Lions were rare at Peterborough forty years ago. The wife of the Right Reverend Dr. Herbert Marsh, an elderly lady of much energy, often felt lonesome in her old mansion at the foot of the big cathedral, for which suffering neither the sound doctrinal sermons of her husband nor the saintly gossip of weekly tea-parties offered any remedy. There was a little theatre at the episcopal city, at which performances were given now and then; but the histrionic talent of the strolling players being of the slightest, and the Right Reverend Dr. Marsh objecting, moreover, in a subdued manner, to give his immediate patronage to the Punch and Judy of the stage, the lady often felt time hanging heavy on her hands. In this exigency, Mrs. Marsh heard of the Helpston poet, and lost no time in making his acquaintance. Her kindly help and sympathy during his illness was greatly appreciated by Clare, and left him full of gratitude ever after. Nevertheless, though often invited to become a guest at the episcopal palace, he could not summon resolution to do so. He was afraid, not so much of the stiffness and ceremony which he would have to encounter, as of the stern looks of the high dignitary of the Church, who, when visiting him at home, had cross-questioned him in the most awful manner on all subjects, in particular as to the state of his religion. But pressed again and again to pay a short visit to Peterborough, Clare at length consented, being told that Dr. Marsh would be 'kept in his proper place,' and not be allowed to interfere with him. It was on this understanding that Clare made his appearance at the episcopal palace, at the commencement of February, 1828. Mrs. Marsh rejoiced that her poet had come at last, and at once installed him in a funereal little chamber overlooking the gardens, which she had long selected as fittest for the habitation of genius. Before being led to this room, Clare was informed by the lady that he would find several reams of paper, with stores of pens and ink, for his poetic use, and would be at liberty to write anything he liked, epics, madrigals, pastorals, sonnets, and even tragedies. Strict orders were given to the servants not to disturb the poet on any account, but to take whatever food he might require—if requiring food at all—to an adjoining room. The whole of these excellent measures having been executed with great precision, Mrs. Marsh left the palace, to complete the further arrangements in connexion with the exhibition of her new lion.

John Clare, being left alone in his little chamber, felt very dull. He had no idea as to whether the way he was treated was a special honour, or part of the general routine of episcopal existence. However, he concluded that, special or general, his surroundings were of somewhat gloomy aspect. There were certainly plenty of writing materials; but what he wanted far more for the moment was a cup of tea, or coffee, with a slice or two of bread and butter. After vainly trying to make himself heard, he attempted to open the door of his chamber, and found that it was not locked. But there was no soul in the next room, nor in the farther passage, and the whole mansion appeared to be silent like the grave. Up another passage, and down a pair of stairs did not lead him from the regions of silence; a little maid-servant, visible far off, started away like a frightened hind on beholding the poet. Mrs. Marsh evidently was well obeyed in her own house. But Clare now began to feel rather uncomfortable, and resolved to get somewhere, if not to human beings, at least to bread and butter. So he marched down a final pair of stairs, and through a small door out into the garden. There was a porter at the outer garden gate; but he, too, bowed in silence, and in another minute Clare found himself in the streets of Peterborough. The doors of the 'Red Lion' stood hospitably open, and feeling nigh starved, he went in to get some refreshments. No tea and coffee, however, were to be had at the 'Red Lion;' only ale and porter, brandy and whiskey. Clare took some bread, with a glass of ale, and felt very faint immediately after. Not having tasted any alcoholic drink for a long time, the ale produced a sort of stupefaction, from which he did not recover till late in the day. In the meantime, Mrs. Marsh returned to the episcopal palace, and at once inquired for her poet. He was not to be found anywhere, and it was discovered at last that he had escaped into the city. Messengers were despatched forthwith, and while they scoured the streets, John Clare ran right against them, coming from the 'Red Lion,' and feeling still somewhat drowsy. He was secured immediately, and taken in triumph before Mrs. Marsh. The lady, against his expectation, received him most graciously, ascribing his bewildered state to high poetic musings. She was sorry only that he had not been able to make use of her paper and ink in the chamber of genius; but trusted he would write all the more the next day, which, as she hinted, would be a day of great importance.

Clare went to bed, with the 'day of great importance' tingling in his ears. He could not go to sleep for reflections on the subject, and even after shutting his eyes it hovered over him in ghastly dreams. There was an immense table in an immense hall, with ten thousand parsons on the one side, and ten thousand old maids on the other. At the head presided Mrs. Marsh, with the bishop in waiting behind; while he himself was sitting in an arm-chair, suspended by ropes from the ceiling. Then Mrs. Marsh called upon him to make a speech, and while he was rising, down came the arm-chair, ropes and all. It was a hard bump, and Clare felt aching all over. Before he could rise, a man-servant rushed into the room. 'Good heavens, Sir, you have fallen out of bed,' he cried; 'I hope you are not hurt.' 'No, not much,' said Clare; 'but I should be glad to have a cup of tea.' The tea was brought, and with it some useful information. They were to have a grand party in the afternoon, said the man; he, that is, his mistress, having invited all the notabilities of Peterborough, with the dean, the archdeacon, and the canons. Clare shuddered. 'At what time will the entertainment commence?' he inquired. 'At four,' was the reply. Nothing more was said; Clare sipped his tea, and, the servant gone, commenced making up his little bundle of clothes. Part of the contents he was able to stuff into his pockets; the rest formed a parcel not much larger than a couple of hooks. Once more he made his way down the broad flight of stairs, passed the silent porter at the gate, and a minute after stood in the High Street, opposite the Angel Inn. The coach for London, he was told, would start in half an hour. Clare took his seat inside, hiding his face, as best he could, under a handkerchief, and drawing a long breath when the horses were whipped into a gallop and sprang away southward. It was late at night when the Peterborough coach discharged its passengers at the 'Bell and Crown,' Holborn. Clare hurried up to Stratford Place, and was glad to find Mrs. Emmerson at home. The lady shook hands with the greatest cordiality, called him her dearest friend, and praised his verses in terms which made him blush. With all his bitter experiences, he was once more ready to fall in love—Platonic or otherwise.

One of Clare's first visits in London was to Allan Cunningham He was received as a brother by the warm-hearted Scotchman, and encouraged to unburthen his whole heart. Allan now heard for the first time that his friend was in great pecuniary distress, and that his poetry, so far from bringing him a competence, as he had been led to believe, met with but the most trifling remuneration. Filled with compassion, Allan offered his friend assistance; but this was proudly refused. He next advised Clare to go to Mr. Taylor, and request, politely but firmly, a statement of the whole of the transactions between them, including an account of the profits made by the sale of the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' the 'Village Minstrel,' and the 'Rural Poems.' Clare promised to do so, and the next day went to Mr. Taylor's residence, Percy Street, near Rathbone Place. The publisher received him in his ordinary friendly, though somewhat stiff and formal manner. Clare was on the point of delivering his preconcerted speech, when Mr. Taylor interrupted him with an unexpected communication. He told him frankly that he had not been able hitherto to give much attention to the sale of the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' and that this, probably, was the reason why but few copies had been disposed of. As a compensation, Mr. Taylor offered Clare to let him have as many volumes of his new work as he liked at cost price, that he might sell them in his own neighbourhood. The project of becoming a perambulating bookseller, hawker of his own poetical ware, came upon Clare in a startling manner. He did not know what to reply to the proposal made to him, and asked time for reflection. Mr. Taylor had no objection to this, and told his friend to come again in a few days. Thereupon Clare went away, not saying a word on the financial subject which he had come to discuss.

There was much fluctuating advice among Clare's friends as to the propriety of his turning poetical bagman. Mrs. Emmerson at first was greatly opposed to the scheme, but afterwards changed her opinion, on the ground that the exercise and change of air might prove beneficial to his health. Allan Cunningham, however, would not hear of Mr. Taylor's scheme for a moment. He said it was disgraceful that such a proposal should have been made, and exhorted his friend not to think for a moment of accepting it. 'God knows,' Allan exclaimed passionately, 'poetry has sunk low enough already; but do not you haul it lower still by dragging the muse along the muddy roads in a pedlar's bag.' Clare was much impressed by these words, and promised further reflection, which, however, tended only to lead him in an opposite direction to that proposed by his noble friend Allan. The thought of being able to acquire a little capital; of getting out of debt; of purchasing a small farm; and of giving his children a good education, carried everything before it, and he finally resolved to risk all else, even obloquy, to gain these ends. Talking the subject over once more with. Mrs. Emmerson, as happily ignorant as himself in the matter, the conclusion was arrived at that it would be easy to gain five hundred a year by the sale of his books. It seemed not necessary, therefore, that he should continue his new occupation longer than a few years, when he would be enabled to retire from business and spend the rest of his days in comfort and ease. Thus the poet kept on building his castles in the air, until they reached to the very clouds. When meeting Mr. Taylor at the appointed time, Clare told him that he accepted his kind offer, and would do his best to carry out the scheme with all possible energy. Thereupon the poet and his publisher parted-parted never to meet again, although to each life had scarce run half its course.

Clare remained in London till towards the end of March, lionising a little and making a few new acquaintances. Frequently, when walking along the streets, he found himself addressed by strangers, who recognised him at once from Hilton's exceedingly faithful picture, which hung in Mr. Taylor's parlour, and was reproduced in the portrait prefixed to the 'Village Minstrel.' Thus he ran one day in Russell Square against Alaric Watts, who, though never having met him before, addressed him without hesitation as a brother poet, and insisted upon remaining in his company for some time. In the same manner, too, he met Henry Behnes, the sculptor, who showed himself so delighted with his acquaintance that he would not let him go till he had promised to sit for his bust. Clare did sit, and Behnes produced an admirable work of art, which, like Hilton's picture, was paid for and kept by Mr. Taylor.[1] Mrs. Emmerson took advantage of the modelling of the bust by celebrating it as a notable event, and inviting to her house a distinguished party of artists and patrons of art, to whom she wished to present her poet, together with 'his painter,' and 'his sculptor.' As always on such occasions, Clare felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and had no sooner entered the brilliantly lighted-up saloon when he resolved to run away. He communicated his intention to the other two heroes of the evening, who at once expressed their wish to be the companions of his flight. William Hilton, like Clare, was averse to lionship, and glad enough to escape from any crowd, whether in satin or rags; and as for Henry Behnes, he had become so fond of his 'Northamptonshire Peasant,' that he declared himself ready to travel with him to the ends of the world. The friends did not go quite as far on this occasion, but only to a neighbouring tavern. Here the happy trio, poet, painter, and sculptor, sat down to a supper of bread and cheese, seasoned with pale ale, and the flow of unrestrained thought. They talked of all the noblest subjects that stir the human breast; of all the unutterable longings that fill the heart of genius. At last they talked of each other, their hopes, aims, and aspirations, building golden castles high up into the clouds. They saw fame before them with outstretched arms; wealth following in its course; and of love and happiness a bountiful reward. These were lofty dreams: too lofty, alas! for the flight of helpless genius—genius not understanding the first of all earthly arts, that of making money. William Hilton, though a famous painter and Royal Academician, was left to die in poverty, the greater part of his pictures remaining on his hands unsold. Henry Behnes, noblest of sculptors, went to perish in an hospital; and John Clare…. The reader may fill the blank.

[1] Both, the bust by Behnes, and Hilton's oil-painting of Clare, remained in Mr. Taylor's hands during his lifetime, and after his death (1864) were sold by public auction, at Messrs. Christie, Manson, and Woods, March 17, 1865, when they came into the possession of the author of this work.

Mrs. Emmerson was very angry with her guest when he came back to her house a little after midnight, having been kept so long in the delightful interchange of thoughts with his two artist friends. Clare took very little notice of the remarks of his fair host about want of courtesy and the disappointment of distinguished visitors, his mind being full of reflections engendered by the evening's conversation. He inwardly resolved to enjoy, if possible, many more such evenings; but changed his determination the next day. It was a beautiful day of spring, the warm sunlit air wafting in soft breezes from over the green fields with its first blossoms, into the crowded streets of the town. Clare took a long walk through Regent's Park and past Primrose Hill towards Hampstead, on the slopes of which he discovered some early violets. The sight fairly made him home-sick. He ran back to Stratford Place, and quite startled Mrs. Emmerson by crying, 'I must go!' And go he did, twenty hours after; in such a haste as not even to find time to bid farewell to Allan Cunningham, warmest of friends. But he left a letter for Allan, 'a shake of the hand on paper,' which, coming down to the present time, may be found still interesting. The letter ran:—

'Stratford Place, March 21, 1828.

My Dear Cunningham—I wholly intended to see you, but now I fear I cannot, as my stay is grown so short; so, if I cannot, here is a "good bye," and God bless you, and as you are aware of my ignorance in travelling about your great Babel, being insufficient to do so in most cases without a guide, which is not always to be procured, you must allow me to make up for the omission by a shake of the hand on paper, as hearty as your imagination can feel it. If you had not been a poet I would not have made such a bull, but it is an English one; it has not a cold meaning. Therefore accept it in lieu of a better. Pray give my kind remembrances to Mrs. Cunningham, and if I could utter compliments as well as I feel gratification in the society of kind and warm-hearted people, I should grow eloquent in her praise. But you well know I am not Ovid, and I as well know I am no orator, so if I am unable to pay ladies deserving compliments, if she will accept the plain respects of a plain fellow, and allow them as nothing more, it will please me much better. Once again, "good bye."

Now I am going to say last what would have been a compliment to have said first, perhaps, and that is that Mrs. Emmerson feels much gratified at your commendation of her poem ["The Return," in Allan Cunningham's Annual, "The Anniversary"], and much more so, as that commendation came from a poet. Now comes the cut to my vanity, a sad confession, but perhaps better "in the breach than the performance." (Allow me to misquote to suit my purpose.) You ask me for a prose tale, and you imagine I have written one. Good faith, my dear Allan, I have not, neither dare I, for I know not what to say; excuses I might have for writing it badly, but whether I could find excuses for writing it at all I cannot say. I should be somewhat in the case of the lady, who excused her faulty book before the rude Dr. Johnson by saying that she had so many irons in the fire that she had not time to write it better. You may know his reply from my inability in the like. "Then I advise you, madam," said he, "to put your book where your irons are." Such I fear would be the deserving meed of a prose composition of mine, though your proposition goes a good way to urge me, if I dare.—Farewell, my dear Allan, and believe me your sincere friend and highly gratified brother in the muses,

John Clare.'

The day after writing this letter, Clare was on his way back to Helpston. He rejoiced inwardly when passing the bill of Highgate, looking back over the vast world of bricks and smoke behind, and beholding the sunny fields, fragrant with the first blossoms of spring, in front. More than ever he felt that he could not exist within the big metropolis, even its large intellectual life offering no compensation for the bounteous joys of nature. He almost shuddered when glancing at the huge black vault for the last time, at the turn of the Highgate Road. But he did not know it was the last time that his eyes rested upon London.