Clare's second excursion to London was productive of many evil consequences. From the first trip he returned with a renewed love for the simple life of the country, and a renewed desire to spend his days peacefully in his humble cottage, earning bread and health by hard labour in the fields; but from this new visit he came back with wild visions of glory and fame, a restless, fretful, discontented man. A feeling he had never before known now got hold of him—the silent dread of poverty. The month he had stayed in London, sitting down every day at a well-filled table, moving every day and night among bright and genial men, among beautiful and intelligent women, had opened to him a new mode of life of which he had scarcely been conscious before. His vivid imagination painted it even brighter than it was in reality. He did not see, and could not see, the petty cares and miseries hidden behind all the brilliant scenes which met his eyes; and though he discovered the great truth in course of time, he was not aware as yet that real happiness is found distributed with tolerable equality among all ranks and classes. But John Clare was only getting towards thirty, and not yet a philosopher. Returning to his humble home, he fondly kissed his wife and little girl, and fondly embraced his aged father and mother; but the first transport of love gone, he sat down moody and discontented. During his absence large parcels of books, the presents of old and new friends, had arrived at Helpston, and, eagerly as he looked over the volumes, particularly those of poetry, his heart grew sad in thinking that there was nobody near to share his pleasures with him. While in London he had become accustomed to constant conversation on poetical and artistic subjects, his daily routine being to spend his mornings in reading all the new works within his reach, and during the afternoons and evenings to discuss the matters treated in these books. It seemed a terrible want to miss these delights on returning to his narrow home. He felt it, for the first time, as a personal affliction and source of misery that his wife was unable to read and write; that his parents were talking of nothing but their illness and physical sufferings, and that all the inmates of his home alike had no more sympathy with him and his poetical joys and sorrows than if they had been inhabitants of another world. It seemed to him as if he had been banished from the Eden of intellect into a lower and grosser existence, and every letter and every book he received had but the effect of making him more sad and fretful. He had not been long at home when there came a richly-bound volume, inscribed on the title-page, 'The gift of Admiral Lord Radstock to his dear and excellent friend, John Clare, August 1st, 1822.' The gift gave him no pleasure, but, awakening thoughts of the past and the present, only brought tears into his eyes.

The reaction from this unmanly and morbid state of feeling came in time, and Clare's pride and native strength of mind got the better of his sickly yearning after lost pleasures. Nevertheless, one lasting source of unhappiness remained. He found that his regular income of forty-five pounds a year, secured to him by his friends and patrons, was quite insufficient, with his new wants and desires, to cover his expenditure, and the profits derived from his books being fluctuating and altogether inconsiderable, he experienced the worst pangs of poverty in the terrible knowledge of being constantly in debt. To improve his position, he formed a thousand plans, some practicable and some visionary; but all equally barren as to the net result. The first and most natural idea that occurred to him was to write as many verses as possible and to sell them immediately. In order to effect this, and seeing the very moderate success of his last published two volumes, he resolved to print his poems separately, and offer them to readers in this form. Mr. Drury, to whom he communicated this somewhat singular plan, approved it, suggesting at the same time to have the poetry set to music. This struck Clare as exceedingly appropriate, and he set to work at once to produce a liberal supply of verses. He began with such eagerness as to bring forth no less than seventy-six poems in less than three weeks; and though physically and mentally exhausted by this effort, he felt exceedingly joyful and buoyed up by bright anticipations of the future, when handing the whole of these manuscripts to Mr. Drury. But hard as was the toil, and prodigal the waste of mental power, it absolutely came to nothing. Mr. Drury, having entered into arrangements with a small publisher in Paternoster Row, despatched the poems to London, and a number of them were set to music by Mr. Crouch, and issued on picturesque sheets of paper, with flaming dedications to fashionable singers, and to supposed generous noblemen, patrons of all the arts. Clare was much surprised on seeing his verses turn up in this unexpected shape; however, he consoled himself with the hope, in which he was strongly backed by Mr. Drury, that the profits on his poetry would be as bounteous as the expenditure of gold and colours upon the picturesque sheets. But, to his utter dismay, he got no payment whatever for his verses. All applications to Paternoster Row proved ineffectual to secure even the return of the verses not printed, which were found afterwards coming to the surface in albums, reviews, and periodicals, in wonderful disguises and with new names attached. To crown the misfortune, Clare received a reproachful letter from Mr. John Taylor, complaining of his connexion with Mr. Crouch and the flaming dedications, and intimating that these dealings with small composers and publishers would damage his reputation, Clare felt utterly dejected at the result of the whole speculation, although it gained him the valuable experience that able as he was to write verses, he was utterly unable to convert them into money and bread.

Having recovered from this great disappointment, Clare resolved upon another experiment for getting a living, and, provisionally, getting out of debt. He thought that if he could become the possessor of a small farm, not so extensive as to require the use of valuable stock and cattle, but large enough to produce food for his family, with something to sell at the market-town, he should be able, together with his annuity, to place himself in a respectable and comparatively independent position. This was an excellent idea, and had it been realized, might have saved Clare from despondency and final ruin. Unfortunately, its realization, though easy at one moment, depended not upon the poet, but upon his patronizing friends, who proved painfully lukewarm at this momentous period of his life. It so happened that in the winter of 1822-3, an opportunity offered itself for acquiring a piece of freehold land of about seven acres, close to the poet's cottage, known to the people of Helpston as 'Bachelors' Hall' and already noticed as belonging to two brothers of the name of Billing. The brothers were somewhat improvident, leading gay bachelors' lives; and, getting into debt gradually, they were compelled at last to mortgage their small property to a Jew for the sum of two hundred pounds. For some years, the interest was duly paid, but this failing at last, on account of the growing infirmity of the brothers, the Jew stepped in, threatening to sell the property. This roused Clare to a desperate effort for raising the necessary sum to pay off the mortgage, and, by acquiring the small estate, benefit both himself and his staunch old friends, the brothers Billing. The latter agreed to let him have 'Bachelors' Hall' with its seven acres, on condition of discharging the encumbrance, and allowing them a very small sum for the remaining few years of their lives, which they intended spending with some relatives in a neighbouring village. The offer was a very favourable one, and the more so as freehold property was extremely scarce at Helpston, the ground being, as in most agricultural counties, the property of a few large landowners. The more Clare thought upon the subject, the more anxious did he become to enter upon the proposed arrangement, and, in settling on this little piece of ground, shape his whole future career into a more fixed direction. But his boundless anxiety met with no assistance on the part of those who called themselves his friends. Though it was for the first time in his life that he claimed help for himself, he, to his immense distress, found all doors resolutely closed against him.

To get the two hundred pounds required to pay off the mortgage upon 'Bachelors' Hall,' Clare addressed himself first to Lord Radstock, whom he looked upon as one of his wannest and most sincere friends. What he asked was not to lend him the money, but to take it from the sum standing in his name in the funds. To Clare's surprise, Lord Radstock told him that this could not be done, as the four hundred and twenty pounds were invested in the name of trustees, who had no power to withdraw any portion of this amount. Glare looked upon this as a personal humiliation, fancying that he was treated like a child, or like a man not responsible for his own actions, and deeming the refusal a new attempt to keep him in leading strings. For a moment, Clare felt quite angry with his noble patron, who, he thought, might have easily advanced him the small sum of money had he so liked. The explanation was that Lord Radstock, like most other of Clare's patrons, was entirely ignorant of the poet's character, regarding him in the light of a genial infant, full of intellect, but without strength of character. What chiefly produced this impression on his lordship, otherwise decidedly the truest friend of the poet, was that Clare, notwithstanding repeated advice to that effect, had neglected to make a good arrangement, or, in fact, any arrangement at all, with his publishers, so that he stood to them in the position of a helpless client. Probably, Lord Radstock reasoned that as his friend had shown himself thus unable to carry on the ordinary affairs of life, he would not be better qualified to be the manager of a farm, although one of only seven acres. In consequence, he not only refused to get the two hundred pounds, but strongly advised Clare to have nothing to do with the purchase of 'Bachelors' Hall.' The poet saw through the motives which dictated this advice, and keenly felt the distrust and want of appreciation of him whom he held to be one of the best of his friends.

Much downcast, however, as Clare was by Lord Radstock's refusal, he did not give up the struggle for his great object. His next attempt was to get the required sum of two hundred pounds from his publishers, to whom, he offered, in return, a sort of mortgage on his writings, for a period to come. He addressed himself to Mr. John Taylor in a very pathetic letter, vehement almost in the anxiety manifested to gain the little plot of land, and thus become an independent man. 'The cottage with land,' he wrote to Mr. Taylor, in a letter bearing date January 31, 1823, 'is a beautiful spot of six or seven acres. There are crowds for it if it be sold; but if I could get hold of the mortgage, it would be mine, and still doing a kindness to a friend. I should like to alter it into Poet's Hall, instead of its old name of Bachelor's Hall, which must soon be extinct if I don't succeed. I'll do this way if you like. I'll sell you my writings for five years for that sum, which can't be dear.' Fervent though this appeal was, it left the great publisher in Fleet Street very cold. Mr. Taylor replied, with some sarcasm, that he could not see what put the ambition into Clare's head to become a 'landed proprietor.' Very likely, Mr. Taylor thought it would raise the cost price of the verses, if they were to be manufactured at a 'Poet's Hall.' Therefore, while declining to advance the two hundred pounds, he told his friend, in a long letter, not to be ambitious, but to remain in the state in which God had placed him. The counsel was seasoned, somewhat unnecessarily, by quotations from the Bible.

'Bachelors' Hall' did not become 'Poet's Hall,' but went to the Jew. Clare, seeing all his efforts vain, sunk into a state of low despondency, followed by a long and serious illness. It was the turning period of the poet's life. His career, hitherto, had been strange and anomalous. Tossed about in the surging waves of existence, now in deepest poverty, and now again amidst wealth and splendour, he was beginning to feel weary and faint-hearted, doubting whether he should ever be able to reach the haven of rest and of ease. At the age of thirty now he fancied he had a glimpse of this blissful haven. He felt, and the feeling was undoubtedly just, that the possession of a small independent property would secure to him the much-wanted support in life, not only as furnishing him with additional means of subsistence, but in raising his mental energies, dependent hitherto upon the fitful accidents connected with his position of farm-labourer. His fancy painted to him, in glowing colours, how happy he should be in his roomy 'Poet's Hall,' standing on his own land, 'a beautiful spot of six or seven acres,' full of flowers and fruit trees, with hedges of roses and laurel, and songbirds nestling under the green leaves. No more necessity, then, to take his visitors to the public-house for entertainment; no more necessity to hide in hollow trees in the wood, seeking poetical inspiration; no more necessity to go about, with downcast look, among the insolent farmers, in that most humiliating of all pursuits, asking for work. A charm to even the coarsest minds, the overwhelming consciousness! of being owner of a fraction of the surface of great mother earth, had countless allurements to the poet. He knew it would not only raise him in the world, but would make him a better, a nobler, a wiser man. Yet for all that, and though the haven was so near, he was not allowed to reach it. With patrons in abundance, there was not one willing to advance the small sum of two hundred pounds, which, he said, would make him happy for life; with friends who praised his genius to the skies, there were none who thought it safe to entrust him with the means for purchasing independence otherwise than 'under trustees.' The patrons and friends admired the poet's genius, but they never forgot that he was a 'Northamptonshire peasant,' the son of a pauper. As such, even kind Mr. John Taylor thought proper to preach humility, and refer the 'Village Minstrel' to the Bible.

With the failure of all his schemes, the great truth began, to dawn upon Clare that he was destined, notwithstanding all his friends and patrons, to remain a farmer's drudge and poetical pauper; destined to plough and thresh for others, and, in his spare hours, to make pretty songs for ladies and gentlemen—something better than a clown, and something less than a lackey in uniform. Clare was meek and accustomed to suffering, yet for a long time he could not reconcile himself to the thought that this was part of 'the eternal fitness of things.' So he chafed and fretted under his new burthen of sorrow, and finding it weigh too heavily upon his heart, again sought forgetfulness in the wretched refuge open at the tavern. He drank not much, for he was too poor to do so, at this moment; but even the small quantity of ale or spirits which he imbibed to drown his mental anguish acted like poison upon a weak and ailing body, now more than usually debilitated by insufficient food. In the winter of 1823, Clare found himself almost penniless; yet with inborn loftiness of mind, he hid the fact from his family, so as not to distress them. His wife and parents, therefore, lived as well as ever, while he, to save expenditure, got into the habit of absenting himself at meal-times, pretending to call upon friends and acquaintances. Instead of doing so, he went forth into the fields, munching a dry crust of bread, and, when breaking down under hunger and fatigue, crept to the 'Blue Bell' for a glass of ale. Such a diet, always fatal, was doubly so after the liberal style of living to which he had got accustomed in London, and which he had kept up for some time after, as long as his hope lasted to get payment for the poems delivered to Mr. Drury, as well as for others contributed to the 'London Magazine,' When these sources failed, and the succeeding schemes to acquire 'Bachelors' Hall' broke down one after another, there was bitter want staring him in the face, to stave off which he resolved to make an application to one of his first and best friends, Mr. Gilchrist. It seemed impossible that help, and, what was almost as precious under the circumstances, good advice, should be wanting from this quarter.

Mr. Gilchrist had been absent from Stamford for a long time. His illness, which first seemed slight, and merely due to temporary overwork, had taken a more serious turn after his journey to London, chiefly in consequence of a severe cold caught on the outside of the coach. It was for this reason that he was advised to seek rest and strength at the house of his brother, living, with some members of his family, at Richmond. Retired to this new home, it seemed for a while as if he was getting better; but the old spirit for journalistic controversy stirring within him, he took pen in hand as soon as he felt sufficient strength, which brought on a fresh attack of the disease. Hasty and impatient in all his movements, he now refused to submit any longer to the treatment prescribed by his medical advisers. He fancied that absolute quiet did him more harm than good, by weakening his energy of mind, and, expressing this to his friends, he, notwithstanding their earnest opposition, left Richmond at the beginning of 1823. It was a severe winter; all the streams and rivers being thickly frozen, and the roads covered many feet deep with snow. Under these circumstances, a journey from Surrey into Lincolnshire was no easy undertaking, particularly to an invalid; and when Mr. Gilchrist arrived at his own home, he found that his illness was so much aggravated that he was scarcely able to move. John Clare, on the first news of his friend's arrival, hurried up to Stamford. He had long wished to see him and to speak to him, under the impression that if he could have had his advice, his own circumstances would have taken a very different turn. At present, it was his intention to lay before Mr. Gilchrist a clear statement of his affairs, entreating him to act as a guide in his difficulties, and, as a beginning, to assist him with a small loan, so as to enable him to pay off the most pressing of his debts, and purchase a few necessaries for his family. Clare had been ill for some weeks when, setting out for Stafford; however, he forced himself from his bed of sickness, and slowly crept along the frozen snow-covered road. He reached at length the well-known shop in the High Street; but was surprised, on coming face to face with Mr. Gilchrist to see that he was far worse than himself. Mr. Gilchrist received Clare with a smile, yet was scarcely able to speak, lying on his couch in utter prostration, physical and mental. Clare felt moved by infinite compassion, and, forgetting all his own sufferings, asked what he could do for his friend. The patient again smiled; he would soon be better, he said; there was nothing the matter with him, except a slight rheumatic fever and a little overwork. Mr. Gilchrist then inquired after his friend's circumstances, and got replies similar to his own. Clare, too, would have it that he was quite well, and, on being questioned, accounted for his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes as due to previous attacks of his old enemy, the ague. Of his embarrassed circumstances he said nothing; no more than of all the other matters he had come to discuss, nobly thinking that such a discussion might do harm to his friend in his feeble state. He even refused some slight refreshment, in order not to give trouble; but, seeing the waning day, took his farewell, dragging himself with great difficulty back to his cottage, along the dark road covered with snow and ice. It was late when he arrived, his weakness partly owing to want of nourishment, having compelled him to sit down, every few minutes, on the lonely high road. Entering his hut, his mind seemed wandering; he muttered incoherent words, and crept to his bed, from which he did not arise for months to come.

There was little intercommunication at this time between Stamford, Helpston, and London. Mr. Gilchrist's literary friends scarcely knew of the serious turn his illness had taken, and as for Clare, his name was scarcely ever mentioned. Entirely ignorant of the great art of 'keeping before the public,' he had no sooner become known than he fell again into oblivion, from which even his warmest admirers did little to rescue him. Clare's correspondence with his publishers, too, had lapsed after his unsuccessful attempt to get the small sum of money for the purchase of a freehold; and they were entirely ignorant that he was lying ill in his little hut, and almost dying. For a while, Clare's indisposition seemed quite as serious, if not more so, than that of Mr. Gilchrist. However, under the tender care of his wife and his aged mother, the poet rallied gradually, and in the month of April he was able once more to walk to Stamford, and inquire after the health of his friend. He was not admitted, this time; but the servant, in reply to his inquiries, told him that Mr. Gilchrist was getting better. Clare was still extremely weak, and could not come back till at the end of a month, when he had the satisfaction of seeing his friend, and hearing from his own lips that he was gradually advancing to recovery. Thus reassured, and not willing to intrude himself more than necessary, he remained quietly for another month, and, feeling now almost restored to health, walked with brisk step to Stamford. It was a glorious summer morning—date, the last day of June, 1823. The green fields glistened in the sunshine, and the nightingale sang in Burghley Park; more beautiful, the poet fancied, than he had ever known her sing before. He felt full of joy, in the glow of newly-recovered health, and, while walking along the sunny path, kept revelling in golden day-dreams, in none of which the image of his dear friend Gilchrist was wanting. Thus he got into the old town of Stamford, and before the familiar shop, which, to his surprise, was closed. He knocked, and a female servant opened the door. The girl stared Clare full in the face, and slowly said: 'Mr. Gilchrist died an hour ago.'