The day after writing this letter, Clare was on his way back to Helpston.
He rejoiced inwardly when passing the bill of Highgate, looking back over
the vast world of bricks and smoke behind, and beholding the sunny
fields, fragrant with the first blossoms of spring, in front. More than
ever he felt that he could not exist within the big metropolis, even its
large intellectual life offering no compensation for the bounteous joys
of nature. He almost shuddered when glancing at the huge black vault for
the last time, at the turn of the Highgate Road. But he did not know it
was the last time that his eyes rested upon London.