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.