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. I would not have thee come to sing Long odes to that eternal spring On which young bards their changes ring, With buds and flowers: I look for many a better thing Than brooks and bowers. 'T is true thou paintest to the eye The straw-thatched roof with elm trees high, But thou hast wisdom to descry What lurks below-- The springing tear, the melting sigh, The cheek's heart-glow. The poets all, alive and dead, Up, Clare, and drive them from thy head! Forget whatever thou hast read Of phrase or rhyme, For he must lead and not be led Who lives through time.