'_July 18, 1841, Sunday._--Felt very melancholy. Went for a walk in the
forest in the afternoon. Fell in with some gypsies, one of whom offered
to assist in my escape from the madhouse by hiding me in his camp, to
which I almost agreed. But I told him I had no money to start with; but
if he would do so, I would promise him fifty pounds, and he agreed to do
so before Saturday. On Friday I went again, but he did not seem so
willing, so I said little about it. On Sunday I went and they were all
gone. An old wide-awake hat and an old straw bonnet, of the plum-pudding
sort, was left behind, and I put the hat in my pocket, thinking it might
be useful for another opportunity. As good lack would have it, it turned
out to be so.
_July 19, Monday_.--Did nothing.
_July 20, Tuesday_.--Reconnoitred the road the gypsey had taken, and
found it a legible (!) one to make a movement; and having only honest
courage and myself in my army, I led the way and my troops soon followed.
But being careless in mapping down the road as the gypsey told me, I
missed the lane to Enfield Town, and was going down Enfield Highway, till
I passed the "Labour-in-vain" public-house, where a person who came out
of the door told me the way. I walked down the lane gently, and was soon
in Enfield Town, and by and by on the great York Road, where it was all
plain sailing. Steering ahead, meeting no enemy and fearing none, I
reached Stevenage, where, being night, I got over a gate, and crossed the
corner of a green paddock. Seeing a pond or hollow in the corner, I was
forced to stay off a respectable distance to keep from falling into it.
My legs were nearly knocked up and began to stagger. I scaled over some
old rotten palings into the yard, and then had higher palings to clamber
over, to get into the shed or hovel; which I did with difficulty, being
rather weak. To my good luck, I found some trusses of clover piled up,
about six or more feet square, which I gladly mounted and slept on. There
were some drags in the hovel, on which I could have reposed had I not
found a better bed. I slept soundly, but had a very uneasy dream. I
thought my first wife lay on my left arm, and somebody took her away from
my side, which made me wake up rather unhappy. I thought as I awoke
somebody said "Mary;" but nobody was near. I lay down with my head
towards the north, to show myself the steering point in the morning.
_July 21_.--Daylight was looking in on every side, and fearing my
garrison might be taken by storm, and myself be made prisoner, I left my
lodging by the way I got in, and thanked God for His kindness in
procuring it. For anything in a famine is better than nothing, and any
place that giveth the weary rest is a blessing. I gained the North Road
again, and steered due north. On the left hand side, the road under the
bank was like a cave; I saw a man and boy coiled up asleep, whom I
hailed, and they awoke to tell me the name of the next village. Somewhere
on the London side, near the "Plough" public-house, a man passed me on
horseback, in a slop frock, and said, "Here's another of the broken-down
haymakers," and threw me a penny to get a half pint of beer, which I
picked up, and thanked him for, and when I got to the "Plough," I called
for a half pint and drank it. I got a rest, and escaped a very heavy
shower in the bargain, by having a shelter till it was over. Afterwards I
would have begged a penny of two drovers, but they were very saucy; so I
begged no more of anybody.
Having passed a lodge on the left hand, within a mile and a half, or
less, of a town--I think it might be St. Ives, or it was St. Neot's, but
I forget the name--I sat down to rest on a flint heap, for half an hour
or more. While sitting here, I saw a tall gypsey come out of the lodge
gate, and make down the road to where I was. When she got up to me, I saw
she was a young woman, with a honest-looking countenance, and rather
handsome. I spoke to her, and asked her a few questions, which she
answered readily and with evident good humour. So I got up, and went on
to the next town with her. She cautioned me on the way to put something
in my hat to keep the crown up, and said in a lower tone, "You'll be
noticed." But not knowing at what she hinted, I took no notice and made
no reply. At length she pointed to a small church tower, which she called
Shefford Church, and advised me to go on a footway, which would take me
direct to it, and would shorten my journey fifteen (!) miles by doing so.
I would gladly have taken the young woman's advice, feeling that it was
honest, and a nigh guess towards the truth; but fearing I might lose my
way, and not be able to find the North Road again, I thanked her, and
told her I should keep to the road. She then bid me "good day," and went
into a house or shop on the left hand side of the road.
Next I passed three or four good built houses on a hill, and a
public-house on the roadside in the hollow below them. I seemed to pass
the milestones very quick in the morning, but towards night they seemed
to be stretched further asunder. I now got to a village of which I forget
the name. The road on the left hand was quite overshadowed by trees, and
quite dry. So I sat down half an hour, and made a good many wishes for
breakfast. But wishes were no meal; so I got up as hungry as I sat down.
I forget here the names of the villages I passed through, but recollect
at late evening going through Potton, in Bedfordshire, where I called in
a house to light my pipe. There was a civil old woman, and a country
wench making lace on a cushion as round as a globe, and a young fellow;
all civil people. I asked them a few questions as to the way, and where
the clergyman and overseer lived; but they scarcely heard me, and gave no
answer. I then went through Potton, and happened to meet with a
kind-talking countryman, who told me the parson lived a good way from
where I was. So I went on hopping with a crippled foot; for the gravel
had got into my old shoes, one of which had now nearly lost the sole. Had
I found the overseer's house at hand, or the parson's, I should have
given my name, and begged for a shilling to carry me home; but I was
forced to brush on penniless, and be thankful I had a leg to move on. I
then asked him whether he could tell me of a farmyard anywhere on the
road, where I could find a shed and some dry straw, and he said, "Yes, if
you will go with me, I will show you the place; it is a public-house on
the left hand side of the road, at the sign of the Ram." But seeing a
stone heap, I longed to rest, as one of my feet was very painful. So I
thanked him for his kindness, and bid him go on. But the good-natured
fellow lingered awhile, as if wishing to conduct me; but suddenly
recollecting that he had a hamper on his shoulder, and a lock-up bag in
his hand, to meet the coach, he started hastily, and was soon out of
sight.
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,