In 1823, Clare suffered from a long and serious illness; brought on, in all probability, by an insufficiency of food, and by mental anxiety caused by his inability to free himself from the importunity of creditors. During his illness he was visited by Mr. Taylor, who had come down to Stamford to attend the funeral of Mr. Gilchrist, and Mr. Taylor, shocked at the poet's appearance, procured for him at once the services of the principal physician in Peterborough. Clare had also an excellent and warm-hearted friend in Mrs. Marsh, wife of the Bishop of Peterborough, who corresponded with him frequently, in a familiar and almost motherly manner, from 1821 to 1837. When Clare complained of indisposition, a messenger would be dispatched from "The Palace," with medicines or plaisters, camphor lozenges, or "a pound of our own tea," with sensible advice as to personal habits and diet. At another time hot-house grapes are sent, or the messenger bears toys for the children, or a magnifying glass to assist Clare in his observations in entomolgy, or books, or "three numbers of Cobbett's penny trash, which Mr. Clare may keep." One day Mrs. Marsh writes—
"To show you how I wish to cheer you I am sending you cakes, as one does to children: they are harmless, so pray enjoy them, and write to tell me how you are."
Engravings of the new chain pier are sent from Brighton, and on one occasion (in 1829) a steel pen was enclosed in a letter, as a great curiosity. Clare was on several occasions a visitor at the Bishop's Palace, and in July, 1831, Mrs. Marsh wrote the following note, which confirms the impression received from the perusal of other letters, that about that time Clare's mind had been much exercised with respect to his soul's health:—
"My dear Mr. Clare,—I must take my leave, and in doing so must add that in thinking of you it is my greatest comfort to know that you fix your trust where our only and never-failing trust rests."
Lady Milton also frequently sent her humble neighbour presents suitable to his invalid condition.
ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON
Clare had not entirely recovered from this illness, when in May, 1824, he once more accepted the invitation of his publishers to visit London. They were desirous that he should have the benefit of the advice of Dr. Darling, the kind-hearted physician already mentioned. On seeing him in Fleet Street, Dr. Darling ordered that he should be kept perfectly free from excitement of all kinds, but at the end of two or three weeks he was permitted to meet a literary party composed chiefly of contributors to the "London Magazine." Among the guests were Coleridge, Lamb, De Quincey, Hazlitt, and Allan Cunningham. In the manuscript memoir to which reference has already been made, Clare noted down his impressions of Coleridge and others, and they are embodied in Mr. Martin's account of this visit. He was a frequent visitor to Mrs. Emmerson, and a few days before he left London was once more thrown into the society of Rippingille, who declared that he had left Bristol solely for the purpose of meeting his friend. Clare, obeying implicitly the injunctions of Dr. Darling, declined all invitations to revelry, and therefore the companionship was less prejudicial to his health and spirits than on the occasion of his former visit. At his publishers, Clare made the acquaintance of Mr.(afterwards Sir Charles) Elton, brother-in-law of Hallam, the historian, and uncle to the subject of "In Memoriam." Mr. Elton, who was a friend and patron of Rippingille, was much pleased with Clare, and while he was yet in London sent him from Clifton the following metrical epistle, which afterwards appeared in the "London Magazine." It contains several interesting touches of portraiture:—
So loth, friend John, to quit the town!
'T was in the dales thou won'st renown;
I would not, John, for half a crown,
Have left thee there,
Taking my lonely journey down
To rural air.
The pavement flat of endless street
Is all unsuited to thy feet,
The fog-wet smoke is all unmeet
For such as thou,
Who thought'st the meadow verdure sweet,
But think'st not now.
"Time's hoarse unfeather'd nightingales" [3]
Inspire not like the birds of vales:
I know their haunts in river dales,
On many a tree,
And they reserve their sweetest tales,
John Clare, for thee.