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.