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.