Mr. Taylor called at Helpstone in October, 1821, on his way from
Retford to London, and published, in the "London Magazine" for the
following month, an interesting and genial account of his visit to
Clare. While at Helpstone he urged Clare to accept an oft-repeated
invitation to come to London and prolong his stay to a few weeks, but
about this time the poet, always yearning after independence, became
possessed with a longing to acquire a small freehold of about seven
acres, which belonged to friends of his own who had mortgaged it to
the amount of L200, and being unable to meet the interest thereupon
were threatened with a foreclosure. The owners offered the property
to Clare, who at once applied to his friends in London to sell out
sufficient of the funded property to enable him to acquire it. His
disappointment and mortification appear to have been very keen on
learning that the funded property was vested in trustees who were
restricted to paying the interest to him. This resource having failed
him, he offered to sell his writings to his publishers for five years
for L200. To this proposal Mr. Taylor replied on the 4th of February,
1822:--
"It will not be honourable in us to buy the interest in your poems
for five years for L200. It may be worth more than that, which would
be an injury to you, and a discredit to us; or less, which would be a
loss to us. Besides, if the original mortgage was for L200, it is not
that sum which would redeem it now. Many expenses have been created
by these money-lenders, all which must be satisfied before the
writings would be given up. It is meddling with a wasp's nest to
interfere rashly. I am happy that Lord Milton has taken the writings,
to look them over. He may be able to do some good, and to keep your
friends the Billingses in their little estate, but I fear it is not
possible for you to do it without incurring fresh risks, and
encountering such dangers from the want of sufficient legal advice as
would be more than you would get through."
Clare had set his heart upon accomplishing this little scheme; his
failure to compass it weighed upon his mind, and for a time he sought
an alleviation of his unhappiness in the society of the Blue Bell and
among hilarious friends at Stamford.
"LORD, WHAT FOOLS THESE MORTALS BE!"
Clare paid a second visit to London in May, 1822, and was again
hospitably entertained by his publishers, at whose house he met
several literary men of note, whose friendship he afterwards enjoyed
for years. Among these were Charles Lamb, Thomas Hood, H. F. Gary,
Allan Cunningham, George Barley, and others; but his most frequent
companion in town would appear to have been Rippingille, the painter,
to whom he was introduced at the house of Mrs. Emmerson. Clare was
assured by that lady that he would find Mr. Rippingille an excellent
and discreet young man, but there is reason to suspect that "friend
Rip," as he was called by his intimates, had carefully concealed some
of his foibles from Mrs. Emmerson, for he and Clare had several not
very creditable drinking bouts, and were not particular in the class
of entertainments which they patronized. After Clare had returned to
Helpstone and Rippingille to Bristol, where he lived for several
years, the latter repeatedly urged his poet-friend to visit him, and
this is the way in which the amusing rattlepate wrote:--
"My dear Johnny Clare,--I am perfectly sure that I sha'nt be able to
write one word of sense, or spin out one decent thought. If the old
Devil and the most romping of his imps had been dancing, and
jostling, and running stark mad amongst the delicate threads and
fibres of my brain, it could not be in a worse condition, but I am
resolved to write in spite of the Devil, my stars, and want of
brains, for all of which I have most excellent precedents and
examples, and sound orthodox authority, so here goes. Tonight; but
what is tonight? 'T was last night, my dear Johnny. I was up till
past five this morning, during which time I was stupid enough to
imbibe certain potions of porter, punch, moselle, and madeira, that
have been all day long uniting their forces in fermenting and fuming,
and bubbling and humming. Are you coming, Clare, or are you going to
remain until all the fine weather is gone, and then come and see
nothing? Or do you mean to come at all? Now is your time, if you do.
You will just be in time for the fair, which begins on the 1st of
September and lasts ten days. And most glorious fun it is, I can tell
you. Crowds, tribes, shoals, and natives of all sorts! I looked at
the standings the other night, and thought of you. Will he come, said
I? D--n the fellow! Nothing can move him. There he sticks, and there
he will stick. Will none but a draggle-tailed muse suit him?
His evening devotions and matins
Both addressed to a muse that wears pattens:
A poet that kneels in the bogs,
Where his muse can't go out without clogs,
Or stir without crushing the frogs!
--Old Play.
Where toads die of vapours and hip,
And tadpoles of ague and pip.
--Old Play.
Give 'em all, my dear Johnny, the slip,
And at once take to Bristol a trip.
By G--, you should come, and you must.
Do you mean I should finish your bust?
If you don't, stay away and be cussed!
My muse is taken a little qualmish, therefore pray excuse her. She is
a well-meaning jade, and if it was not for the wild treatment she
received last night would, I have no doubt, have given you a very
polite invitation, but I fear, Johnny, nothing will move you. Your
heart is as hard as an overseer's. I dined at Elton's two days ago.
We talked about you, wondered if you would come, feared not,
regretted it, and the loss of the fine weather, and the fine scenery,
and the other fine things: in fine, we lamented finely. Come and
cheer our hearts. Bring Patty and all the little bardettes, if you
will. We will find room for them somewhere. I have read only my
introductory lecture yet, so that you may hear 'em or read 'em all,
if you like. Having thrown my bread upon the waters, where I hope it
will be found after many days. I take my leave, my dear Clare, in the
full hope I shall see you by the 1st of September. Write to me by
return, saying what day you will be here.