Before Mr. Taylor left Helpston, he gave his client an invitation to come up to London, and spend a few weeks at his house. Perhaps the offer was meant only as a polite phrase, or a 'general invitation;' however, Clare, unaquainted with the ways of good society, took it to be a special summons, and, after due reflection, made up his mind to visit the great metropolis once more. He fixed the journey, to him a great undertaking, for the spring of 1822, and, remembering former miseries, decided upon going this time in a new suit of clothes, expressly ordered at Stamford. The winter of 1821-2 Clare spent at home, in comparative idleness. Visitors continued to drop in from various places, and the little cottage being too small to entertain them, he got into the regular habit of meeting them at the 'Blue Bell.' The custom, originating in this way, became a fatal one before long. Clare began to look upon the public house as his second home, and the corner seat near the fire-place as one specially appropriated to him, and which he ought to fill every evening. Fortunately, he was not enabled to indulge the habit to its utmost extent. Frequent excursions to Stamford, and sometimes to Peterborough, where he found a few good friends, drew him away from the 'Blue Bell,'—though sometimes to places where ale and spirits flowed as rapidly and were consumed with as much relish as at the little inn at Helpston. It was altogether a fatal period of excitement, threatening to the future of the warm-hearted and but too susceptible poet.

The winter thus passed, and Clare got ready in the spring to start for London. He had hoped to travel, as before, in the company of Octavius Gilchrist; but found, at the last moment, that this was impossible. Poor Mr. Gilchrist was lying ill at his house at Stamford, the dreadful battle with the Rev. Mr. Bowles and all the Bowles family having thrown him on a bed of sickness. Unaccustomed, like his more hardy brethren of the metropolitan press, to fight with the windmills of periodical literature, and to throw fire from his nostrils without burning himself, he had taken the whole Bowles campaign too much to heart, and was bleeding from the strokes which he had given as much as the wounds he had received. His mind was deeply impressed with the notion, that he had suffered defeat on some, if not on many points, and there being no stout-hearted literary lion within reach of his grocery store, to cheer his spirits and console him in his affliction, he began to feel sick and weary. All entreaties of his friends to come to London he absolutely refused, and there remained nothing for Clare but to set out alone. The due preparations having been made, he went to Stamford, one fine morning, in the month of May, mounted the outside of the coach, and was whirled away, through Northamptonshire, Huntingdon, and Beds, to the metropolis. Discharged, once more, at the 'George and Blue Boar,' Holborn, he was bold enough to steer, unaided, through the intricate thoroughfares of London, and reached the haven in Fleet Street without accident. Mr. John Taylor looked somewhat surprised on beholding his poet, carrying a big stick in one hand, and in the other a large bundle tied in a coloured pocket handkerchief, with a pair of hob-nailed boots sticking out on each side. However, a gentleman born and bred, he smiled pleasantly, helped to unpack Clare's bundle, and made him welcome to his house. Supper and wine contributed to break the ice, and Mr. John Taylor discovered, for the first time, that his guest from the country was a very pleasant companion.

The busy bookseller of Fleet Street had no time to play the cicerone; therefore, on the morning after Clare's arrival, he delivered him formally over to Mr. Thomas Hood, subeditor of the 'London Magazine.' But Mr. Hood, too—just rising into fame, thanks to 'Elia' and other friends—thought he had no time to spare, and left him to Tom Benyon, the much-respected head-porter of the firm of Taylor and Hessey. When Thomas Hood came to know John Clare a little better, he paid more attention to his charge; but this did not happen till at the end of two or three weeks. Meanwhile Clare amused himself as best he could, guided wherever he wished to go by the faithful Tom. One of his first visits was to Mrs. Emmerson, who received him in the most affectionate manner, and invited him to dine daily at her house. The invitation was freely accepted, and Clare for some time spent his afternoon and the early part of the evening regularly at the lady's house at Stratford Place, Oxford Street. Clare here met again his old friend and patron, Lord Radstock, besides a goodly number of the literary and artistic celebrities of the day. He found few friends, or men he liked, among the authors; but more among the painters into whose company he was thrown. With some of them he struck an intimate acquaintance, particularly with Mr. Rippingille, an artist of some note in his day. The latter was very fond of long rambles through London, and very fond of pale ale, too; and Clare sharing both these likings, the two were constantly together. Many an evening, after leaving Mrs. Emmerson's house—which happened, nearly always, immediately after dinner—the artist and poet set out together on a journey of exploration, visiting unknown parts of the metropolis, the haunts of thieves and vagabonds. When getting tired of this amusement, they directed their researches into other quarters, inspecting all the small theatres, exhibitions, and concert rooms, down to the very lowest. The progress of this movement was interrupted by an unexpected event. One evening, when visiting the Regency Theatre, in Tottenham Court Road, both were fascinated by the charms of a beautiful young actress, a native of France, figuring in the play-bills as Mademoiselle Dalia. Clare's susceptible heart took fire at once; and friend Rippingille was not behind in the sudden burst of his affections. They both vowed eternal love to the fair actress, and, as a commencement, Rippingille drew her portrait, after the dictate of his fancy, while Clare added to it a passionate effusion in verse. The artistic-poetical gift was duly despatched to Mademoiselle Dalia, but elicited no reply. Night after night, poet and painter took their seat within the temple of the muses in Tottenham Court Road; but night after night they waited in vain for a glance from the beautiful eyes of Mademoiselle Dalia, although they had taken care to inform her that they were sitting, arm in arm, in front of the pit. The neglect of Mademoiselle preyed upon their minds; they pined away, the two friends, and drank more pale ale than ever.

Clare's excursions with his friend kept him generally till after midnight from his residence, which was a great source of annoyance to the methodical bookseller of Fleet Street. Mr. Thomas Hood thereupon got instructions to tell Clare that early hours would be more acceptable to his host; which instructions were communicated by commission, in due business course, through the faithful Tom, the head-porter. Clare felt offended, and informed Mrs. Emmerson of what had happened; making a full confession of his sorrows, even those concerning the too beautiful Mademoiselle Dalia. Mrs. Emmerson deeply sympathised with her poetical friend, telling him at the same time that he would be welcome to stay at her house if he liked. The offer was accepted, and Clare marched back straightway to Fleet Street, gathered his property, including the boots, within the coloured pocket-handkerchief, and came back in triumph to Stratford Place. That same evening, thinking himself more at liberty in his new quarters, he undertook a somewhat longer excursion with Mr. Rippingille. After staying punctually through the performance in the Tottenham Court Road Theatre, sighing over the enchanting looks of Mademoiselle, the friends adjourned to a neighbouring public-house, and from thence to a tavern known as Offley's, famous for its Burton ale. The ale was unusually good this evening, and the company too was unusually good, which combined attraction made the friends remain in their place till long after their wonted time. Talking about poetry and high art, and talking still more about Mademoiselle Dalia and her angelic charms, the hours slipped away like minutes, and the first rosy clouds of a bright June morning began to appear in the east before they were able to quit Offley's hospitable roof. Shaking hands once more at the door, Rippingille took his way, with somewhat faltering step, to his lodgings in Oxford Street; while Clare, rather more steady in his gait, went straight to Mrs. Emmerson's residence. He discovered Stratford Place with the help of a sympathetic watchman; but was unable to get an entrance into his temporary home. Mrs. Emmerson, after waiting for her guest till towards the dawn of day, had gone to bed, thinking that he might have taken his way back to his old quarters in Meet Street. The combined efforts of Clare and the friendly watchman having proved fruitless to get into the house, nothing remained but to seek some other shelter. But there were no places open anywhere, and the poet, beginning to feel very tired, resolved to take the advice of his companion, and creep into the inside of a hackney coach, drawn up in a yard. The kind watchman carefully shut the door, and Clare, finding the place uncommonly snug and comfortable, fell asleep immediately.

Sweet dreams soon filled the mind of the poet. There dame visions of green fields decked with flowers; of large banqueting rooms thronged with beautiful ladies; and of theatres crowded by joyous multitudes; and right in the midst of all these apparitions stood the enchanting fairy of Tottenham Court Road. She approached him; she pierced his heart with a smile of her dark eyes; at last she kissed him. The touch of her lips was like an electric shock, and he sprang to his feet. But he could not stand; something was moving under him. He rubbed his eyes; rubbed them again and again; and at last discovered that he was inside a square box, drawn along by two horses. Gradually the events of the past day and night arose from out the mist of his dreams and fancies, and he began to be conscious that he was sitting in the identical hackney coach into which his friend, the watchman, had put him. The difficulty settled as to how he got in, there came the more perplexing question as to how he should get out again. The coachman was evidently unaware of the presence of a poet in his box, and a too sudden revelation of the fact, Clare feared, might produce the worst consequences. Viewed from the back, he seemed a grim, ferocious-looking fellow, the terrible driver of the hackney-coach. He kept whipping his horses continually, and faster and faster the vehicle jolted along, Clare hiding his face in the cushions, in bitter anguish of heart. At last the coach stopped in front of a public-house. A fervent prayer arose in the mind of the traveller that his coachman would go inside and take something to drink. Part of the prayer was fulfilled, for the man did take something to drink, though he did not go inside. A lounger at the gate, with whom he seemed on familiar terms, appeared in a moment with a glass in his hand, containing a steaming liquid, which the man with the whip gulped down in an instant, and then prepared to ascend his seat again. But Clare now began to think that he had travelled far enough, and, in a desperate leap, jumped out of his coach, and nearly overturned the astonished driver. The latter, however, had him by the collar in an instant, crying, 'And who are you?' Clare tried to explain; introducing himself as author of 'Poems of Rural Life,' and the 'Village Minstrel,' in two volumes, with engravings. But the hackney man, learning these facts, frowned more grimly than ever, his mind evidently full of grave doubts. After short reflection, he carefully examined the inside of the coach, and giving his victim a good shake, asked him how much money he had in his possession. Clare, trembling all over, took out his purse, and found he had ten shillings and a few pence. The terrible coachman grasped the purse, gave the owner a slap on the back as a receipt, and with a valedictory 'Go along, you scamp!' dismissed the unhappy poet. John Clare felt faint and ready to sink to the ground; but fear gave him courage, and he ran away as fast as he could. It was not long before he discovered that he was, after all, not far from his dwelling in Stratford Place. Having obtained entrance, he sank down utterly exhausted in an arm-chair, to the intense astonishment of Mrs. Emmerson.

When Clare had somewhat recovered himself, the questioning commenced. Although reluctant to tell his whole story, his vigilant hostess extracted it piece by piece, and finally broke out into an immoderate fit of laughter. Clare was surprised, and somewhat offended; but felt too weak for opposition or remonstrance. Even his desire that the affair should be kept as secret as possible was met with renewed merriment, the reply being that, before saying more, he should take some refreshment. A good luncheon, with liberal supply of sherry, had the effect of bringing Clare's feelings more in accordance with those of Mrs. Emmerson. He was himself inclined to laugh at his droll adventure in the hackney coach, and thought he should be ready almost to shake hands with the terrible driver. In this vein of good humour, Mrs. Emmerson got ready permission to tell his curious adventure to whomsoever she liked—even in his presence at the dinner-table. The stipulation was fulfilled to the letter. There was a grand party that evening at Mrs. Emmerson's house, and, towards the end of the entertainment, when all were in good spirits, the fair hostess told the story of the poet in the hackney coach. She told it in good dramatic style, embellishing it a little, and heightening the effect of some of the incidents. But she was not allowed to tell it uninterruptedly. There broke forth such a storm of laughter on all sides as seemed to shake the very table, and not a few of the guests appeared absolutely convulsed with merriment. Clare good-humouredly joined in the general hilarity, for which he was recompensed by having his health drunk, with full bumpers, by the whole assembly. After which, in special honour of Clare's ingenious method of declaring his identity to a hackney coachman, there came, amidst universal delight, another toast to 'The Village Minstrel in London.'

At the house of Mrs. Emmerson, Clare stayed about a week, and then accepted an invitation of the Rev. H. T. Cary, the translator of Dante, who had met him previously at Mr. Taylor's office. Mr. Gary was living at Chiswick, in an old ivy-covered mansion, formerly inhabited by Sir James Thornhill, the painter, and after him by his famous son-in-law, Hogarth. Clare spent some pleasant days here, his kind host pointing out to him various memorials connected with the great satirist and moralist—the window through which Hogarth eloped with old Thornhill's only daughter; the place where he painted the 'Rake's Progress;' and the spot in the garden where he buried his faithful dog, with the inscription, 'Life to the last enjoyed, here Pompey lies.' There were agreeable excursions, too, from Chiswick to the neighbouring places, particularly to Richmond, where Clare visited Thompson's monument on the hill, as well as his tombstone in the old church, which, covered as it was with cobwebs, he thought much less beautiful than that of Hogarth's dog. It was Clare's intention to stop at least a week with his kind host at Chiswick, but an awkward circumstance occasioned his departure at the end of a few days. The reverend translator of Dante's 'Inferno' introduced his guest in a careless sort of way to his house, without presenting the various members of his family, and the consequence was that Clare fell into a grievous mistake from the beginning. Mr. Cary had several grown-up children, and a beautiful young wife, looking of the same age as his daughters. In the round of excitement through which he had gone, and with his head still full of the charming Mademoiselle Dalia, of Tottenham, Court Road, Clare thought it incumbent upon him to write verses at the old ivy-covered mansion, the more so as the owner had emphatically introduced him as author of 'I love thee, sweet Mary.' So he began by penning delicate sonnets, dedicated to the lady whom he deemed the fairest of the daughters of the Rev. Mr. Cary, or, in point of fact, to his wife. Mrs. Gary, on getting the first poetical epistle, held it to be a declaration of lore, and, very properly, burnt the paper. But getting a second piece of poetry, somewhat mystic in expression, she showed it to her husband, who, being an elderly gentleman with a wig, got very excited over the matter. He took Clare aside on the instant, telling him, with much warmth, that it was not the custom at Chiswick to make love to other men's wives, and that, however much he admired his sonnets, he did not like his mode of distributing them. Clare was thunderstruck on learning that he had been addressing Mrs. Gary instead of the fair daughter of the house, and, for a moment, was almost unable to speak. Recovering himself, he stammered forth his simple tale, hiding nothing, nor trying to excuse his conduct. It was impossible to listen and not believe his words. The Rev. Mr. Gary perceived at once the ridiculous error into which he had fallen, and shaking Clare's hand in a most affectionate manner, bade him think no more of the whole affair, and for the future distribute as many specimens of his poetry as he liked to his wife and daughters. Clare fully appreciated the kindness which distated this offer; however, he thought that it was impossible for him to stop any longer at the house. He insisted upon leaving at once, and Mr. Gary, finding all his persuasions fruitless, accompanied him back to London. It was Clare's intention to return to Helpston immediately, but going to the shop of his publishers in Fleet Street, he heard that Octavius Gilchrist had arrived the previous day, and wished to see him. He therefore took up his quarters once more at the house of Mr. Taylor. The great battle with the Bowles' family and the book-grinding windmills had made poor Mr. Gilchrist really and seriously ill. The doctors of Stamford shook their heads, talking of nervous affection, of change of air, and of rest from the cares of grocery and literature. With every succeeding day, the men of science got to look more and more mournful, until the patient felt as if he was going already through the process of being buried. One morning, thereupon, he took a desperate resolution. Although ordered not to leave his room on any account, he went to the stage coach, engaged the box-seat, and bravely rode up to London. Mr. Gilchrist was really fond of Clare, and had no sooner arrived than he went in search of him. Clare consented to stay a little longer in town, partly at the house of Mr. John Taylor, and partly at that of Herr Burkhardt, Mr. Gilchrist's brother-in-law. The jolly watchmaker in the Strand was overjoyed on seeing his rural friend again, fancying to get another opportunity to show the lions of London. But Clare soon proved to him that by this time he knew more about the big metropolis, its theatres and concert-rooms, its taverns and alehouses, and even its beggars' and thieves' slums, than many a native of Cockaigne, and Herr Burkhardt, therefore, was compelled, much against his wish, to leave him alone. Mr. Rippingille having meanwhile taken his departure for Bristol, vainly trying to persuade his friend to follow him thither, Clare was left almost entirely in the company of Mr. Gilchrist. The latter introduced him to a great many of his acquaintances; first and foremost to Mr. William Gifford. Clare felt somewhat abashed when admitted into the presence of the renowned editor of the 'Quarterly Review,' whose pen had so much contributed to his rise in the world. Mr. Gifford, who was sitting on a couch, surrounded by an immense quantity of books and papers, received the poet in a very friendly manner, making some judicious remarks about the 'Village Minstrel,' which he declared to be vastly superior to the 'Poems of Rural Life.' This gave Clare courage, and he freely entered into a lengthened conversation, in the course of which the editor of the 'Quarterly' took care to warn him, with much emphasis, to be on his guard against booksellers and publishers. Leaving Mr. Gifford, Octavius Gilchrist, somewhat maliciously, took his friend direct to one of the dreaded class of publishers against which he had just been warned. They went to the house of Mr. Murray, in Albemarle Street, in front of which stood a number of brilliant carriages. Mr. Gilchrist and his friend had to wait some time in an anteroom; but, once admitted, both were received with great cordiality. Clare was much pleased with the simple, hearty manner of the great patron of literature; and the pleasure appeared to be mutual, for Mr. Murray, in his turn, began to converse in a very unrestrained manner, and, on leaving, bade Clare never to come to London without seeing him. Quitting the house in Albemarle Street, Clare ran right against Mr. Gifford, who was coming up the steps. Both apologised, and both felt somewhat confused concerning the thankless old business of giving and taking advice.

During the remaining part of his stay in London, Clare was much in company with Mr. Thomas Hood. The genial sub-editor of the 'London Magazine' had found out by this time that Mr. Taylor's guest was something more than a mere spinner of verses and glorifier of daisies and buttercups, and, having made this discovery, he got anxious to be in Clare's company. The acquaintance soon grew intimate, and Clare followed his new friend wherever he chose to take him. First on the list stood the house of Mr. Charles Lamb, to which they went on a pilgrimage late one evening. 'Elia' was in splendid good humour; comfortably ensconced in a large arm-chair, with a huge decanter at his right hand, and a huge bronze snuff-box, from which he continually helped himself, on his left. Clare having been formally introduced, Charles Lamb took a whole handful of snuff, and falling back in his armchair, stuttered out an atrocious pun concerning rural poets and hackney coaches. Seeing that his guest looked somewhat displeased, he took him under closer treatment at his right hand, and with the help of the big decanter, soon put him into excessive good humour. The conversation now became general, and Clare thought he had never met with such an agreeable companion as the great 'Elia.' Till late at night, the drinking and talking continued, until at last Charles Lamb's sister, the motherly Bridget, came into the room, delivering an eloquent lecture upon the value of sobriety. When Clare looked serious: 'Do … do … don't be offended, my boy,' quoth Charles, 'we all know the virtue of rustic swine-I me … me … mean of a rustic swain!' Which saying, 'Elia' pushed on his decanter. But it was too much for Clare. 'I must goo,' he said. And go he did accordingly.

The return journey to Stamford which Clare and Octavius Gilchrist had arranged to make together, was made impossible, on the part of the latter, by his continued illness. In order to find absolute rest, together with kind attention, Mr. Gilchrist resolved to go on a lengthened visit to two of his brothers at Richmond, in Surrey. Having stayed already more than a month in London, Clare now had to think of returning, which he did after taking solemn farewell from all his old and new friends. Faithful Tom Benyon, on a sunny morning in June, carried the poet's well-stocked handkerchief, with the boots, to the 'George and Blue Boar,' in Holborn, and the streets were just beginning to swarm with life, when the Stamford coach went rolling through them into the green fields. Clare was the only outside passenger, besides a stout elderly gentleman who went as far as Islington. The stout person had seen Clare somewhere before, and, being extremely pleased to meet a famous poet on such a fine morning in June, ordered brandy and water at three successive taverns where the coach stopped for passengers. The effect was such that Clare went to sleep on his seat, and, having been carefully strapped to the cushion by the experienced guard, slept all the way to Stamford—last result of a visit to the great metropolis.