The news that CLARE was about to trust his bones to London almost paralysed his rustic intimates. Generations of romancers had made strange impressions upon the provincial mind. Particularly full of odious vaticinations was James Burridge, an old farm labourer whose head was stuffed to the bursting point with stories horrifying enough to make CLARE’S flesh creep. According to this authority, London thoroughly deserved the doubtful compliment of being compared with Babylon. He declared that there were trap-doors in the streets, down which wayfarers flopped into cauldrons of boiling water amid the plaudits of ministering cut-throats! CLARE quailed, his parents wept, and his wife approached within measurable distance of hysterics. But even the prospect of being cooked in this casual manner did not suffice to deter the poet from visiting Mr. Taylor, of Fleet Street. That he set some value upon the legends of James Burridge is proved by his adoption of a small device to baffle the trapdoor operators. Believing safety to be resident in a smock-frock and in boots the soles of which sustained grinning rows of hobnails, he set forth upon his journey thus attired. He was not long in regretting his precautions, for he soon perceived that his costume evoked from onlookers merry comments and derisive glances. In the end, Mr. Taylor supplied him with an overcoat which covered the defects of his attire. Whatever the heat of theatre or drawing-room, whether among lords or commoners, JOHN CLARE clung to this garment with the courage of despair. What his agonies were, because of his raiment, when driven into a corner by a countess for a _tête-à-tête_, we can do no more than dimly conjecture. In the course of this visit CLARE was introduced to Admiral Lord Radstock, who took a great fancy to him and remained a firm friend, and to Mrs. Emmerson, a lady who, seeing that her purse and sympathies were always ready to alleviate the mischances of young poets and artists, might be described as a female Maecenas. To this rather gushing and sentimental patroness of the arts CLARE from time to time addressed letters which were not devoid of the elements of wildness and Platonic passion. At last his emphasis became so absurd that Mrs. Emmerson requested him to send back her portrait. Had a jug of cold water been poured down the poet’s neck he could not have been more cooled than he was by this piece of diplomacy. The shrine was despoiled. The picture was despatched by the next carrier; and doubtless Martha, who must have hated the sight of Mrs. Emmerson’s face, congratulated herself in secret. There is no need to say more about CLARE’S first visit to London, if we except mention of the fact that the mighty city’s chief effect upon him was to fill his breast with yearning for the oaks and rivulets round about his native village. A week in the Metropolis had been more than enough for the countryman. As he rumbled homeward in the