, Mr. first interview with Clare; agrees to publish his 'Original Trifles;' returns Clare's manuscripts.

Hilton, William, paints Clare's portrait.

Hogarth's house, at Chiswick.

'Hole-in-the-Wall' public-house, the.

Holland, Rev. Mr. makes Clare's acquaintance; brings news of his success.

Holywell Park, Visit to.

'Home of Homes,' Clare's poem of.

Hood, Thomas, sub-editor of 'London Magazine.'

'Iris,' the, contribution of Clare to.

Joyce, Mary, John Clare's first love.

Keats, John, gift to, from Earl Fitzwilliam.

Lamb, Charles, visited by Clare; at the 'London Magazine' dinner.

Landon, Miss, error of dedication.

Langley Bush, sketched by Clare.

Leopold, King of Belgium, gift to Clare.

Lolham Brigs, near Helpston.

London, as seen from the distance.

'London Magazine,' the, on Clare's poems.

Lowe's 'Critical Spelling-book.'

Manton, Bill, stone-cutter at Market-Deeping.

Market-Deeping, visit to horsedealers at.

Marsh, Mrs. visits Clare; receives him at her mansion; takes him to the theatre.

Maxey, village near Helpston.

Merrishaw, Mr. schoolmaster at Glinton.

Milton Park, Clare's first visit to.

Milton, Viscount, interview with John Clare; takes Clare under his patronage.

Militia, life in the.

'Morning Walk,' the, Clare's first poem.

Mossop, Rev. Mr. patron of Clare.

Mounsey, Rev. Mr. of Stamford.

Murray, Mr. John, interview with.

Nell, Mr. bookseller of Peterborough.

Newark-upon-Trent, John Clare at.

Newcomb, Mr. proprietor of the 'Stamford Mercury.'

'New Monthly Magazine,' the, on Clare's poems.

North, Christopher, on Clare.

Northborough, Clare's removal to.

Northampton, Marquis of, threatens to patronise Clare.

Northampton asylum, Clare's stay at.

Northumberland, Duke of, patron of Clare.

Offley's tavern, visit of Clare to.

'Original Trifles,' a first poetical speculation.

Oundle, militia drill at.

Page, Mr. certifies to Clare's insanity.

Parker, grandfather of John Clare.

'Patty,' Clare's first sight of; meeting with; wavering between two suitors; supposed last interview; reconciliation; marriage.

Peterborough, Bishop of, visit to Clare.

Peterborough, the 'Red Lion;' episcopal palace, Clare's visit to; theatre, Clare's visit to.

Pickworth, Clare working at.

'Poems of Rural Life,' publication of.

'Poetical Prosings,' new form of insanity.

Poets, their patronage and income.

Poets and the poor-rates.

Porter, Thomas, of Ashton Green.

Preston, Mr. a 'brother poet.'

'Quarterly Review,' the, on Clare's poems.

Radstock, Lord, first meeting with Clare; refuses to assist him; interferes with Mr. Taylor; death.

Redding, Cyrus, visit to Clare.

Regency Theatre, Tottenham-court-road.

Reynardson, General, meets Clare; shows his residence.

Reynolds, William, at the 'London Magazine' dinner.

Rippingille, Mr. friend of Clare; leaves him in difficulties.

Rossini, sets Clare's verses to music.

'Rural Muse,' address to.

'Rural Muse,' the, publication of.

Russell, Lord John, patron of Clare.

Scott, Sir Walter, and John Clare; judged by Mr. Gilchrist.

'Shepherd's Calendar,' publication of.

Sherwell, Captain, friend of Sir Walter Scott.

Skrimshaw, Mr. sees Clare; certifies to his insanity.

Smith, Dr. physician of Peterborough.

Spencer, Earl, grants an annuity to Clare.

Stamford, the 'Dolphin' Inn; the 'New Public Library.'

Stamford bookseller, the, and John Clare.

Stimson, John, shepherd of Castor.

Stimson, Morris, visits John Clare; tries to lift him into a profession.

Taylor, Mr. John, first interview with Clare; receives him at London; procures an annuity for Clare; visit to Helpston; receives Clare a second time; reproves him for his ambition; receives Clare on his third visit to London; last interview with.

Taylor and Hessey, publishers, gift to Clare.

Tickencote, hamlet near Stamford.

Townsend, Mr. Chauncey Hare, visits Clare.

Twopenny, the Rev. Mr., incumbent of Little Casterton.

Turnill, John, teaches Clare algebra.

Ventouillac, Monsieur, publisher of the 'Iris.'

Vestris, Madam, reciting Clare's poems.

'Village Minstrel,' publication of.

Walkherd Lodge, home of 'Patty.'

Watts, Alaric, makes Clare's acquaintance.

Wilders, Mr. of Bridge Casterton.

Wilson, Professor, on Clare's poetical genius.

Wisbeach, John Clare's journey to.

Withers, nurseryman, employs Clare.

'Woman's Love,' Clare's poem of.

* * * * *

THE END.