m^ §m m§ wmmM m LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE TIIF. LIFE OF JOHN CLARE, LIFE OF JOHN CLARE r,Y FREi)Ei;i(;K .MAirriN. 'I'oniJou ;mb Cambviiige : MA C MILL A N A >>' J) C 0. 18G5. C o^ i.iiNiiiiN: i:. (LAV, >;iiN. AN'i) lAvr.Dr;, ri(i\rKiis, iiUKAii srijiKi' iiri.i,. PEEFACE. Some forty years ago, tlie literary world raptui-ously hailed the appearance of a new poet, brought forward as ' the Northamptonshire Peasant ' and ' the English Burns.' There was no limit to the applause bestowed upon him. Eossini set his verses to music ; Madame Vestris recited them before crowded audiences ; William GifFord sang his praises in the ' Quarterly Eeview ; ' and all the critical journals, reviews, and magazines of the day were unanimous in their admiration of poetical genius coming before them in the humble garb of a farm labourer. The 'Northamptonshire Peasant' was duly petted, flattered, lionized, and caressed — and, of course, as duly forgotten when his nine days were passed. It was the old tale, all over. In this case, flattery did not spoil the ' peasant ; ' but poverty, neglect, and suffering broke his heart. After writing some exquisite poetry, and struggling for years with fierce want, he sank at last under the burthen of liis sorrows, and in the spring of 1864 died at the North- ampton Lunatic Asylum. It is a very old tale, no doubt, but which may bear being told once more, brimful as it is of human interest. The narrative has been drawn from a vast mass of letters and other original documents, including some very curious autobiographical memoirs. The possession of all these papers, kindly furnished by friends and admirers of the poet, has enabled the writer to give more detail to his description than is usual in short biographies — at least in biographies of men born, like John Clare, in what may truly be called the very lowest rank of the people. London, Mmj, 18G5. COITTENTS. PAGE HELPSTON 1 JOHN CLARE LEARNS THRESHING, AND MAKES AN ATTEMP TO BECOME A lawyer's CLERK 9 JOHN CLARE STUDIES ALGEBRA, AND FALLS IN LOVE ... 15 TRAVELS IN SEARCH OF A BOOK 23 VARIOUS ADVENTURES, INCLUDING THE PURCHASE OF * LOWE's CRITICAL spelling-book' 28 FRESH ATTEMPTS TO RISE IN THE WORLD : A SHORT MILITARY CAREER 40 TRIAL OF GYPSY LIFE 48 LIME BURNING AND LOVE MAKING 51 ATTEMPTS TO GET UP A PROSPECTUS 58 THE TURN OF FORTUNE 63 JOHN glare's first PATRON 71 PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION 80 SUCCESS 89 'opinions OF THE PRESS' AND CONSEQUENCES 101 NEW SIGHTS AND NEW FRIENDS 108 FIRST TROUBLES OF FAME 117 PATRONAGE UNDER VARIOUS ASPECTS 125 Viii CONTENTS. PAGE PUBLICATION OF THE 'VILLAGE MINSTREL' 134 GLIMPSES OF JOHN CLARE AT HOME 141 JOURNEY TO LONDON 147 DARKENING CLOUDS 160 PHYSIC AND PHYSICIANS 171 NEW STRUGGLES 185 PUBLICATION OF 'THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR' 197 VISITS TO NEW AND OLD FRIENDS 211 THE POET AS PEDLAR 221 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 231 FRIENDS IN NEED 239 NORTHBOROUGH 244 ALONE 251 THE LAST STRUGGLE 257 BURST OF INSANITY 263 COUNTY PATRONAGE 269 DR. ALLEN'S ASYLUM 272 ESCAPE FROM THE ASYLUM 280 FINIS 290 THE LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. HELPSTON. On the borders of the Lincolnshire fens, half-way between Stamford and Peterborough, stands the little village of Helpston. One Helpo, a so-called ' stipendiary knight,' but of whom the old chronicles know nothing beyond the bare title, exercised his craft here in the Norman age, and left his name sticking to the marshy soil. But the ground was alive with human craft and industry long before the I^Torman knights came prancing into the British Isles. A thousand years before the time of stipendiary Helpo, the Eomans built in this neighbourhood their Durobrivse, which station must have been of great importance, judging from the remains, not crushed by the wreck of twenty centuries. Old urns, and coins bearing the impress of many emperors, from Trajan to Valens, are found everywhere below ground, while above the Eomans left a yet nobler memento of their sojourn in the shape of good roads. Except the modern iron highways, these old Eoman roads form still the chief means of inter- communication at this border of the fen regions. For many generations after Durobrivaj had been deserted by the impe- rial legions, the country went doAvnward in the scale of civil- ization. Stipendiary and other unhappy knights came in B 2 THE LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. shoals j monks and nuns settled in swarms, like crows, upon the fertile marsh lands ; but the number of labouring hands began to decrease as acre after acre got into the possession of mail-clad barons and mitred abbots. The monks, too, vanished in time, as well as the fighting knights ; yet the face of the land remained silent and deserted, and has re- mained so to the present moment. The traveller irom the north can see, for thirty miles over the bleak and desolate fen regions, the stately towers of Burleigh Hall — but can see little else beside. All the country, as far as eye can reach, is the property of two or three noble families, dwelling in turreted halls ; while the bulk of the population, the wretched tillers of the soil, live, as of old, in mud hovels, in the depth of human ignorance and misery. An aggregate of about a hundred of these hovels, each containing, on the average, some four living beings, forms the village of Helpston. The place, in all probability, is still very much of the same outer aspect which it bore in the time of Helpo, the mystic stipendiary knight. Helpston consists of two streets, meeting at right angles, the main thoroughfare being formed by the old Eoman road from Durobrivfe to the north, now full of English mud, and passing by the name of Long Ditch, or High Street. At the meeting of the two streets stands an ancient cross, of oct- angular form, with crocketed pinnacles, and not far from it, on slightly rising ground, is the parish church, a somewhat unsightly structure, of aH styles of architecture, dedicated to St. Botolph. Further down stretch, in unbroken line, the low huts of the farm labourers, in one of which, lying on the High Street, John Clare was born, on the 13th July, 1793. John Clare's parents were among the poorest of the village, as their little cottage was among the narrowest and most wretched of the hundred mud hovels. Originally, at the time when the race of peasant-proprietors had not become quite extinct, a rather roomy tenement, it was broken up into AN OLD STORY. 3 meaner quarters by subsequent landlords, until at last tlie one house formed a rookery of not less than four human dwellings. In this fourth part of a hut lived the father and mother of John, old Parker Clare and his wife. Poor as were their neighbours, they were poorer than the rest, being both weak and in ill health, and partly dependent upon charity. The very origin of Parker Clare's family was founded in misery and wretchedness. Some thirty years previous to the birth of John, there came into Helpston a big, swaggering fellow, of no particular liome, and, as far as could be ascertained, of no particular name : a wanderer over the earth, passing himself off, now for an Irishman, and noAv for a Scotchman. He had tramped over the greater part of Europe, alternately fighting and playing the fiddle ; and being tired awhile of tramping, and footsore and thirsty Mdthal, he resolved to settle for a few weeks, or months, at the quiet little village. The place of schoolmaster hajDpened to be vacant, perhaps had been vacant for years ; and the villagers were overjoyed when they heard that this noble stranger, able to play the fiddle, and to drink a gallon of beer at a sitting, would condescend to teach the A B C to their children. So 'Master Parker,' as the great unknown called himself for the nonce, was duly installed schoolmaster of Helpston. The event, taking place sometime about the commencement of the reign of King George the Third, marks the first dawn of the family history of John Clare. The tramping schoolmaster had not been many days in the village before he made the acquaintance of a pretty young damsel, daughter of the parish-clerk. She came daily to wind the church clock, and for this purpose had to pass through the schoolroom, where sat Master Parker, teaching the ABC and playing the fiddle at intervals. He was as clever with his tongue as with his fiddlestick, the big school- master ; and while helping the sweet little maiden to wind the clock in the belfry, he told her wonderful tales of his b2 4 THE LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. doings in foreign lands, and of his travels through many- countries. And now the old, old story, as ancient as the hills, was played over again once more. It was no very difficult task for the clever tramp to win the heart of the jDoor village girl ; and the rest followed as may be imagined. "When spring and summer was gone, and the cold wind came blowing over the fen, the poor little thing told her lover that she was in the way of becoming a mother, and, with tears in her eyes, entreated him to make her his wife. He promised to do so, the tramping schoolmaster ; but early the next day he left the village, never to return. Then there was bitter lamentation in the cottage of the parish-clerk ; and before the winter was gone, the poor man's daughter brought into the world a little boy, whom she gave her own family name, together with the prefixed one of the unworthy father. Such was the origin of Parker Clare. What sort of existence this poor son of a poor mother went through, is easily told. Education he had none ; of joys of childhood he knew nothing ; even his daily allowance of coarse food was insufficient. He thus grew up, weak and in ill-health ; but with a cheerful spirit nevertheless. Parker Clare knew more songs than any boy in the village, and his stock of ghost stories and fairy tales was quite inexhaustible. When grown into manhood, and yet not feeling sufficiently strong for the harder labours of the field, he took service as a shepherd, and was employed by his masters to tend their flocks in the neighbourhood, chiefly in the plains north of the village, known as Helpston Heath. In this way, he became acquainted with the herdsman of the adjoining townsliip of Castor, a man named John Stimson, whose cattle was grazing right over the walls of ancient Durobrivte. John Stimson's place was taken, now and then, by his daugliter Ann — an occurrence not unwelcome to Parker Clare ; and Avhile the sheep were grazing on the borders of Helpo's Heath, and the cattle seeking for sorrel and clover over the graves TAllENTAGE. 5 of Trajan's warriors, the young shepherd and shepherdess talked sweet things to each other, careless of flocks and herds, of English knights and Roman emperors. So it came that one morning Ann told her father that she had promised to marry Parker Clare. Old John Stimson thought it a bad match : ' when poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window,' he said, fortified by the wisdom of two score ten. But when was ever such wisdom listened to at eighteen? The girl resolved to marry her lover with or without leave ; and as for Parker Clare, he needed no permission, his mother, dependent for years upon the cold charity of the workhouse, having long ceased to control his doings. Thus it followed that in the autumn of 1792, when Robespierre was ruling France, and William Pitt England, young Parker Clare was married to Ann Stimson, of Castor. Seven months after, on the 13th day of July, 1793, Parker Clare's wife was delivered, prematurely, of twins, a boy and a girl. The girl was healthy and strong ; but the boy looked weak and sickly in the extreme. It seemed not possible that the boy eould live, therefore the mother had hini baptized imme- diately, calling him John, after her father. However, human expectations were not verified in the twin children ; the strong girl died in early infancy, while the sickly boy lived — lived to be a poet. Of Poeia nasciiur non fit there never was a truer instance than in the case of John Clare. Impossible to imagine circumstances and scenes apparently more adverse to poetic inspiration than those amidst Avhich John Clare was placed at his birth. His parents were the poorest of the poor ; their whole aim of life being engrossed by the one all-absorb- ing desire to gain food for their daily sustenance. They lived in a narrow wretched hut, low and dark, more like a prison than a human dwelling ; and the hut stood in a dark, gloomy plain, covered with stagnant pools of water, and over- hung by mists during the greater part of the year. Yet from 6 THE LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. out these surroundings sprang a being to whom all life was golden, and all nature a breath of paradise. John Clare was a poet almost as soon as he awoke to consciousness. His young mind marvelled at all the wonderful things visible in the wide world : the misty sky, the green trees, the fish in the water, and the birds in the air. In all the things around him the boy saw nothing but endless, glorious beauty ; his whole mind was filled with a deep sense of the infinite marvels of the living world. Though but in poor health, the parents were never able to keep little John at home. He trotted the lifelong day among the meadows and fields, watching the growth of herbs and flowers, the chirping of insects, the singing of birds, and the 'rustling of leaves in the air. One day, when still very young, the sight of the distant horizon, more than usually defined in sharp outline, brought on a train of contemplation. A wild yearning to see what was to be seen yonder, where the sky was touching the earth, took hold of him, and he resolved to explore the dis- tant, unknown region. He could not sleep a wink all night for eager expectation, and at the dawn of the day the next morning started on his journey, without saying a word to either father or mother. It was a hot day in June, the air close and sultry, with gossamer mists ha,nging thick over the stagnant pools and lakes. The little fellow set out Avithout food on his long trip, fearful of being retained by his watch- ful parents. Onward he trotted, mile after mile, towards where the horizon seemed nearest ; and it was a long while before he found that the sky receded the further he went. At last he sank down from sheer exhaustion, hungry and thirsty, and utterly perplexed as to where he should go. Some labourers in the fields, commiserating the forlorn little wanderer, gave him a crust of bread, and started him on his home journey. It was late at night when he returned to Hcl})ston, where he found his parents in the greatest anxiety, and had to endvu-e a severe punishment for his romantic MRS. BULLIMOKES SCHOOL. 7 excursion. Little John Clare did not mind the beating ; but a long while after felt sad and sore at heart to have been unable to find the hoped-for country where heaven met earth. The fare of agricultural labourers in these early days of John Clare was much worse than at the present time. Pota- toes and water-porridge constituted the ordinary daily food of people in the position of Clare's parents, and they thought themselves happy when able to get a piece of wheaten bread, AAdth perhaps a small morsel of pork, on Sundays. At this height of comfort, hov/ever, Parker Clare and his "wife seldom arrived. Sickly from his earliest childhood, Parker Clare had never been really able to perform the work required of him, though using his greatest efforts to do so. A few years after marriage, his infirmities increased to such an extent that he was compelled to seek relief from the parish, and henceforth he remained more or less a pauper for life. iN'ot- withstanding this low position, Parker Clare did not cease to care for the well-being of his family, and, by the greatest privations on his own part, managed to send his son to an infant school. The school in question was kept by a Mrs. BuUimore, and of the most primitive kind. In the winter time, all the little ones were crowded together in a narrow room ; but as soon as the weather got Avarm, the old dame turned them out into the yard, where the whole troop squatted down on the ground. The teaching of Mrs, Bullimore did not make much impression upon little John, except a slight fact which she accidentally told him, and which took such firm hold of his imagination that he remembered it all his life. There was a white-thorn tree in the school-yard, of rather largo size, and the ancient schoolmistress told John that she herself, when young, had planted the tree, having carried the root from the fields in her pocket. The story struck the boy as something marvellous ; it was to him a sort of revelation of nature, a peep into the mysteries of creation 8 THE LIFE OF JOHN CLAKE, at tlie works of which he looked with feelings of unutter- able amazement, not unmixed with awe. But there was little else that IMrs. Bullimore could teach John Clare, either in her schoolroom or in the yard. The instruction of the good old woman was, in the main, confined to two things — the initiation into the difficulties of A B C, and the reading from two hooks, of which she was the happy possessor. These books were ' The Death of Abel ' and Bunyan's ' Pil- grim's Progress.' Their contents did not stir any thoughts or imaginings in little John, whose mind was filled entirely with the pictures of nature. When John Clare had reached his seventh year, he was taken away from the dame-school, and sent out to tend sheep and geese on Helpston Heatb. The change was a welcome one to him, for, save the mysterious white-thorn tree, there was nothing at school to attract him. Helj)ston Heath, on the other hand, furnished what seemed to him a real teacher. "While tending his geese, John came into daily contact with Mary Bains, an ancient lady, filling the dignified post of cowherd of the village, and driving her cattle into the pas- tures annually from May-day unto Michaelmas. She was an extraordinary old creature, this Mary Bains, commonly known as Granny Bains. Having spent almost her whole life out of doors, in heat and cold, storm and rain, she had come to be intimately acquainted with all the signs fore- boding change of weather, and was looked upon by her acquaintances as a perfect oracle. She had also a most reten- tive memory, and being of a joyous nature, with a bodily frame that never knew illness, had learnt every verse or melody that was sung within her hearing, until her mind became a very storehouse of songs. To John, old Granny Bains soon took a great liking, he being a devout listener, ready to sit at her feet for hours and hours while she was warbling her little ditties, alternately merry and plain- tive. Sometimes the singing had such an efi"ect that GRANNY BAINS. y both the ancient songstress and her young admirer forgot their duties over it. Then, when the cattle went straying into the pond, and the geese were getting through the corn, Granny Bains would suddenly cease singing, and snatching up her snulf-box, hobble across the fields in wild haste, with her two dogs at her side as respectful aides-de-camp, and little John bringing up the rear. But though often disturbed in the enjoyment of those delightful recitations, they nevertheless sunk deep into John Clare's mind, until he found himself repeating all day long the songs he had heard, and even in his dreams kept humming — ' There sat two ravens upon a tree. Heigh down, derry, ! There sat two ravens upon a tree. As deep in love as he and she,' It was thus that the admiration of poetry first awoke in Parker Clare's son, roused by the songs of Granny Bains, the cowherd of Helpston. JOHN CLARE LEARNS THRESHING, AND MAKES AN ATTEMPT TO BECOME A LAWYER'S CLERK. The extreme poverty of Parker Clare and his wife com- pelled them to put their son to hard work earlier than is usual even in country places. John was their only son ; of four children born to them, only he and a little sister, some six years younger, having remained alive ; and it was neces- sary, therefore, that he should contribute to the maintenance of the family, otherwise dependent upon parish relief. Con- sequently, John was sent to the farmer's to thrash before he was twelve years old, his father making him a small flail suited to his weak arms. The boy was not only willing, but most eager to work, his anxious desire being to assist his poor 10 THE LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. parents in. procuring the daily bread. However, his bodily strength was not equal to his Avill. After a few months' work in the barn, and another few months behind the plough, he came home very ill, having caught the tertiary ague in the damp, ill-drained fields. Then there was anxious consulting in the little cottage what to do next. The miserable allow- ance from ' the union ' was insufficient to purchase even the necessary quantity of potatoes and rye-bread for the household, and, to escape starvation, it was absolutely necessary that John should go to work again, whatever his strength. So he dragged himself from his bed of sickness, and took once more to the plough, the kind farmer consenting to his lead- ing the horses on the least heavy ground. The weather was dry for a season, and John rallied wonderfully, so as to be able to do some extra-w^ork, and earn a few pence, which he saved carefully for educational purposes. And when the winter came round, and there Avas little work in the fields, he made arrangements with the schoolmaster at Glinton, a man famed far and wide, to become his pupil for five evenings in the week, and for as many more days as he might be out of employment. The trial of education was carried on to John Clare's highest satisfaction, as well as that of his parents, who proclaimed aloud that their son was going to be a scholar. Glinton, a small village of about three hundred inhabi- tants, stands some four or five miles east of Helpston, bordering on the Peterborough Great Fen. It was famous in Clare's time, and is famous still, for its educational establish- ments, there being three daily schools in the place, one of them endowed. The school to which John went, was presided over by a Mr. James IVIerrishaw. He was a thin, tall old man, with long white hair hanging down his coat-collar, in the fiishion of bygone days. It was his habit to take exten- sive walks, for miles around the country, moving forward with long strides, and either talldng to himself or humming soft tunes ; on which account his pupils styled him ' the ME. MEIIRISHAW'S SCHOOL. 11 humble-bee.' I'lie old man was passionately fond of music, and devoted every minute spared from school duties and his long walks, to his violin. To the more promising of his pupils Mr. James Merrishaw showed great kindness, allowing them, among other things, the run of his library, somewhat larger than that of ordinary village schoolmasters. John Clare had not been many times to Glinton, befpre he was enrolled among these favourites of Mr. Merrishaw. Eeing able already to read, through his own exertions, based on the fundamental principles instilled by Dame Bulliniore, little John dived with delight into the treasures opened at the Glinton school, never tired to go through the somewhat miscellaneous book stores of Mr. Merrishaw. In a short while, the young stu- dent was seized with a real hunger for knowledge. He toiled day and night to perfect himself, not only in reading and writing, but in some impossible things which he had taken into his head to learn, such as algebra and mathematics. Coming home late at night, from his long walk to school, he astonished and not a little perplexed his poor parents by CTOiiching do^vn before the fire, and tracing, in the faint glimmer of a burning log, incomprehensible signs upon bits of paper, or sometimes pieces of wood. Far too poor to buy even the commonest kind of writing paper, John was in the habit of picking up shreds of the same material, such as used by grocers and other village shopkeepers, and to scratch thereon his signs and figures, sometimes with a pencil, but offcener with a piece of charcoal. Perhaps there never was a more imfavourable study of mathematics and algebra. For two winters and part of a wet summer, John Clare went to Mr. Merrishaw's school at Glinton, during short intervals of hard labour in the fields. At the end of this period a curious accident seemed to give a sudden turn to his prospects in life. A maternal uncle, called Morris Stimson, one day made his appearance at Helpston, having been pre- viously on a visit to his father and sisters at Castor. Uncle 12 THE LITE OF JOHN CLAEE, Morris was looked upon as a very grand personage, he hold- ing the post of footman to a lawyer at Wisbeach, and as such clad in the finest plush and broadcloth. Being duly reverenced, the splendid uncle in his turn thought it his duty to patronize his humble friends, and accordingly was kind enough to offer little John a situation in his master's office. There was a vacancy for a clerk at Wisbeach, and Uncle IMorris was sure his nephew was just the man to fill it. John himself thought otherwise ; but was immediately overruled in his opinion by father, mother, and uncle. A boy who had been to Mr. Merrishaw's for ever so many evenings ; who could read a chapter from the Bible as well as the parson, and who was drawing figures upon paper night after night : why, he was fit enough to be not only a lawyer's clerk, but, if need be, a minister of the church. So they argued, and it was settled that John should go to Wisbeach, and be duly installed as a clerk in the office just above the pantry in which dwelt Uncle Morris. Mr. IMorris Stimson did not stop at Helpston longer than a day; but, before leaving, made careful arrangements that his nephew should follow him to Wisbeach precisely at the end of seven days. Those were stirring seven days in the little hut of Parker Clare. The poor mother, anxious to assist to the best of her power in her son's rise in hfe, ransacked her scanty ward- robe to the utmost, to put John in what she deemed a proper dress. She mended all his clothes as neatly as possible ; she made him a pair of breeches out of an old dress, and a waistcoat from a shawl ; and then ran up and down the village to get a few more necessary things, including an old white necktie, and a pair of black woollen gloves. Thus equipped, John Clare started for Wisbeach one Friday morn- ing in spring — date not discoverable, but supposed to be some- where about the year 1807. The poor mother cried bitterly when John shook hands for the last time at the bottom of the village ; the father tried hard to hide his tears, but did JOURNEY TO WISBEACir. 13 not succeed ; and John liimself, liglit-liearted at first, had a good cry when he turned his face at Elton, and got a final glimpse of the steeple of Helpston church. Beyond Elton John Clare had never been in his hfe, and it was with some sort of trembling, mixed with a strong feeling of home- sickness, that he inquired his way to Peterborough. His confusion was great when he found that the people stared at him on the road ; and stared the more the nearer he ap- proached the episcopal city. IN'o doubt, a thin, pale, little boy, stuck in a threadbare coat Avhich he had long outgrown, and the sleeves of which were at his elbows ; with a pair of breeches a world too large for his slender legs ; with a many- coloured Avaistcoat, an immense pair of woollen gloves, a white necktie, and a hat half a century old, was a rare sight, even in the fen country. Poor John, therefore, had to march into Peterborough followed by the curious eyes of a hundred male and female idlers, who opened doors and windows to see him pass along. Happily the trial was not a long one, for, having discovered his way to the Wisbeach boat, he ran to it as fast as his legs would carry him, and, fairly on board, ensconced himself behind a bale of goods. Oh, how he repented having ever left Helpston, in the fatal ambition of becoming a lawyer's clerk ! The journey from Peterborough to Wisbeach, in those days, was by a Dutch canal boat — a long narrow kind of barge, drawn by one horse, with a large saloon in front for common passengers, and a little room for a possible select company behind, near the steersman. The boat only ran once a week, on Friday, from Peterborough to Wisbeach, returning the following Sunday ; and, as far as it went, the passage Avas cheap as Avell as convenient — the charge for the whole dis- tance of twenty-one miles being but eighteen-pence. But John Clare, fond though he was of water, and trees, and green fields, did not much enjoy the river journey, his heart being big with thoughts of the future. What the great 14 THE LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. lawyer to wliom lie was going would say, and what replies he should make, were matters uppermost in his mind. To prepare for the dreaded interview John at last set himself to compose an elaborate speech, on the model of one which he had seen in the ' Eoyal Magazine ' at Mr. Merrishaw's school. The speech, however, was not quite ready when the hoat stopped at Wisheach, landing John Clare, together with the other passengers. One more source of trouble had to be overcome here. When the young traveller inquired for the house of Mr. Councillor Bellamy, the people, instead of reply- ing, stared at him. ' Mr. Councillor Bellamy 1 You are not CToino' to Mr. Bellamy's house ? ' said more than one of the Wisheach citizens, until poor John got fairly frightened. He was still more frightened when he at last arrived before the house of Mr. Councillor, and found that it was a stately building, bigger and nobler-looking than any he had ever entered in his life. He had not courage enough to ring the bell or knock at the door, but stood irresolute at the threshold. At last John ventiired a faint tap at the door ; and, luckily. Uncle Morris appeared in answer to the summons, and welcomed the visitor by leading him down into the kitchen, where the board was spread. ' I have told master about your arrival,' said Uncle Morris ; 'and meanwhile sit down to a cup of tea. Do not hang your head, but look up boldly, and tell him what you can do.' John sat down to the table, yet was unable to eat anything, in fear and trembling of the things to come. It was not long before Mr. Councillor Bellamy made his appearance. Poor John tried hard to keep his head erect as ordered, and made a convulsive effort to deliver himself of the first sentences of his j)repared speech. But the words stuck in his tliroat. ' Aye, aye ; so this is your nephew, Morris 1 ' now said Mr. Councillor Bellamy, addressing his footman. 'Yes, sir,' replied the faithful servant ; * and a capital scholar he is, sir.' Mr. Councillor glanced at the 'scholar' from the country^ — at his white ME. COUNCILLOR BELLAMY.' 15 necktie, his little coat, and his large breeches. ' Aye, aye ; so this is your nephew,' Mr. Councillor repeated, rubbing his hands ; ' Avell, I may see him again.' With this Uncle Morris's master left the room. He left it not to return ; and John Clare had never in his life the honour of seeing Mr. Councillor Bellamy again. There next came an order from the upper regions to make ]\Iorris's nephew comfortable till Sunday morning, and to put him, at that time, on board the Peterborough boat for the return journey. The behest of Mr. Councillor was duly executed, and John Clare, on the following Sunday CA^ening, after three days' absence, again walked into his father's cottage at Helpston, a happier and a wiser lad. He had discovered the great truth that he was not fit for the profession of the law. JOHN CLAEE CONTINUES TO STUDY ALGEBRA, AND FALLS IN LOVE. The mother cried for joy when her John again entered the little cottage ; but the father welcomed him with a melancholy smile. John himself, though with a little mortified vanity, felt rather pleased than otherwise. His good sense told him that this journey to Wisbeach had been but a fool's errand, and that, in order to rise in the world, he had to look into other directions than to a lawyer's office. He therefore fell back with a strong feeling of contentment into his old occu- pation, holding the plough, carting manure to the field, and studying algebra. In the latter favourite labour he was much assisted by a young friend, whose acquauatauce he had made at Glinton school, named John Turnill, the son of a small farmer. The latter, having a little more money at his command than his humble companion, was able to purchase the necessary books, as well as a modest allowance of paper and pencils, the gift of which threw John Clare into 16 THE LIFE OF JOHN CLAKE. ecstasies of delight. With Master Turnill, the attachment to mathematics and algebra was a real love, though it was other- wise with Clare, who pursued these studies solely out of am- bition, and with a hope of raising himself in the world. The desire to improve his position became stronger than ever after his return from Wisbeach. The sneers of the people who met him during the journey had sunk deep into his sensitive mind, and he determined to make a struggle for a better position. How far mathematics and the pure sciences would help him on the road he did not trouble himself to consider ; he only had a vague notion that they would lead him to be a ' scholar.' So he toiled with great energy through the algebraic and mathematical handbooks purchased by friend Turnill, often getting so warm on the subject as to neglect his dinner-hour, in brown studies over the ])Ius and minus, squares, cubes, and conic sections. Every evening that he could possibly spare he walked over to Turnill's house, near Elton^ regardless of wind, rain, and snow, and regardless even of the reproaches of his kind parents, who began to be afraid of his continued dabbling in the occult arts. However, little John stuck to his algebra, and it was nearly two years before he discovered that he was as little fit to be a mathe- matician as a lawyer's clerk. Meanwhile, and before the algebraic studies came to an end, there occurred a somewhat favourable change in the cir- cumstances of John Clare, Among the few well-to-do in- habitants of Helpston was a person named Francis Gregory, who owned a small public-house, under the sign of the * Elue Bell,' and rented, besides, a few acres of land. Francis Gregory, a most kind and amiable man, was unmarried, and kept house with his old mother, a female servant, and a lad, the latter half groom and half gardener. This situation, a yearly ' hiring,' being vacant, it was offered to John, and eagerly accepted, on the understanding that he should have sufficient time of his own to continue his studies. It was a SOLITUDE. 17 promise abundantly kept, for John Clare had never more leisure, and, perhaps, was never happier in his life than during the year that he stayed at the 'Blue Bell.' Mr. Francis Gregory, suffering under constant illness, treated the pale little boy, who was always hanging over his books, moie like a son than a servant, and this feeling was fully shared by Mr. Gregory's mother. John's chief labours were to attend to a horse and a couple of cows, and occasionally to do some light work in the garden or the potato field ; and as these occupations seldom filled more than part of the day or the week, he had all the rest of the time to himself. A characteristic part of Clare's nature began to reveal itself now. While he had little leisure to himself, and much hard work, he was not averse to the society of friends and com- panions, either, as in the case of Turnill, for study, or, as with others, for recreation ; but as soon as he found himself, to a certain extent, his own master, he forsook the company of his former acquaintances, and began to lead a sort of hermit's life. He took long strolls into the woods, along the meres, and to other lonely places, and got into the habit of remaining whole hours at some favourite spot, lying flat on the ground, with his face toward the sky. The flickering shadows of the sun ; the rustling of the leaves on the trees ; the sailing of the fitful clouds over the horizon, and the golden blaze of the sky at morn and eventide, were to him spectacles of which his eye never tired, with Avhich his heart never got satiated. And as he grew more and more the con- stant worshipper of nature, in any of her aspects, so his mind gradually became indifferent to almost all other objects. What men did, what they had done, or Avhat they were going to do, he did not seem to care for, or had the least curiosity to know. In the midst of these solitary rambles from his 'Blue Bell' homo, the news was brought of some extra- ordinary discoveries at Castor, his mother's native village. It was news which, one might have thought, would fire C > 18 LIFE or JOHN CLARE. the imagination of any man gifted with the most ordinary understanding. In a part of the township of Castor called Dormanton Fields, the greater part of the vast ruins of Durobrivse were discovered : temples and arches crumbled into dust ; many-coloured tiles and brickwork ; urns and antique earthen vessels ; and coins, with the images of many emperors — so numerous that it looked as if they had been sown there. To reconstruct the ancient Eoman city, to people it anew with the conquerors of the world, was a task at once undertaken by zealous antiquarians ; yet Clare, though he heard the matter mentioned by numerous visitors to the ' Blue Bell,' and had plenty of time for investigation, took so little interest in it as not even to attempt a walk to the city of ruins, on the borders of which he was feeding his cattle. ISTow, as up to a late period of his life, a bunch of sweet violets was worth to John Clare more than all the ruins of antiquity. "UHaile at the ' Blue Bell ' John gradually dropped his algebra and mathematics, and began to read ghost-stories. The reason of his leaving the ' sciences called pure ' was the discovery that the further he proceeded on the road the more he saw his utter incapacity to understand and to master the subjects. His friend and guide, John Turnill, — siibse- quently promoted to a post in the excise — was equally un- able to throw light into the darkness of phis and minus, and after a few last convulsive struggles to get through the 'known quantities' into the unknown regions of x, y, and z, he gave it up as a hopeless effort. The spare hours henceforth were devoted to studies of a very different kind, namely, fairy tales and ghost stories. Under the roof of the ' Blue Bell ' no other literature was Avithin his reach, and he was quite con- tent to draw temporary nourishment from it. Scarcely any books but these highly spiced ones, stuffed in the pack of tra- velling pedlars, ever found their way to Helpston. There was ' Little Ked Eiding-hood,' ' Valentine and Orson,' ' Sinbad THE AVOPvLD OF SPIRITS. 19 the Sailor,' 'The Seven Sleepers,' ' Mother Shipton,' ' Johnny Armstrong,' ' Old Nixon's Prophecy,' and a whole host of similar ' sensation ' stories, printed on coarse paper, with a flaming picture on the title-page. John Clare scarcely knew that there were any other books than these and the few he had seen at Glinton school in existence ; he had never heard of Shakespeare and Milton, Thompson and Cowper, Spenser and Dryden ; and, therefore, with the natural eagerness of the young mind just awoke to its daydreams, eagerly plunged into the new realm of fancy. The effect soon made itself felt upon the ardent reader, fresh from his undigested algebraic studies. He saw ghosts and hobgoblins wherever he went, and after a time began to look upon himself as a sort of enchanted prince in a world of magic. He had no doubt whatever about the literal truth of the stories he read ; the thought of their being mere pictures of the imagination not entering his mind for a moment. It was natural, therefore, that he should come to the conclusion that, as the earth had been, so it Avas still peopled with fairies, dwarfs, and giants, with whom it would be his fate to come into contact some time or other. So he buckled his armour tight, ready to do battle with the visible and invisible world. Opportunity came before long. Among his regular duties at the 'Blue Bell' was that of fetching once a week flour from Maxey, a village some three miles north of Helpston, near the "Welland river. The road to Maxey was a very lonely one, part of it a narrow footpath along the mere, and the superstition of the neighbourhood connected strange tales ■of horror and weird fancy with the locality. In the long days of summer, John Clare, who had to start on his errand to the mill late in the afternoon, managed to get home before dark, thus avoiding unpleasant meetings ; but when the autumn came, tbe sun set before lie left Maxey, and then the ghosts were upon him. They always attacked him half . way between the two villages, in a low swampy spot, over- C 2 20 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. hung by t"he heavy mist of the fens. Poor John battled hard, but the spirits nearly always got the upper hand. They pulled his hair, pinched his legs, twisted his nose, and played other tricks with him, until he sank to the ground in sheer exhaustion. Recovering himself after a while, the fairies then let him alone, and he staggered home to the ' Blue Bell,' pale and trembling, and like one in a dream. His good friend and master, Francis Gregory, wondering at the haggard look of the lad, thought he was going to have another attack of the tertiary ague, and spoke to his parents ; but John, in his silent mood, said it was nothing, and begged to be left alone. So they let him have his way, and he continued his weekly errands to Maxey, with the same result as before. At last, when thoroughly wearied of this repe- tition of supernatural terrors, he hit upon an ingenious plan for breaking the chain connecting him with the invisible world. The plan consisted in concocting, on his own part, a story of wonders ; a story, however, ' with no ghost in it.' Now a king, and now a prince — in turn a sailor, a soldier, and a traveller in unknown lands — John himself was always the hero of his own story, and, of course, always the lucky hero. With his vast power of imagination, this calling up of a ncAv world of bright fancies to destroy the lawless apparitions of the air had the desired effect, and the ghosts troubled John Clare no more on his way to and from the mill. Nevertheless, his constant reading of fairy tales, with incessant play on the imagination and surexcitation of the mind, was not without leaving its ill effect upon the bodily frame. John sickened and weakened visibly, and his general appearance became the talk of the village. His long solitary roamings through the woods and fields, his habits of reading even when tending the cattle, and his apparent dislike to hold converse with any one, were things which the poor FIKST LOVE. 21 labourers, young and old, could not understand ; and when, as it happened, people met him on the road to Maxey in the dark, and heard that he was talking to himself in a loud excited manner, they set him down as a lunatic. Some few of the coarsest among the youngsters went so far as to greet him with volleys of abuse when he happened to come near them, while the old people drew back from him as in disgust. His sensitive feelings suffered deep under this treatment of his neighbours, which might have had the worst consequences but for one great event which suddenly broke in upon him. John Clare fell in love. * Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glow- ing hands ; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might ; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.' John Clare's first love — the deepest, noblest, and purest love of his whole life — was for ' Mary,' the Mary of all his future songs, ballads, and sonnets. Petrarch himself did not worship his Laura with a more idealized spirit of affec- tion than John Clare did his Mary. To him she was nothing less than an angel, with no other name than that of Mary ; though vulgar mortals called her Mary Joyce, holding her to be the daughter of a well-to-do farmer at Glintou. John Clare made her acquaintance — if so it can be called what was the merest dream-life intercourse — on one of his periodi- cal journeyings to and from the Maxey mills. She sat on a style weaving herself a garland of flowers, and the sight so enchanted him that he crouched down at a distance, afraid to stir and to disturb the beautiful apparition. But she con- tinuing to sit and to weave her floAvers, he drew nearer, and 22 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. at last found courage to speak to her. Marj'^ did not reply ; but her deep blue eyes smiled upon him, lifting the humble worshipper of beauty into the seventh heaven of bliss. And when he met her again, she again smiled ; and he sat down at her feet once more, and opened the long pent-iip rivers of his heart. Mute to all the world around him, he to her for the first time spoke of all he felt, and dreamt, and hoped. He told her how he loved the trees and flowers, and the singing nightingales, and the lark rising into the skies, and the humming insects, and the sailing clouds, and all the grand and beautiful works of nature. But he never told her that he thought her more beautiful than ought else in God's great world. This he never said in words, but his eyes expressed it ; and Mary, perhaps, understood the language of his eyes. Mary always listened attentively, yet seldom said anything. Her eyes hung upon his lips, and his lips hung upon her eyes, and thus both worshipped the god of love. The sweet dream lasted fuU six months — six glorious sun- lit months of spring and summer. Then the father of Mary Joyce heard of the frequent meetings of his daughter with John Clare, and though looking upon both as mere children, he sternly forbid her to see ' the beggar-boy ' again. His heart of well-to-do farmer revolted at the bare idea of his offspring talking with the son of one who was not even a farm-labourer, but had to be maintained as a pauper by the parish. Explaining this great fact to his blue-eyed daughter, he deeply impressed its terrible importance upon her soft little heart, making her think with a sort of shudder of the pale boy who told her such pretty stories. Perhaps Mary nevertheless preserved a lingering fondness for her little lover's memory, for thoiagh many wooed her in after life, she never wedded, and died a spinster. As for John Clare, he fretted long and deeply, and all his life thought of Mary Joyce as the symbol, ideal, and incarnation of love. With NEW HOPES. 23 the exception of a few verses addressed to ' Patty,' his future wife, the whole of Clare's love poetry came to be a dedica- tion and worship of Mary. As yet, in these youthful days of grief and allection, he wrote no verses, though he felt a burning desire to give vent to his feelings in some shape or other. Having lost his Mary, he carved her name into a hundred trees, and traced it, with trembling hand, on stones, and walls, and monuments. There still stands engraven on the porch of Glinton churchyard — or stood till within a recent time — a circular inscription, consisting of the letters, ' J. C. ] 808,' cut in bold hand, and underneath, in fainter outline, the name ' Mary.' TRAVELS IN SEARCH OF A BOOK. Just before quitting the ' Blue Bell,' at the end of his twelve months' service, another important event took place in the life of John Clare. One morning, while tending his master's cattle in the field, a farmer's big boy, with whom he had but a slight acquaintance, showed him a copy of Thom- son's ' Seasons.' Examining the book, he got excited beyond measure. It was the first real poem he had ever seen, and in harmony as it was with all his feelings, it made upon him the most powerful and lasting impression. Looking upon the book as a priceless treasure, he expressed his admiration in warm words, asking, nay, imploring the possessor to lend it him, if only for an hour. But the loutish boy, swollen with pride, absolutely refused to do so ; it was but a trumperj'- book, he said, and could be bought for eighteen-pence, and he did not see why people who wanted it should not buy it. The words sunk deep into John Clare's heart ; ' Only eighteen- pence 1 ' he inquired again and again, doubtuig his own ears. The big boy was quite sure the book cost no more than eighteen-pence ; he had himself bought it at Stamford for the money, and could give the name and address of the 24 LIFE OF JOHN CLAKE. bookseller. It was information eagerly accepted by John, Avho determined on the spot to get the coveted poem at the earliest opportunity. His wages not being due at the moment, he hurried home to his father in the evening, entreating the loan of a shilling, as he himself possessed but sixpence. But Parker Clare, wUling though he was to gratify his son, was unable to render help on this occasion. A spare shilling was not often seen in the hut of the poor old man, depen- dent chiefly upon alms, and in want, not unfrequently, of the bare necessaries of Kfe. But the loving mother could not listen to her son's anxious entreaty without trying to assist him, and by dint of superhuman exertions she managed to get him sevenpence. The fraction still wanting to complete the purchase-money of the book was raised by sundry loans at the ' Blue Bell,' and John waited with eagerness for the coming Sunday, when he would have time to run to Stamford. The Sunday came — a Sunday in spring ; and he was up soon after midnight, and stood before the bookseller's shop in Stamford when the eastern clouds assumed their first purple hue. John Clare patiently waited one hour, two hours, three hours, yet the treasure store which contained Thomson's ' Seasons ' remained closed. Tremblingly he asked a boy who came along the street at what time the shop would be opened : ' It will not be open at all to-day, for it is Sunday,' rejoined the other. Then John went home in bitter sorrow to Helpston, not knowing how to get the much- coveted book. On the way, a bright thought struck him. If he could but raise twopence, in addition to the capital already acquired, he thought he could manage the matter. So by making extraordinary efforts, he got his twopence, and then held a long conversation with the cowherd of a neighbouring farmer. Clare's occupation on the following morning was to take his aster's horses to the pasture, and he offered the cowherd the sum of one penny to look after the horses for liim, and one more penny for 'keeping the secret.' The' bar^jain was Thomson's 'seasons.' 25 struck, after an animated discussion, in which the conscientious cowherd strove hard to get a total reward of threepence, so as to be able to keep the secret for any length of time. But John was inflexible, for strong reasons of his own, and thus gained the victory. During the night from Sunday to Monday, John Clare could not shut his eyes for sheer anxiety. The questions whetlier the bookseller would have aty copies left of the Avonderfiil poem ; whether it could redly be bought for eighteen-pence ; and whether the big farmer's boy did not mean the whole story as a hoax, occupied isis mind all night long. It seemed so improbable to him, on "eflection, that a book containing the most exquisite verses c:)uld be bought for little more than the common fairy tales o^ the hawkers, and it seemed still more improbable that, being sold so cheap, there would be any books left for sale, that h?, at last in- wardly despaired of getting the book. Thereupon he had a good long cry in the silence of the night, when all the village was asleep ; and the crying closed his eyelids, too, for sheer "weariness. And when he roused himself again tiere was a faint glow in the sky ; so he rushed down to the stables, took out his horses, and led them to the pasture, aA'aiting the arrival of his confederate. The latter came at length, and, having given over his horses, John set off in a sharp trot, skipping over the seven or eight miles to Stamford in little more than an hour. The bookseller's shop, alas, was still closed ; but the people in the streets told the eager in- quirer that the shutters would be taken down in about ai. hour and a half. John, therefore, sat down in (juiet resig- nation on the door-step, counting the quarters of the chiming clock. At last there was a noise inside the house, a rattling of keys and drawing of bolts. The bookseller slowly opened his door, and was immensely astonished to see a little country lad, thin and haggard, with wild gleaming eyes, rush at him with a demand for Thomson's 'Seasons.' Was there ever 26 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. such a customer seen at Stamford ? The good boolcseller was not accustomed to excitement, for the old ladies who dealt at his shop bought their hymn-books and manuals of devotion without any manifestations of impatience, and even the young ones, though they asked for Aphra Behn's novels in a whisper, came in very quietly and demurely. Who, then, was this queer, haggard-looking country boy, who could not wait for Thomson's ' Seasons ' till after breakfast, but was hovering about the ^hop like a thief] The good bookseller questioned him a iittle, but did not gain much satisfactory information. Thit his little customer was servant at the ' Blue BeU ; ' had hired himself to Master Gregory for a year ; had a father and mother maintained by the parish ; and had seen Thomson's ' Seasons ' in the hands of a farmer's boy — that Avas all ursued long, is easy to imagine ; but, happUy, the state of things was brought to an end shorter than at first calculated upon. The drunken master 32 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. was lilvewise a brutal master, and, to escape his insults and occasional violence, one of the gardeners, bound by a long engagement, resolved to run away; and, having taken a certain liking to John, persuaded him to become a companion in the flight. This was when John Clare had been about eleven months at Burghley Park, and, by the terms of his agreement Avith the head gardener, would have had to remain an apprentice for above two years longer. However, he did not think himself boimd by the contract, and early one morning in autumn— date again uncertain, but probably about the year 1809, Clare now full sixteen— he scrambled through the mndow with his companion, and furtively quitted Burghley Park and the service of the Marquis of Exeter. Already on the evening of the same day he repented his rash act. His companion in the flight took him on a long trot to Grantham, a distance of twenty-two miles, where the two lodged at a small beerhouse, and Clare fancied that he was fairly out of the world. Having not the slightest notions about geography, or topography either, he believed he had now arrived at the confines of the habitable earth, and with but little chance of ever seemg liis parents again. The thought brought forth tears, and he wept the whole night. On the next morning, the two fugitives tried to find work at Grantham, but did not succeed, so that they were compelled to tramp still further, towards Newark-upon-Trent. Here they were fortunate enough to obtain employment with a nurseryman named Withers, who gave them kind treatment, but very small wages. John, meauAvhile, had got thorouglily home-sick, and the idea of being an immense distance away from his father and mother did not let him rest day or night. Xot daring to speak to his companion, for fear of being retained by force, he at last made up his mind again to run away from his employer, this tiane alone. It was beginning to get "wdnter ; the roads were jjartially covered with snow, and swollen streams and rivers interrupted on many points PLOUGHING AND SOWING. 33 the communication. Nevertheless, John Clare started on his home journey full of courage, though ahsolutely destitute of money and clotliing, leaving part of the latter, together with his tools, at liis master's house. During the two or three days that it took him to reach Helpston, he subsisted upon a crust of bread and an occasional draught of water from the nefirest stream, while his lodgings were in haystacks on the roadside. His heart beat with tumultuous joy when at last he beheld the loved fields again, and the village where he was born. And when the door swung back which led into the little thatched hut, and he saw his mother and father sitting by the fire, he rushed into their arms, and fairly frightened them with the outburst of his affection. There now remained nothing for John Clare but to fall back upon his old way of living, and to seek a precarious existence as farm-labourer. This was what he resigned him- self to accordingly, only changing his occupation now and then, as circumstances permitted, by doing odd jobs as a shepherd or gardener. It was a very humble mode of life, and its remuneration scarce sufficient to purchase the coarsest food and the scantiest clothing; but it was, after all, the kind of existence which seemed most suited to the habits and inclinations of the strange youth, now growing into maidiood. His intense admiration and worship of nature could not brook confinement of any sort, even such as suffered ■udthin the vast domain of Burghley Park. Wliile gardener at the latter place, his poetical vein lay entirely dormant ; he was never for a moment in the mood of writing nor even of reading verses. Perhaps the habits of dissipation into which he had fallen had something to do with this ; yet it Avas owing still more to the position in which he was placed. The same scenery which had inspired him to his first poetical composition, when viewed in the glowing light of a beautiful morning in spring, left him cold and uninspired ever after. He often complained to his fellow-labourers, that he could 34 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. not ' see far enougL. : ' it was as if he felt the rattling of the chain which hound hun to the spot. A yearning after absolute freedom, mental as well as physical, was one of his strongest instincts through life, and not possessing this, he appeared to value little else. It was a desu-e, or a passion, which nearly approached the morbid, and gave rise to much that was painful in the subsequent part of his existence. Once more a farm-labourer at Helpston, John Clare was all his own again. Thomson's ' Seasons ' never left his pocket ; he read the book when going to the fields in the mornmg, and read it again when eating his humble meal at noonday under a hedge. The evenings he invariably spent in writing verses, on any slips and bits of paper he could lay hold of. Soon he accumulated a considerable quantity of these fugitive pieces of poetry, and wishing to preserve them, yet ashamed to let it be known that he was writin"' verses, he hid the whole at the bottom of an old cupboard in his bedroom. "What made him more timid than ever to confess his doings to either friends or acquaintances, was their entire want of sympathy, manifested to him on more than one occasion. It sometimes happened, on a Sun- day, that he would take a walk through the fields, in company with his father and mother, or a neighbour ; and seeing something particularly beautiful, an early rose, or a little insect, or the many-hued sky, John Clare woidd break forth into ecstasies, declaimmg, in his own enthusiastic way, on what he deemed the marvellous things upon this marvellous earth. His voice rose ; his eyes sparkled ; his heart bounded within him in intense love and admiration of this grand, this incomprehensible, this ever- wonderful realm of the Creator •which men call the world. But Avhenever liis companions happened to listen to this involuntary outburst of enthusiasm, they broke out in mocking laughter. A rose was to them a •rose, and nothing more ; an apple they valued higher, as something eatable ; and, perhaps, OA'er plum-pudding they THE MUSE IN DIFFICULTIES. 3o woiild have got enthusiastic, too. As it was, poor John Avas a constant butt for all the shafts of coarse ridicule ; even his own parents, to whom he was attached with the tenderest afiection, and who fully returned his love, did not spare him. Old Parker Clare shook his head when ho heard his son descanting upon the beauties of natm-e, and reproved him on many occasions for not using his spare time to better purpose than scribbling upon little bits of paper. Parker Clare's whole notion of poetry was confined to the halfpenny ballads which the hawkers sold at fairs, and it struck him, not unnaturally, that the things being so cheap, it coidd not be a paying business. This important fact he lost no occasion to impress upon his son, though with no result whatever. While the father was not sparing in his attacks upon John's poetical manifestations, the mother, on her part, was active in the same direction. She had discovered her son's hiding-place of the curious slips of paper wliich en- grossed his nightly attention, and, to make an end of the matter at once, the good woman swept up the whole lot one morning, and threw it in the chimney. Very likely there was in her mind some intuitive perception of the fact that her son's poems ' wanted fire.' John was greatly distressed when he found his verses gone; and more still when he discovered how the destruction happened. To prevent the recurrence of a similar event, he conceived the desperate plan of instilling into his parents a love of poetry. He boldly told them, what he had hitherto not so much as hinted at, that he was writing verses ' such as are found in books,' coupling it with the assertion that he could produce songs and ballads as good as those sold at fairs, so much admired by his father. Parker Clare again shook his head in a doubting mood, expressing a strong disbeUef of his offspring's abilities in writing poetry. Thus put upon his mettle, Jolm resolved to do his best to change the scepticism of his fiither, and having written some verses which he liked, and corrected D 2 36 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. them over and over again into desirable smoothness, he one evening read them to his astonished parents. But the result was thoroughly disappointing. So far from admiring his son's poetry, Parker Clare expressed his strong conviction that it was mere rubbish, not to be compared to the half- penny songs of the fairs. John was much humbled to hear tliis ; however, he carried within himself a strong belief that his verses were not quite valueless, and therefore resolved upon one more test. Hearing the constant vamiting of the cheap ballads, he made np his mind to try whether his father was really able to distinguish between his own verses and those in print. Accordingly, when he hael finished another composition, he committed it to memory, and rehearsed it to his parents in the evening, pretending to read it from the print. Then his father broke out in the delightful exclama- tion : ' Ah, John, my boy, if thou couldst make such-like verses, that would do.' This was an immense relief to the poor scribbler of poetry. He now saw clearly that his father's want of confidence was in hiin, the writer, and not in his writings. Henceforth, he made it his regular habit of reciting his own poetry to his parents as if reading it from a book, or printed sheet of paper. The habit, though it was strictly a dishonest proceeding, proved to him not only a real source of pleasure, in hearing his praises from the lips of those he loved most, but it also served liim as a fair critical school. Whenever he found his parents laugh at a sentence which he deemed very pathetic, he set himself at once to correct it to a simpler style ; whenever they asked him for an explanation of a word, or line, he noted it down as iU- expressed, or obscure; and whenever either his father or mother asked for a repetition of a song which they had heard before, ho marked the slip of poetry so honoured as a success. And all these successful slips of paper Jolin Clare placed in a crevice between his bed and the lath-and-plaster wall ; a hole so dark and unfathomable as to be beyond the reach of A RURAL CRITIC, 37 even his sharp-eyed mother, always on the look-out for manuscript poetry to light the lire. Having gained the surreptitious approval of his verses hy his parents, John Clare hegan to he moved hy a slight aud almost unconscious feeling of amhition. Hitherto he had written poetry solely for the sake of pleasing himself, hut he now was stirred hy anxiety to discover what value others set upon his writings. The crevice in his hed-room, jealously guarded since his mother's grand auto-da-fc, and as yet undiscovered hy the watchful maternal eye, contained a few dozen songs and hallads, descriptive of favourite trees, and flowers, and hits of scenery, and, after long brooding within himself, John resolved upon showing these pieces to an acquaintance. The person selected for this confidence was one Thomas Porter, a middle-aged man, living at a lonely cottage at Ashton Green, about a mile from Helpston. He was one of those individuals, described, in a class, as ' having seen better days ; ' besides, a lover of books, of flowers, and of solitary rambles. Their tastes coinciding so far, Jolin Clare and Thomas Porter had become tolerably intimate friends, the former making it a point to visit, almost every Smiday, the little cottage at Ashton Green. Having wound his courage up to the point, John at last, with much secret fear and trembling, showed to his friend the best specimens of his poetry, asking for his opinion on the same. Mr. Thomas Porter, though a very good-natured man, was some- what formal in his habits, scrutinizing, with visible astonish- ment, the little pieces of paper — blue, red, white, and yellow, having served tlie manifold purposes of the baker and tallow chandler before being helpful to poetry — wliich were sub- mitted to his judgment. Seeing his young friend's disap- pointed look at the examination, he promised to give his opinion about the poetry in a week, namely, on the following Sunday. The week seemed a long one to John Clare, and he was almost trembling with excitement when again approach- 38 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. ing the door of the small cottage of Asliton Green. He trembled still more at the first question of Mr. Thomas Porter : — ' Do you know grammar ? ' It was useless for John to profess that he did know so much as the meaning of the 'word grammar ; or whether it signified a person or a thing. Then Mr. Thomas Porter began to frown. ' You cannot write poetry before you know grammar ! ' he sternly exclaimed, handing the many-coloured slips of paper back to his poor friend. John Clare was humiliated beyond mea- sure : he felt like one having committed a dreadful, unpar- donable crime. Because the sense of the words was not at all clear to him, he was the deeper impressed with the con- sciousness of the heinous misdeed of having written verses without knoAnng grammar. So he resolved to know grammar, even should he perish in the attemjjt. To ask Mr. Thomas Porter by what means he could get to know grammar, he had not the courage : the ground was burning under his feet in the little cottage at Ashton Green. John Clare, therefore, took his farewell Avithout seeking further information, and hurried off to the house of a lad with whom he had been at Mr. Merrishaw's school. Did he know where or Avhat grammar was 1 Yes, the lad knew ; he had plunged into grammar at Mr. Merrishaw's, instead of into algebra and the pure sciences. Eut he could not tell hoAV to learn grammar, except through one very difficult work, bound in leather, and called 'The Critical Spelling- book.' To get this wonderful book now became the all-absorb- ing thought of John Clare. Penny after penny was hoarded by immense exertions, and the greatest frugality, approach- ing to a Avant of the necessaries of life. The tAVO shillings for the ' Critical Spelling-book ' were saved at length, and John once more made his Avay to the Stamford bookseller, as eager as Avhen in quest of Thomson's ' Seasons.* He was lucky enough to get ' Lowe's Critical Spelling-book ' at once ; but, having got it, underAvent a fearful disappointment. Eeading MR. Lowe's spelling-book. 39 it under the hedge on the roadside, in his anxiety to possess the contents ; reading it at his noonday meal ; and reading it again at the evening fireside — the more he read it, the less could he understand it. Algehra and the pure sciences had puzzled him infinitely less than this awful grammar. Worthy Mr, Lowe's ' Critical Spelling-book,' ha})pily forgotten by the present generation, instilled knowledge on the good old plan of making it as dark and mysterious as possible. There was, first, a long preface of twenty-two pages, in which IMr. Lowe deprecated all other spelling-books whatever, especially those of his very dear friends and fellow-teachers, Mr. Dixon, author of the ' English Instructor ; ' Mr. Ivirkby, tlie learned ■writer of the ' Guide to the English Tongue ; ' Mr. New- berry, creator of the ' Circle of the Sciences ; ' Mr. Palau'et, the famous compiler of the ' 'Now English Spelling-book ; ' and Mr. Pardon, author of ' Spelling New - Modelled.' Having gone through the painful task of deprecating his friends, with the annexed modest statement that the ' Critical Spelling-book ' would be found superior to any other work of the kind, past, present, or future, Mr. Lowe proceeded to give his own rules, distinguished ' by the greatest simplicity. Through the first chapter, treating of ' monosyllables,' John Clare made his way, with some trouble ; but the second, entering the field of ' polysyllables,' brought him to a stop. Eead as he might, poor John could not understand the ever- changing value of ' oxytones,' ' penacutes,' ' ternacutes,' ' quartacutes,' and ' qiiintacutes,' and was still more bewil- dered when he found that even after having got through all these hard words, there was a still harder tail at the end of them, in the shape of ' exceptions from the spelling-book- sounds of letters and syllables, some of which are more simjile, and may conveniently be learnt by a single direction, others more complex, and may better be explained by being cast into phrases.' Finding it absolutely impossible to get over the oxytones, he shrunk back from the quartacutes and 40' LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. quiatacutes as beyond the reach of an ordinary human "being, and gave up the study in despair. He next ptit ' Lowe's Critical Spelling-book ' into the old cupboard where his mother used to look after his poems — for culinary purposes. But the good housewife never burnt the ' Critical Spelling-book ; ' it being, probably, too tough for her, in all its liide-bound solidity. As for John Clare, he entu-ely failed in learning grammar and spelling, remaining ignorant of the sister arts to the end of his days. mESH ATTEMPTS TO EISE IN THE WORLD, INCLUDING A SHORT MILITARY CAREER. The failure of his attempt to learn grammar, and the firm belief in the words of Mr. Thomas Porter that grammar was indispensable to poetry, for some time preyed upon the mind of John Clare. He lost all his pleasure in scribbling verses, either at home or in the fields, careless even of the praise which his parents had got into the habit of bestowing upon his pretended readings from the poets. This lasted for nearly a year, at the end of which time his OAvn hopefulness, coupled with the natural buoyancy of youth, drove him again to his old pursuits. His spirits were raised additionally by the encouragement of a new friend, the parish-clerk of Helpston. The rumour had spread by this time that John was ' a scholar,' and was ' writing bits of books on paper,' and though the vox po2mli of Helpston thought not the better of John for this acquirement, but rather condemned him as a practically useless creature, the parish-clerk, being teacher also of the Sunday-school, and, as such, representative of learning in the village, held it to be his duty to take notice of and patronize the young man. He went so far as to call upon Clare, now and then, with much condescension, and having glanced, in a lofty sort of way, at the rainbowed slips of paper, already submitted, with such unhappy results, to the judgment of MILTON PARK. 41 Master Porter, lie promised to ' do something ' for his yoimg friend and pupil. The something, after a time, turned out to be an introduction to Lord Milton, eldest son of the Earl Fitzwilliam, with whom the worthy Sunday-school teacher professed to be on very intimate terms. John Clare, at first, was very unAvilling to thrust himself upon the notice of any such high-born j^ersonage ; but the united persuasion of his parents and the obliging new friend broke his reluctance. A day was fixed, accordingly, for the visit to the noble lord, residing at Milton Park, half way between Helpston and Peterborough. After infinite trouble of dressing, the me- morable waistcoat, with cotton gloves, and white necktie, which had made the journey to Wisbeach, being again put into requisition, John Clare and his patron started one line morning for Milton Park. The stately porter at the lodge, after some parley, allowed them to pass, and they reached the mansion without further misadventure. His lordship was at home, said the tall footman in the hall ; and his lordship would see them immediately, he reported, after having de- livered the message of the two strangers. Trusting the ' imme- diate,' John Clare and his friend waited patiently one hour, two hours, tliree hours ; they saw the sun culminate, and saAV the sun set, and still waited with becoming quietness. At last, when it was quite dark, the news came that his lordship could not see them this day, but woidd be glad to meet them some other time. Thereupon Jolm Clare and the Sunday- school teacher left Milton Park and went back to Helpston, slightly sad, and very hungry. To John Clare this first attempt to gain high patronage was profoundly discouraging; but not so to the worthy parish-clerk, whose experience of the world was somewhat larger. The latter induced his yoimg friend to make another trial to meet Lord Milton, and, the thing being better planned, they were successful this time — as far, at least, as the mere meeting was concerned. Having discovered that 42 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. the noble lord Avas in the hahit of occasionally visiting some outlying farms, the shrewd clerk waylaid his lordship, and, together with his yomig friend, biu'st upon him like an apparition. Breaking out into glowing praise of John Clare, which made the latter hlush like a maiden, the parish-clerk finished by pulling from his pocket a bit of antique pottery, unearthed somewhere in the grounds between Helpston Heath and Castor. Lord Milton smiled, and handing the bearer some loose cash, accepted the gift, not forgetting to state that he would remember the young man thus favourably introduced to his notice. John Clare instinctively compre- hended the meaning of all this, and went home and made a silent vow never more to seek pa.tronage in cotton gloves, with a white necktie, and never more to trust his grandilo- quent friend and patron, the parish-clerk. The failure of all his attempts to raise himself from his low condition, drove John Clare into a desponding mood. Weak in body, and suffering under continuous ill-health, liis work as a farm-labourer brought him scarce sufficient remu- neration to procure the coarsest food and the scantiest clothing, while it left him without any means whatever to assist his parents in their great distress, so that they had to continue recipients of meagre parish relief. Throughout, Clare had an innate consciousness of being born to a freer and loftier existence, and thus deeply felt the burthen of being condemned to the fiercest struggle with poverty and misery. The bitter feeling engendered by this thought he surmounted, most frequently, by flying into his favourite reahn of poetrj'' ; but often enough the moral strength failed him for the task, and he sank back in utter hopelessness. More and more was this the case at this period. He was now verging upon manhood, and with it came, as nobler aspirations, so baser passions and desires. To these he fell a prey as soon as he threw aside his slips of paper and pencil, in consequence of Thomas Porter's sharj> rebuke, and the utter failure to master bachelors' hall. 43 * Lowe's Critical Spelling-book.' For many months after, he neither read, nor made the slightest attempt to wi-ite verses, and the idle hours threw him again into evil company, similar to that from which he had escaped at Burghley Park. There were, among the labourers of Helpston, two brothers of the name of John and James Billings, Avho lived, un- married, at a ruinous old cottage, nicknamed Bachelors' Hall. Both were given to poaching, hard drinking, and general rowdyism, and fond, besides, of meeting kindi'ed spirits, of the same turn of mind, at the riotous evening assemblies in their little cottage. Hitherto, John Clare's passion for poetry had kept him constantly at home, the nightly companion of his poor parents ; but no sooner had he weaned liimself from his verses, when he fled to the Hall. To his ardent temper, there was a great charm in the wild, uproarious meetings which took place every evening, accompanied by as much consumption of ale as the purses of the lawless fra- ternity would allow. Poaching, to most of them, proved a source of considerable gain, not less than a pleasant excite- ment, and the money thus freely acquired was as freely spent in drink and debauchery. Though pressingly invited, Clare could not be made to join in the stealing of game ; he was too deep a lover of all creatures that God had made, to be able to hurt or destroy even the least of them wilfuUy. But althoufih unwillin'f to commit slaughter himself, he was not at all disinclined to share in its fruits, and it was not long before he became the leader at the frequent drinking bouts at Bachelors' Hall. Shy and reserved on ordinary occasions, he was at these meetings the loudest of loud talkers and singers, the fimies of vanity, together with those of alcohol, exerting their combined influence. Reciting his verses to merry com- panions, he earned warm and enthusiastic apjjiause, and for the first time in his life deemed himself fully and justly appreciated. That this fancied road to fame was, after all, 44 LIFE OF JOHN GLARE, the dreariest road to ruin, poor Jolin Clare did not see, and, perhaps, could scarcely he expected to see. Fortunately, at this critical period of Clare's life an event occurred which, though it drove him for the moment into company almost worse than that of Bachelors' Hall, at the same time afforded the means for his rescue. It was in the spring of 1812, Clare now in his nineteenth year, that great efforts were made throughout the kingdom to raise the local militia of the various counties, in view of getting, through this source, recruits for the regular army. Veterans, with red noses and filing ribhons on their hats, kept tramping from one end of the country to the other, making every pothouse resound ^vith tales of martial glory, and fearfid accounts of ' Bony.' Even into remote Helpston the recruiting sergeant penetrated, taking up his quarters at the ' Blue Bell,' and with much political wisdom honouring the convivial meetings at Bachelors' Hall with occasional visits. John Clare's heart was stirred ^viihm him when, for the first time, he heard of golden deeds of valour in the field, and how men became great and famous by killing other men. The eloquent re- cruiting sergeant rose to his full height when drawing the accustomed figure of ' Bony,' with horns and tail, swallo-ndng a dozen babies at breakfast, John Clare, with other of his fellows at the Bachelors' Hall, got into a holy rage at the crimes of 'Bony,' vowing to enter the list of avenging angels. The veteran with the red nose took his audience at the word, tendering to each of them a neat silver coin, and enlisting them in the regular militia. John was the foremost to take his shilling, and though his heart misgave him a little when thinking the matter over in the cool of the next morning, he had no choice but to take the red-blue-and-white cockade and foUow the sergeant. The latter managed to enlist a score of young fellows from Helpston, and the whole village turned out when he marched them off to Peterborough. Old Parker Clare and' his wife shed tears on bidding their THE ROAD TO GLORY. 45 son farewell, fearing it might be a farewell for ever. As to John, his pride only prevented him from joining in their lamentation, for his mind was by no means easy regarding the consequences of his rash endeavour to become a hero. He deeply felt his own irresolution to commit acts of heroism, even such inferior ones as the killing of small game ; and he asked himself with terror how he would fare when put face to face with such great tigers as ' Bony ' and his men. The thought was anything but pleasant, and he was relieved from it only by joining the horse-play of his riotous companions, and ransacking the stores of the roadside taverns. Ha%'ing reached Peterborough, the whole troop of aspirant warriors was taken before a magistrate to swear fidelity to King George the Third, after which Clare and his fellow-men had quarters assigned to them at the various beer-houses of the episcopal city. For a week or longer, their daily business, in the service of King George the Third, was to get drunk, to parade the streets singing and shouting, and to fight with the watchmen of the town. John Clare, thinking the matter over in his daily musings, wondered at the curious road laid down for people who wished to become heroes. The Helpston group of warriors ha\'ing been joined by other clusters from various parts of the county of IS'orthamp- ton, the whole regiment of raw recruits was marched along, one fine morning, to Oundle. Here they were drawn up in a body, some thirteen hundred strong, and divided into com- panies, according to size. John Clare, being among the smallest of the young heroes, scarce five feet high, was put into the last company, the fiftli in number. These pre- liminaries being duly arranged, the thirteen hundred had to exchange their smock-frocks, jackets, and blouses, for the regulated red coat and trousers. Unfortunately, the official distributor of these articles paid no attention whatever to the stature and physical conformation of the recipients, nor even to their division into diflfercnt-sized companies, but threw out 46 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. his uniforms like barley among the chickens. The conse- quences were of the most ludicrous kind. Nearly all the hig men got coats which fitted them like strait-laced jackets, while the little ones had garments which hung upon their shoulders in balloon fashion. John Clare was more unlucky than any of his warrior brethren. His trousers, apparently made for a giant, were nearly as long as his whole body, and though he drew them up to close under his arms, they still fell down, by many inches, over his shoes. To prevent his tumbling over them, like a clown in the pantomime, he held up his pantaloons with one hand, while with the other he kept his helmet from falling in the mud. This wonderful headpiece was as much too small for the big-brained recruit as the other parts of the uniform were too large, and it required the most careful balancing to keep it in a steady position on the top of the crown in a quiet atmosphere, while, in any little gust of wind, it was indispensable to ensure the equilibrium with outstretched arm. All this was easy enough while John Clare went through his first martial exercises : nothing more simple, while learning the goose-step, than to hold his big trousers with one hand and his tight helmet with the other. But at the end of four weeks, his superiors gave John Clare a gun, and with it came blank despair. He did not know in the world how to hold his trousers, his gun, and his headpiece at one and the same time. Puzzling over the matter till his brain got dizzy, he at length resolved upon a notable expedient. He tucked his nether garments into his shoes, thereby giving the upper portion of them a bag-like appearance, while he exchanged his helmet for another of larger dimensions, in the possession of a thin-headed brother recruit. The new headpiece was a good deal too large, which, however, was easily remedied by a stuffing of paper and wood shavings, so that henceforth, unless the wind blew too strong, the ingenious young soldier had, at least, one of his two hands to himself. This would IN THE MILITIA. 47 have been an immense benefit under ordinary circumstances ; but unfortunately, in the case of John Clare, and as if to damp his military ardour, it also turned out a source of un- qualified regret. The corporal under whose immediate orders he was placed, a i)rim and lady-like youngster, took an aversion to Jolm, partly on account of the bag-trousers, and partly because of the stuffings of his helmet, a fraction of which not unfrequently escaped its' confinement, and hung down, in stiff wooden ringlets, over his pale cheeks. At this the dandy-corporal sneered, and his sneers growing louder on every occasion, John Clare, at the first favourable opportunity, knocked him down with his unoccupied right hand. The offence, amounting to a crime, was at once reported to the captain, and Clare expected momentarily to be thrust into the black-hole, to be tried by court-martial, and perhaps to be shot. But, singularly enough, nothing, after all, came of the whole affair. The serious breach of military discipline was entirely overlooked by the authorities of the Xorthamp- tonshu'e militia, who probably thought the whole body of men not worth looking after, the greater number of them consisting of a mere collection of the lowest rabble. In con- sequence of strong remonstrances made by the good people of Oundle about the insecurity of their property, and even their lives, the tliirteen hundred warriors were disbanded soon afterwards, and never called together again. Jolm Clare thereupon left his qiiarters at the ' Eose and Crown,' where he had been tolerably well treated by the owners, a widow and her two daughters, and, Avith a joyfid heart, returned to Helpston. He came home somewhat richer than he left, for he brought back with him a second-hand copy of Milton's ' Paradise Lost,' an odd volume, with some leaves torn out, of Shakespeare's ' Tempest,' both works purchased at a broker's shop at Oundle, and, over and above these acquisitions, a knowledge of the goose step. 48 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. TROUBLES OF LOVE, AND A TRIAL OF GYPSY LIFE. The few weeks' martial glory wliicli Jolm Clare enjoyed had the one good effect of weaning liim from the roisterous company at the Bachelors' Hall, and bringing him once more to his former peacefid studies. While a recruit in the militia, he had seen so much of rioting and debauchery, on the part of the vilest of liis companions, as to be cured from all desire to follow in their footsteps, and he now made the firm TOW to lead a more respectable life for the future, A change of scenery, too, had cured him of the all-absorbing fear that he should never be able to write poetry, for want of grammar, and the proper understanding of ' Lowe's Critical Spelling-book.' It seemed to him, on reflection, that, as he could make himself understood in speaking to his fellow men without knowing grammar, he would be able to do so likewise in writing. He therefore began, more eagerly than ever, to collect small strips of paper, and to fill them with verses on rural scenery, fields, brooks, birds, and flowers. His daily occupation, as before, consisted in working as an out-door farm labourer, and doing occasional odd jobs in. gardening and the like, which, though it was barely sufficient to maintain him, had the to him inestimable advantage of leaving him completely his own master. This was the more valuable to John Clare at the present moment, in conse- quence of an affair which occurred soon after his return from Oundle, and which was nothing less than his falling in love, for the second time in his life. He met, saw, and was conquered by Elizabeth Newton, the daughter of a wheelwright, at Ashton, a small hamlet close to Helpston. She was but a plain girl, but possessed of all the arts of coquetry ; and though John Clare did not care much for her at first, she gradually entangled him into fervent affection, or what ho held to be such. It was not Platonic love, by COUKTSHIP. 49 any means, like that for sweet Mary Joyce ; and less so on the part of the lass than on that of lier lover. John, as always, so at his meetings with Elizabeth ^Newton, Avas shy, reserved, and bashful, wlide she was frank and forward, professing to be deej^ly in love with him. This had the desired effect upon John Clare, whose easily-touched heart could not withstand the charms and wiles of female enchant- ment. Havmg got her lover thus far, Elizabeth began to talk of marriage, at the mentioning of which word John felt somewhat startled. His old studies in arithmetic brought to his mind the difficulties there must be in keeping a matrimonial establishment upon ten shillings a week, the average amount of his income, not only for the time, but in aR probability for years to come, if not for his whole life. Elizabetli, on her part, did not share these arithmetical apprehensions, in consequence of which there were quarrels, bickerings, and misunderstandings without end. To please liis Elizabeth, John Clare Avas made to go frequently to the house of father I^ewton, the wheehvright, a curious old man, who was constantly reading in the Bible and trying to find out the meaning of the Apocalypse. He had quotations upon every subject, none of which, however, showed John clearly how to get over the great difficulty of keeping a wife upon nine, or at the best ten, shilluigs a week. Seeing that her lover was vmwilling to do the one thing she wanted, Elizabeth ^^ewton at last jilted liim openly, telling him, before a number of other girls, that he was but a faint- hearted fool. After this, she refused to see him again, although John Clare would have been willing to renew the acquaintance, and even, if necessary, to marry her. He felt, now she had parted from him, and, probably, because she had parted from him, a strong affection for the girl, not to be overcome by many inward struggles. For a short time he sank into melancholy, from which he roused himself, however, by a new resolution. E 50 LIFE OF JOHN CLaEE. On Helpston Heath and the neighbouring commons there were always some gypsy tribes in encamjijment, the two largest of them being kno-mi by the names of ' Boswell's crew,' and ' Smith's crew.' Wliile out on his solitary rambles, John Clare made the accidental acquaintance of ' King Boswell,' which acquaintance, after being kept up by the interchange of many little courtesies and acts of kindness, gradually ripened into a sort of friendship. John Clare thought the dark-eyed gypsies far more intelKgent than his own working companions in the fields, and he was attracted to them, besides, by then' fondness for and knowledge of plants and herbs, as well as their love of music. Expressing a wish to learn to play the fiddle, the most expert musicians of King Boswell's crew at once began to teach him the art, in their o^vn wild way, without notes or other scientific aid, but with the net result that he was able to perform to his own satis- faction in the coiu'se of a few months. He now became a constant visitor at King Boswell's tent, which he only neg- lected during his courtship with Elizabeth IS^ewton, This being broken off, in his grief of unrequited affection John Clare was seized with a real passion for the wild life of his gypsy friends, and resolved to join them in their wanderings. He actually carried out this resolve, and enrolled himself as a member of BosweU's crew for a few days ; but at the end of this period left them with much internal disgust. The poetry of gyi^sy life utterly vanished on close examination, giving way to the most disagreeable prose. Accustomed as John Clare was to humble fare under a poor roof, his nerves could not stand the cookery at King Boswell's court. To fish odds and ends of bones, bits of cabbage, and stray potatoes from a large iron pot, in partnership with a number of grimy hands, and without so much as a wooden spoon, seemed unpleasant work to him, not to be sweetened by all the charms of black eyes and a tune on the fiddle.- He therefore told his new friends that he could not stop with them ; at which they LIME BURNING. 51 ■were not very sorry, seeing in him but a poor liand fur making' fancy "baskets and stealing yoimg geese. Thus King Boswell and his secidar friend parted to their mutual satisfaction, John Clare returning once more to his accustomed field and gardening operations. However, the poet, all his life long, did not forget the gypsies ; nor did they forget him. "WTien- ever any of ' Bos well's crew,' or, in their absence, their first cousins of ' Smith's crew ' happened to be near John Clare, on a Saturday evening, after he had drawn his weekly wages, they did not fail to pay him a friendly visit, singing some new song to the ancient text of 'Auld lang syne.' LIME BURNING AND LOVE MAKING. The short trial of gj-psy life was not .sufficient to make John Clare forget his troubles of love, and he began to think seriously of his further prospects in life. He would have been but too happy to ask Elizabeth Xewton to become his ■svife ; but having seen so much of poverty in the case of his parents, he had a natural dread to start in the same career, with the workhouse for ultimate goal. While thus given up to reflections on his life, there came an offer which appeared to be most acceptable. A fellow labourer of the name of Gordon, who had been once working at a lime-kiln, with good wages, proposed to him to seek the same employment, and to act as a guide and instructor in the matter. John Clare consented, and starting with his friend, in the summer of 1817, the two were lucky enough to find Avork not far off, near the village of Bridge Casterton, in Rutlandshire. By dint of very severe labour, Clare managed to earn al)out ten shillings a week, a part of Avhich he carefully hoarded, with the firm intention of attempting a new start in life, by the aid of a little capital. The first investment of the small sum thus acquired led to rather important results. Having collected a considerable e2 52 LIFE OF JOHN CLAKE. quantity of verses, and safely carried them off from the old hiding-place at Helpston, John Clare resolved to copy a selection, comprising the hest of them, into a book, so as to preserve his poetry the more easily. With this purpose in \'ie\v he went to the next fair at Market Deeping, and after having gone, with some friends, through the usual round of merry-makings, called upon a bookseller and stationer, My. Henson, to get the required volume of blank paper. Mr. Henson had no such article in stock, but offered to supply it in a given time, which being agreed on, particulars were asked as to the quantity of paper required, and the way in which it should be ruled and bound. In reply to these questions, John Clare, made talkative by a somewhat large consumption of strong ale, for the first time revealed his secret to a stranger. He told the inquirer that he had been writing poetry for years, and having accumulated a gxeat many verses, intended to copy them into a book for better preser- vation. The bookseller opened his eyes at the widest. He had never seen a live poet at Market Deeping, yet fancied, somehow or other, that the species was of an outward aspect different from that of the tattered, half -tipsy, undersized farm labourer who was standing before him. Though an active tradesman, willing to oblige people at his shop, Mr. Henson could not help hinting some of these sceptic thoughts to his customer, and feelingly inquired of hun whether it was ' real poetry ' that he was wi'iting. John Clare affirmed that it was real poetry ; further explaining that he wrote most of his verses in the fields, on slips of paper, using the crown of his hat as a desk. This was convincing ; for the hat, on bemg inspected, certainly showed abundant marks of having been employed as a writing-desk, and even bore traces of its occa- sional use as a camp-stool. Doubts as to John Clare being a poet were noAV impossible ; and Mr. Henson willingly agreed to furnish a Ixjok of white paper, strongly bound, fit for the insertion of a vast quantity of original poetry, at the DAWN OF AUTIIOESHIP. , 63 price of eiglit sliillings. AMien partings the obliging book- seller begged as a fixvour to be allowed to inspect one of his customer's poems, promising to keep tlie matter as secret as possible. The flattering request was promptly acceded to, and in a few days after, there arrived by post at Market Deeping two sonnets by John Clare, which he had recently composed. One of these was called ' The Setting Sim ; ' and the other 'The Prunrose.' Mr. Henson, who was no particular judge of sonnets, thought them very poor speci- mens of poetical skill, the more so as they were ill-spelt, and without any attempts at punctuation. He threw the poems aside at once, and wrote to the poet that he might have his blank paper book on paying the stipidated eight shillings. So the matter rested for the present. John Clare's labours as a lime-burner at Bridge Casterton were of the most severe kind. He was in the employ of a Mr. Wilders, who exacted great toil from all lus men, setting them to work foiu'teen hours a day, and sometimes all the night long in addition. Nevertheless, Clare felt thorouglily contented in his new position, being delighted with the beautiful scenery in the neighbourhood, and happy, besides, in being able to earn sufficient money to send occasional assistance to his parents. AVhen not engaged at work, he went roaming through the fields far and wide, always Avith paper and pencil in his pocket, noting down his feelings in verse inspired by the moment. It was the time Avhen his poetical genius began to awaken to fidl life and conscious- ness. He began writing verses with great ease and rapidity, often composing half-a-dozen songs in a day; and though much of the poetry thus brought forth was but of an ephemeral kind, and of no great intrinsic value, the exer- cise, combined with extensive reading of nearly all the old poets, contributed considerably to his development of taste. Sometimes he himself was surprised at the facility with which he committed verses to paper, on the mere spur of 54 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. the moment. It was on one of these occasions that the thought flashed tlii'ough his mind of his being endowed with poetical gifts denied to the majority of men. Tliis was a perfectly new view which he took of himself and his powers, and it helped to give him immense confidence. Timid hitherto and entirely distrustful of his own abilities, he now felt himself imbued with strength never known, and under the impulse of this feeliiig determined to make another attempt to rise from his low condition. The idea occurred to him of printing his verses, and of coming openly before the world as a poet. Each time he had Avritten a new verse with which he was pleased, his confidence grew ; though his hopes fell again when he set himself thinking the matter over, and dwelling upon the difficulties in his way. This inward struggle lasted nearly a year, in the course of which there occurred another notable event, which in its consequences grew to be one of the most important of his whole life. Every Sunday afternoon, the labourers at Mr. Wilder's lime-kiln were in the habit of visiting a small public-house, at the hamlet of Tickencote, called 'the Flower Pot.' Thirsty, like all of their tribe, they spent hours in carousing ; while Jokti Clare, after having had his glass or two, went into the fields, and, sitting by a hedge, or lying down under a tree, sui'veyed the glories of natiwe, feasting his eyes upon the thousandfold beauties of earth and sky. It was on one of these Sunday afternoons, in the autumn of 1817 — Clare now past twenty -fom- — that he saw for the first time ' Patty,' his future wife. She was walking on a footpath across the fields, while he was lying in the grass not far off, dreaming worlds of beauty and ethereal bliss. Patty stepped right into his ideal realm, and thus, unknown to herself, became part and parcel of it. She was a fair gui of eighteen, slender, with regular features, and pretty blue eyes ; but to Clare, at the moment, she seemed far more than fair, slender, and pretty. He watched her across the field, and when she A FAIR VISION. 55 disappeared from sight, John Clare, almost instinctively, climbed to the top of a tree, to discover the direction in which she was going. His courage failed him to follow and addi-ess her, though he would have given all he possessed to have one more glance at the sweet face which so suddenly changed his poetical visions into a still more poetical reality. However, the shades of evening were sinking fast; John Clare could not see far even from the top of his tree, to which he clung with a lover's desjDair, so that the beautiful apparition was soon lost to him. Sleep did not come to his eyes in the following night ; and the sIoav hours of lime- burning the next day only passed on in making projects how he would go to the field near the ' Flower Pot,' and try to meet his sweet love again. He Av^ent to the field, but she came not; not the following day, nor the second, nor the Avhole week. John Clare began to think the fair face which he had seen, and with which he had fallen in love at first sight, was, after all, but the vision of a dream. More than two Aveeks passed, and John Clare, with his fiddle under his arm, one evening made his way to Stamford, to play at a merry meeting of lime-bm-ners the tunes which the gypsies had taught him. Wliile walking along the road, the vision burst upon him a second time in not to be mis- taken reality. There again was the fair damsel he had seen walking, or floating, across the greensward on the Sunday eve ; as fair and trim as ever, though this time not in her Sunday dress. John Clare, with much good sense, thought it useless to climb again upon a tree ; but summing up courage, followed his vision, and, after a while, addressed her in timid, soft words. "V^Tiat gave him some courage for the moment was, that being on a festive excursion, he had donned his very best garments, including a flowery waistcoat and a hat as yet free from the desk service of poetry. The fair damsel, when thus addressed in the road, smiled upon her interlocutor; there could be no doubt, his words, and. 56 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. perhaps, his waistcoat and new hat, foiuid favour in her eyes. And not only did she allow him to address her, but permitted him even to accompany her to her father's cottage, some four miles oft'. Thither accordingly went John Clare, in an ecstacy of delight ; feeling as if in heaven and playing merry gypsy-tunes to the winged angels. He wished the four miles were four hundred; and when arrived at the paternal door with his fair companion, and she told him that he must leave her now, it seemed to him as if it had been but a minute since he met her. He looked utterly dejected ; but brightened up when she told him that her name was Martha Turner, that her father was a cottage fanner, and that the place where they were standing was called Walkherd Lodge — which perhaps, she whispered, he would find again. It sounded as if the fiddle under his arm was again making music to the bright angels. John Clare was in heaven ; but the poor lime-burners at Stamford did not think so, that evening, when they had to dance without a fiddle. After seeing his sweet companion disappear behind the garden-gate ; after hearing the door of the hoiTse open and shut, and watching the movement of the lights within the house for an hour or two, John Clare at last turned his back upon Walkherd Lodge, and went the way he came. The road he trotted along, vnth his feet on good Eutlandshire soil, but his head still somewhat in the clouds, got gradually more and more narrow, till it ended at a broad ditch, with a dungheap on the one side and a haystack on the other. It was now that John perceived for the first time that he had lost his way. While walking along with Martha Turner, he no more thought of marking the road than of solving riddles in algebra, and, besides a faint consciousness that he was coming somewhere from the east and going to the west, he was utterly lost in liis topography. However, under the cu-cum- stances, it seemcil no great matter to John to lose his way, and rather pleasant than otherwise to sleep in a haystack SVNGUIS IN IIEllBA.' 57 within a mile of the dwelling of Martha Tiu-ner. On tlu; haystack, accordinglj'-, he sat dowii with great inward satis- faction, and, the moon having just risen, pencil and paper were got out of the pocket, by the help of which, in less than half an hour, another love-song Avas finished. But though the day was warm and comfortable, John felt too restless to sleep. So he cleared the ditch before him with one jump, and pursued the journey further inland, where lights appeared to be glimmering in the distance. Onward he trotted and leaped, over hedges and drains, across ploughed fields, through underwood and meadows, around stone-quames and chalk-pits. At last, after a wild race of four or five hours, he saidc down from sheer exhaustion. There was soft, mossy grass under his feet, and a sheltering tree above, and he thought it best to stop where he was and to compose himself to sleep. The heavy eyelids sank without further bidding, and for several hours his soul took flight into the land of dreams. "V^Tien he awoke, the moon was still shining, but not far above the western horizon. Looking around, he perceived something bright and glittering near him, similar to the bare track beaten by the sheep in hot weather. To follow this path was his immediate resolve, as sure to lead to some human habitation, if only a shepherd's hut. He was just going to rise, but still on the ground, when one of his feet slipped a short distance, in the direction of the silvery line, and he heard the clear splash of water under him. At the same moment, the last rays of the moon disappeared from above the horizon. John Clare shuddered as if the hand of death was upon him. Creeping cautiously towards the neighbouring tree, and clasping both his arms around it, he awaited daybreak in this position. At length, after hours which seemed endless, the burning clouds appeared in the east. He once more looked around him, and found that he was lying on the brink of a deep canal, close to the Eiver Gwash. One turn of the body in its restless dreams ; one 58 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. step towards the tempting silvery road of night, would have made an end for ever of all the troubles, the love and life and poetry, of poor John Clare. ATTEMPTS TO GET UP A PROSPECTUS. Soon after his first meeting with Martha Turner, at the beginning of October, 1817, John Clare left Bridge Casterton, and went to Pickworth, a \allage four miles off", in a northerly direction, where he foimd employment in another lime-kiln, belonging to a Mr. Clerk. The reason he quitted his old master was that the latter lowered his wages from nine to seven shillings per week, which reduction John Clare would not submit to. Though content, throughout his life, to live in the humblest way, he had two strong reasons, at this moment, for "wishing to earn moderately good wages, so as to be able to save some money. The first was that he had set his heart on having a new suit of clothes, including an olive- green coat. As young maidens sigh for a lover, and as cliildren long for sweetmeats, so John Clare had set his heart for years on having an olive-green coat. For this wonderful garment he was ' measiu'ed ' soon after returning from Oundle and martial glory, under the agreement, carefully stipulated with the master tailor, that it was to be delivered only on cash payment. But he had never yet been able to raise the necessary fifty sliillings, although the olive-green coat was dearer to his heart than ever before. However, there was one still dearer object, for the carrying out of which he wanted to save money, namely, the attempt to get some of his verses printed. His chief impulse, in this respect, was not so much literary vanity, but a strong desire to get the judgment of the world on his own secret labours. As yet, though with an intuitive perception of the intrinsic worth of his poetry, he had no real faith in himself. The intimation of Thomas Porter, respecting the necessity of grammar, still HOPES AND FEARS. 59 -weighed heavily upon his mind, and the cold reception which liis verses met Avith at the hands of the bookseller of Market Deeping greatly contributed to weaken the belief in the value of his wi-itings. Nevertheless, the old spirit of faith urging him again and again, he had more than once renewed his communications with Mr. Henson, and repeated visits to Market Deeping at last produced a sort of treaty between bookseller and poet. Mr. Henson agreed to print, for the sum of one pound, three hundred prospectuses, inviting subscribers for a small collection of ' Original Trifles by John Clare.' The price of the volume was to be three shillings and sixpence, ' in boards ; ' and Mr. Henson pro- mised that, as soon as one hundred subscribers had given in their names, he would begin to print the book, at his own risk. This treaty, the result of several interviews, and much anxiety on the part of John Clare, was settled between the interested parties in the month of December, 1817. A more excited time than that wliich now followed, Clare had never seen in his life. He was in love over head and eai-s, and had to pay frequent visits to his mistress at Walk- herd Lodge ; he had to think of saving money for his long- desired olive-green coat — more than ever desired now for presentation at the Lodge ; and, last not least, he had to work overtime to get the one poimd sterling required for the print- ing of the three hmidred prospectuses. In short, he had to labour harder than ever, in order to gain more money ; and, yet, at the same time, required more leisure than ever, both for ■writing verses and love-making. To reconcile these opposite wants, he took to night-work, in addition to daily labour, risking his health and almost his life to gain a few shillings and to have an occasional glimpse at liis sweet mis- tress. His love prospects did not appear to be very promis- ing, at first. As for Martha Turner herself, she rather encoivraged than other-wise the attentions of the young lime- burner ; her parents, however, were strongly and energetically 60 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. opposed to the courtsliip. Dignified cottage-farmers, renting tiieir half-a-dozen acres of land, with a cow on the common, and a pig or two, tliey thought their pretty daughter might look higher in the world than to a mere lime-burner with nine shillings a week. Besides, there was another lover in the wind, of decidetUy hetter prospects, who had already gained the ear of the parents, and was backed by all their influence. It was a young shoemaker from Stamford, with a shop of his own ; a townsman dressed in spotless broadcloth on all his visits to Walkherd Lodge, and of manners con- sidered aristocratic. Martha herself wavered slightly between the shoemaker and the lime-bm-ner ; the former was not only well-dressed but good-looking, to neither of wliich externals John Clare could lay any pretensions. The only advantage possessed by him over his rival was that he pleaded his cause with all the zeal and ardour of a man deeply enamoured, and this, as always, so here, carried the day finally. There was some languid indifference in the addresses of the loving shoe- maker, to punish which Martha Tiu-ner threw herseLf into the arms of John Clare. So far, things were looking pro- sperous at the Pickworth lime-kiln, during the first months of 1818. MeanM'hile, the poetical aspirations of John Clare had made little progress. Mr. Henson, of Market Deeping, insisted that the poet should write his own prospectus, or ' Invitation to Subscribers,' and Clare trembled at the bare idea of undertaking such a formidable work. Easy as it was to him to compose scores of verses every day, in the intervals of the hardest manual labour, he had never attempted, in his whole Hfe, to write a single line in prose, and therefore could not bring himself, by any exertion, to go through the new task. Day after day he tormented his head to find words how to begin the required prospectus, but invariably with the same negative residt. Often it happened that, when trying to write down the first line of the ' Invitation,' PROSPECTUS MAKING. 61 liis thoughts invohmtarily h:)st themselves in rhj'ine, till, finally, instead of the desired 'Address to the Public,' there stood on paper, much to his own surprise, an address to the primrose or the nightingale. Thus, one morning, when going to his work, in deep thoughts of poetry, prospectuses, love, and limo-burning, the reflection escai)ed his lips, ' What is life ? ' and, as if driven by inspiration, he instantly sat down in a field, and, on a scrap of coarse paper, wrote the first two verses of the poem, subsequently published under the same title. Clare's poetical genius threatened to master even his own will. At length, however, after infinite trouble and exertion, he managed to get the dreaded prospectus ready. Having saved the pound with Avhich to pay the printer, he fiimly deter- mined to make a final attempt to write prose, in some fomi or other, and to send it off" to Market Deeping, in whatever shape it might turn. At this time he was in the habit of working, sometimes at Mr. Clerk's lime-kiln at Pickworth, and sometimes at a branch establishment of the same owner, situated at Eyhall, three miles nearer towards Stamford. Firm in his determination to produce a prospectus, he started one morning for Ryhall, and, arrived at his place of labour, sat down on a lime-scuttle, pencil in hand, with the hat as ever-ready writing-desk. For once, the jirose thoughts flowed a little more freely, and after a strong inward effort, the following came to stand upon paper : — ' Proposals for publishing by Subscription a Collection of Original Trifles on miscellaneous subjects, religious and moral, in Verse, by John Clare of Helpston. The Public are requested to observe that the Trifles humbly oflered for their candid perusal can lay no claim to eloquence of poetical composition ; whoever thinks so will be deceived, the greater part of them being Juvenile prod\ictions, and those of later date offsprings of those leisure intervals which the short remittance from hard and manual labour sj^aringly afforded 62 LIFE OF JOHN CLAllE. to compose tlaem. It is hoped that the humble situation which distinguishes their author will be some excuse in their favour, and serve to make an atonement for the many inaccu- racies and imperfections that will be found in them. The least touch from the iron hand of Criticism is able to crush them to nothing, and sink them at once to utter oblivion. May they be allowed to live their little day and give satisfac- tion to those who may choose to honour them with a perusal, they will gain the end for which they Avere designed and their author's wishes will be gratified. Meeting with this encouragement it will induce him to publish a similar collec- tion of which this is offered as a specimen.' The writing of this paper — presented here as originally written, with the correction only of the spelling, and the insertion of a few stops and commas — took Clare above three hours, and having finished it, and read it over several times, he thought he had reason to be pleased with his perforiuance. A third reading increased this satisfaction, in the fulness of which he determined to send the prospectus at once to the printer. Accordingly, he sat down upon liis lime-scuttle, fastened the paper together with a jnece of pitch, scraped from an old barrel, and directed it, in pencil, to ' Mr. Henson, bookseller. Market Deeping.' This accomiDlished, he started off in a trot to the post-ofiice at Stamford. On the road, new doubts and scruples came fluttering through his mind. Was it not a foolish act, after all, that he, a poor labourer, the son of a pauper, should risk a pound of his hard earnings in the attempt to publish a book? Would not the people laugh at him 1 Would they not blame him for spending the money on such an object, instead of giving it to his half- starving parents 1 Such were the doubts that crossed his mind. But, on the other hand, he considered that success might possibly attend his efforts ; that, if so, it would be the means of raising his parents, as well as himself, from their low situation ; and that, whatever the result, it would shoAV 'ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC.' 63 him the world's estimate of lus own doings — either encourage him in writing more verses, or cure hhii of a silly propensity. This last reflection, and a thought of the fair girl he loved, decided the matter in his own mind. He sprang up from the stone heap, where he had sat buried in reflections, and pursued his way to Stamford. His face was burning with excitement, and, entering the town, he foncied everybody was looking at him, with a full knowledge of his vainglorious errand. The post-oflice was closed, and the clerk at the ■vvicket demanded one penny as a fee for taking in the late letter. John Clare fumbled in his pockets, and found that he had not so much as a farthing in his possession. In a rueful voice he asked the man at the wicket to take the letter without the penny. The clerk glanced at the singular piece of paper handed to him, the pencilled, ill-spelt address, the coarse pitch, instead of sealing-wax, at the back, and with a contemptuous smile, threw the letter into a box at liis side. Without uttering another word, he then shut the door in Clare's face. And the poor poet hurried home, burying his face in his hands. THE TUEN OF FORTUNE. In about a week after the despatch of the pitch-sealed letter, there came a reply from JNIr. Henson, of INIarket Deeping. It intimated that the prospectuses, Avith appended specimen poem, were nearly ready, and would be handed over to Jolm Clare, on a given day, at the Dolphin inn, Stamford. Accordingly, on the day named, Clare went over to Stamford, his heart fluttering liigh with expectations. When Mr. Henson handed him the ' Address to the Public,' Avith the ' Sonnet to the Setting Sun ' on the other side, both neatly corrected and printed in large type, he was beside himself for joy. In its new dress, his poetry looked so 64 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. charmingly beautiful, that he scarcely knew it again. His hopes rose to the highest pitch when he found that the admiration of his printed verses was shared by others. "Wliile they were sitting in the parlour of the Dolphin inn, drink- ing and talking, there came in a clerical-looking gentleman, who, after having listened a while to the conversation about the forthcoming volume of poetry, politely inquired for the title of the book. Mr. Henson, Avith business-like anxiety, at once came forward, explaining all the circumstances of the case, not forgetting to praise the verses and the writer to the skies. The gentleman, evidently touched by the recital, at once told Mr. Henson to put his name down as a subscriber, giving his address as the Eev. Mr. Mounsey, Master of the Stamford Grammar-school. Jolm Clare was ready to fall on the neck of the kind subscriber, first admirer of his poetry ; but prudently restraining himself, he only mumbled his thanks, with an ill-suppressed tear in his eye. After having made arrangements for the circulation of the prospectuses, boldly undertaking to distribute a hundi'ed liimself, John Clare then went back to his lodgings at Pickworth, dancing more than walking. The first bright vision of fame and happiness thus engen- dered was as short as it was intense. It was followed, for a time, by a long array of troubles and misfortune, making the poor poet more wretched than he had ever been before. Soon after his meeting with Mr. Henson at the Dolphin inn, he had a quarrel with his mistress, and a more serious disagree- ment with her parents, followed by a harsh interdict to set his foot again within the confines of Walkherd Lodge. A few weeks subsequently, his master discharged him, under the probably well-justified accusation that he was neglecting his work, scribbling verses all day long, and running about to distribute his prospectuses. This discharge came in the autumn of 1818, and put Clare to the severest distress. The exj)enses connected with his poetical speculation had swal- PARISH RELIEF. 65 lowed up all his hoardings, and left him absolutely without a Ijeuny in the world. After several ineifcctual efforts to find work as a lime-burner either at Pickworth or Casterton, he ])ethought himself to seek again employment as a farm- labourer, and for this purpose went back to Helpston. His parents, now quite reduced to the mercies of the workliouse, and subsisting entirely upon parish relief, received liim with joy ; but nearly all other doors were shut against him. The Ande-spread rumour that he was going to publish a book, had created a great sensation in the village, but, so far from gaining him any friends, had raised up a host of jealous detractors and enemies. Among the most ignorant of the \Tllagers, the cry prevailed that he was a schemer and im- postor ; while the better-informed people, including the small farmers of the neighbourhood, set liim down as a man who had taken up pursuits incompatible with his position. Per- haps the latter view was not an altogether unjust one ; at any rate, the farmers, all of them people of small means, acted upon good precedent in refusing John Clare work, after he had been discharged, by liis last employer, for gross neglect of duty. It was in vam that Clare offered to do * jobs,' or work by contract ; his very anxiety to get into employment, of whatever kind it might be, was held to be presumptuous, and all his offers and promises met Avith nothing but distrust. In this frightful state of things, there was only one resource remaining to John Clare, to escape starvation — to do as his parents, and beg a dry loaf of bread from the tender mercies of the parish. His name, accordingly, was enrolled in the list of paupers. But as if the cup of his distress was not yet full enough, John Clare, while reduced to this lowest state of misery, got a note from ]Mr. Henson, of IMarket-Deeping, informing him that the distributed prospectuses had only brought seven subscribers, and that the scheme of printing the poems would have to be dropped entirely, unless he could advance fifteen P 6Q LIFE OF JOHN CLAKE, pounds to meet the necessary expenses. To Clare, this in- formation sounded like mockery. To ask him, while in abso- lute -want of food, to raise fifteen pounds, appeared to him an insult — which probably it was not meant to be. Mr. Henson, the printer and bookseller, had very little knowledge of the actual state of his correspondent, and looking upon the whole scheme of pubhsliing poetry as the driest matter of business, addressed Clare as he would have any other customer. This, however, was not the way in wliich the deeply-distressed poet viewed the proceedings. He gave way to his feelings in a very angiy letter, after despatching which he sank into deep despondency. It seemed to hhn as if he had now made ship- wreck of his life and all his hopes. Eecovering from this sudden access of grief, he made a fresh resolve. At twenty-five, men seldom die of despon- dency — not even poets. John Clare, too, decided not to give up the battle of life at once, but prolong it a short while by becoming a soldier. However, he was afraid to add to the distress of his father and mother by informing them of tliis plan, and, therefore, left home under the pretence that he was going to seek work. It was a fine spring morning — year 1819 — when he took once more the road to Stamford. Passing by Burghley Park, he was strongly reminded of that other sunny day in spring when he came the same way with Thomson's ' Seasons ' in hand ; when he was seized with the sudden passion for poetry, and when he "wrote his first verses under the hedge of the gardens, full of joy and happiness. And he pondered upon the sad change which had taken place in these ten years. He had written many more verses— far better verses, he fully believed ; and yet was poorer than ever, and more Tk\Tctched and miserable than he had imagined he could possibly be. Thus ran the flow of his thoughts : sad and gloomy, though not A^dthout an undercurrent of more hope- ful nature. There was a deep-rooted belief in his heart that the poems he had written were not entirely worthless, and WALKHERD COTTAGE. 67 that notwithstanding the coklness and antipathy of the world, notwithstanding his own poverty and wretchedness, the day would come wlien their value would be appreciated. The now sanguine spirit took more and more hold oi' him while looking over the hedge into the park, and around on the helds, smiling in their first green of new-born loveliness, and enlivened with the melodious song of birds. Once more, his heart was warmed as of old, and he sat down under a tree, to compose another song. It was a poem in praise of natiu'e, gradually changing into a love-song ; and while ^\Titing down the lines, his heart grew melancholy in thoughts of his absent mistress, liis sweet * Patty of the Yale,' separated from him, perhaps, for ever. To see her once more, before enlisting as a soldier, now came to be the most ardent desire of his heart. The shades of evening were sinking fast, when John Clare reached Bridge Casterton, on his way to Walkherd Cottage. He Avas just in view of the smiling little garden in front of the house, when a figure, but too well known, crossed his path. It was Patty. She wanted to speak, and she wanted to fly ; her lips moved, but she did not utter a word. Clare, too, was lost, for a minute, in mute embarrassment ; but, recovering himself, he rushed towards her, and with fervent passion pressed her to his heart. Patty was too much a cliUd of nature not to respond to this burst of afiection, and for some minutes the lovers held each other in sweet embrace. They might have prolonged their embrace for hours, but were disturbed by calls from the neighbouring lodge. The anxious parent within heard words, and sounds, and stifled kisses, and doubting whether they came from the shoemaker, sent forth shrill cries for Martha to come in without delay. But darkness made Patty bold; she assured her mother that there was ' nobody,' accompanying the word by another kiss. Then, with loving caress, she tore herself from Clare's arms, flying up the narrow path to the cottage. Jolm Clare was transfixed to the spot for a fcAv minutes, and, having f2 68 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. gazed again and again at tlie rose-embowered dwelling, made his way back to Stamford, joj-ful, yet sad at heart. On the road, close to Casterton, he met some old acquaintances of the lime-kiln, going to the same destination, intent on an evening's drinking bout. John was asked to join, and after some reluctance, consented. The lime-burners had their pockets well-filled for the night, and the jug of ale went round with much rapidity. When gaiety was at the culminating point, a tall gentleman, in the uniform of the Eoyal Artillery, joined the merry company. The jug passed to him, and he returned the compliment by ordering a fresh supply of good old ale. !N"ow the talk grew fast and loud, opening the sluices of mutual confidence. Jolin Clare loudly proclaimed his in- tention of becoming a soldier, ready to fight his way ftp to generalship. ' Do you mean itf inquired the tall gentleman in uniform. ' Of course I do,' retorted John, somewhat nettled at the incredulity of his neighboiu". 'Well, if you really mean it,' resumed the artilleryman, ' take that shilling.' John, without hesitation, took the shilling. After which, he fell fast asleep. AYhen he awoke, the next morning, he foimd that he was lying on a bench^ behind a long table, strewn with jugs, bottles, and glasses. The room was filled with fumes of tobacco and stale beer, tlirough which the sun shone with a dull uncertain light. Eubbing his eyes, Clare jumped from his hard couch, and in a moment was out of doors. The first person he met in the passage was the military gentleman of the previous evening. John Clare was astonished ; and so was the man in uniform. John was surprised to find the gentleman so very tall, and the gentleman was surprised to find John so very small — two fiicts observed by neither of them at the convivial table the evening before. The man in uniform was the first to recover liis astonishment, and. THE RECRUITING SERJEANT. 69 approaching Clare with a cordial shake of the hand, ex- pressed his regret that, in the excitement of the previous night, things should have happened which would not have occiuTed otherwise. But it was not likely that one of his Majesty's officers in the artillery would take an advantage of such an accident, keeping as a recruit a friend avIio, he was sure, meant the whole only a joke. A hurden fell from John's heavily-oppressed heart when he heard these words. Of course, it was only a joke, he muttered forth ; and the proof of it was that he kept the shilling intact, just as it had been given to him. With which he handed the potent coin back to the tall gentleman. It was the identical shilling he had received ; there could be no mistake, inasmuch as it was - the only shilling he had had in his possession for many a day. The man in luiiform smiled ; smiled still more when John Clare searched in his pockets, withdrawing a much-creased, dirty-looking piece of paper. ' Original Trifles,' exclaimed the tall gentleman ; reading the paper ; * Ah, I thank you, thank you very much. Not in my line.' Which sa}-ing, he vanished beliind the counter of the tap-room. John Clare was lost, as to many other things, so to the Eoyal Artillery. In a very uncertain mood, his head stiU somewhat heavy, John Clare took his way back to Helpston. He congi-atu- lated himself of having had a very lucky escape from a kind of servitude for which, of aU others, he was most unfit ; and yet, notAvithstanding this piece of good fortune, he felt by no means easy in his mind. "What to do next? was the great ques- tion he was unable to solve, and which got more intricate the more he thought of it. While giving the spur to his reflections for the hundredth time, he ran against an old feUow-labourer from Helpston, a man named Coblee. The latter was exactly in the same position as John Clare. He had no work, and wanted very much to get a living ; but did not know how to get it. Talking the matter over, the two agreed temporarily to join their eflbrts, under the supposition that such a part- 70 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. nership might possibly be useful to both — as, indeed, it could not make their position worse. This matter settled, plans came to be proposed on both sides. To leave Helpston, and leave it immediately, was a point at once agreed upon ; but next came the more difficult matter, as to subsequent proceedings. John Clare was in favour of going northward, into Yorkshire, which county he had heard spoken of as one of milk and honey; while friend Coblee was anxious to seek work in an easterly direction, in the fen-country, where he had some friends and acquaintances. There was great waste of good arguments on both sides, until friend Coblee's experience suggested to decide the matter by a toss. Being the fortunate possessor of a halfj^enny, he produced -it forthwith, and chance was called upon for an answer. It declared in favoiir of John, whereupon Coblee — a man seemingly born to be a lawyer — raised various minor questions. He argued that as the subject was one of high importance, it ought not to be left to the decision of a single toss ; and, moreover, chance itself, and not the winner, ought to declare in which direction they ought to go. After protracted discussion, the final settlement of the question was postponed to the following day, a Sunday — a very important Sunday in the life of John Clare. Early on the Sunday morning, the two friends met, as agreed upon, at Bachelors' Hall, the general club and meeting place of the young men of Helpston. The news that Clare and Coblee were on the point of leaving the village together, to seek fortune in distant places, had spread rapidly, and attracted a large number of old friends and acquaintances. Clare was not a popular man, but Coblee was ; and to honour the latter, various bottles were brought in from the neigh- bouring public-house. Due justice having been done to Uie cont(;nts of these flasks, the discussion respecting the final consultation of Dame Fortune was renewed, and happily brought to an end. It was proposed by the brothers Billing, TURN OF FOllTUNE. 71 tenants of the Hall, and adopted by a majority of votes, that a stick should be j^ut firmly in the ground, in the middle of the room, and that they should dance around it in a ring till it fell from its erect position. The way in which it fell was to indicate the direction in which the two emi- grants were to go. John Clare and Coblee both promised to abide by this award, the latter specially agreeing not to raise any minor questions afterwards. All this having been duly arranged, the stick was put into the clay, the circle was formed, and the visitors at Bachelors' Hall began theu* dance. They danced fast and furiously ; danced like men with a great object before them, and empty bottles behind. Sud- denly a loud knocking was heard at the gate. The stick stood still upright, and there was a moment's pause in the dance. ' John Clare must come home at once,' said a shrill little voice outside ; ' there are two gentlemen waiting for him : two real gentlemen.' 'Shall I gol' inquired Jolm. 'Go, by all means,' dictated the elder of the Bachelor Brothers, ' we ■v^^ll wait for you.' They waited long, but John did not return. JOHN glare's first PATRON. The tAvo ' real gentlemen,' who were waiting at the little cottage, wishing to see John Clare, were Mr. Edward Drury, bookseller, of SM;amford, and Mr. E. Newcomb, a fi-iend of the latter, proprietor of the Stamford Mercury. Mr. Drury, who had not been long established in business, having but a short time before bought the ' New Public Library ' in tlie High Street, from a Mr. Thompson, had heard of John Clare in a rather singular manner. One day, while still in treaty about the business, there came into the ' New Public Library,' a gaimt, aAvkward-looking man, in the garb of a labourer, yet with somewhat of the bearing of a country squire. Addressing Mr. Thompson, he told him, in a haughty 72 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. manner, that there would be ' no debts paid at present/ and ' not until the poems are out.' The man who said this was Mr. Thomas Porter, of Ashton, the friend of John Clare, and propounder of the awful question concerning grammar and the spelling-book. Though severe upon his young poetical friend, he nevertheless remained attached to him with true devotion, and latterly had assisted him in the distribu- tion of j^rospectuses and other errands relating thereto. It Avas on one of these excursions that he came to the ' ISTew Public Library,' in Stamford High Street. John Clare had been so extravagant, while burning lime at Pickworth, as to take in a niunber of periodical publications, among them the Boston Inquirer, and getting into debt on this account, to the amotmt of fifteen shillings, which he was unable to pay after liis dismissal from the lime-kiln, ISIr. Thompson had A\Titten several urgent letters demanding payment. In reply to one of these, Clare despatched his friend Thomas Porter to Stamford, instructing him to pacify his angry creditor, and to deliver to him some prospectuses of the ' Original Trifles.' It was in order to be the more efiective that Thomas Porter adopted a haughty tone, quite in keeping with his tall gaimt figure ; and, talkmg in a lofty manner of his friend the poet, almost repudiated the right of the bookseller to ask for payment of his little debt. The pro- prietor of the ' !N'ew Public Library,' a quick-tempered man, got exceedingly irritated on hearing this language. Speak- ing of John Clare in the most offensive terms, he took the prospectuses and threw them on the floor, at the same time ordering Thomas Porter out of his shop. The long -waiy arms of John Clare's tall friend were about reachiag across the coimter and pulling the little shopkeeper from his seat, when Mi;. Drury interfered. He had listened to the dialogue with intense astonishment, being quite bewildered as to the meaning of the terms poet, lime-bui^ner, and swindler, all applied to one person, of whom it was clear only that he A SPECULATIVE BOOKSELLEE. 73 Avas a friend of the ga\;nt man. Wlien the latter hail taken his leave, pacified by imich politeness and many kind words from Mr. l^rury, an explanation was sought and obtained. Mr. Thompson, still trembling with rage, informed his suc- cessor in the business, that the lime-burning rogue had pretensions to be a poet, and wanted to swindle people out of their money under pretext of publishing a volmne of verses. Picking up one of the prospectuses, Mr. Drury saAv that this, in a sense, was the case. But examining the ' Address to the Public,' he could not help thinking that it was a prospectus singularly free from all indications of puff- ing, and less still of roguery. Indeed, he thought that he had never seen a jnore modest invitation to subscribe to a book ; or one Avhich, in his oAvn opinion, was more imfit to attain the object with which it was written. The writer evidently depreciated his work throughout, and took the loAvliest and humljlest view of his own doings. That such a very unbusinessdike address could not possibly secure a dozen subscribers, Mr. Driuy knew but too well ; but this made him the more anxious to get some further knowledge of the modest author. He accordingly paid the debt of fifteen shillings to the delighted Mr. Thompson, and put Clare's prospectus in his pocket-book ; and, having got somewhat at home in his new business, settling the most urgent matters connected with the transferment, started on a visit to Helpston, in company Avith a friend. Entering the little cottage, the tAvo visitors, though they expected to see poverty, were greatly sui-prised at the look of extreme destitution visible everyAvhere. Old Parker Clare, noAV a cripple scarcely able to move, was croiiched in a corner, on Avhat appeared to be a log of wood, covered with rags ; Avhile his Avife, pale and haggard in the extreme, was Avarming her thin hands before a Httle fire of dry sticks. It was Sunday ; but there Avas no Sunday meal on the table, nor preparations for any visible in the Ioav, narroAV room, 74 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. the whole furniture of Avliich consisted of but a rickety table and a few broken-down chairs. The astonishment of Mr. Drury and his friend rose Avhen John Clare appeared on the threshold of his humble dwelling. A man of sliort stature, with keen, eager eyes, high forehead, long hair, falling down in wild and almost grotesque fashion over his shoulders, and garments tattered and torn, altogether little removed from rags — the figure thus presented to view was strikingly iinlike the picture of the rural poet which the Stamford bookseller had formed in his own. mind. Jolui Clare, shy and awkward as ever, remained standing in the doorway, without uttering a word ; while Mr. Drury, on liis part, did not know how to address this singular being. The oppressive silence was broken at last by the remark of Drury's friend, that they had come to subscribe to the ' Original Trifles,' a few manuscript specimens of which, he said, they would be glad to see. John Clare did not like the remark, n^r the patronizing tone in which it was uttered, and bluntly informed the inquirer that nearly all his verses were in the possession of Mr. Henson, of Market-Deeping, who had agreed to print them. The further question as to how many subscribers he had for his poems, irritated Clare still more, eliciting the answer that this was a matter between him and Mr. Henson. JVIr. Drury, with superior tact, now saw that it was high time to change the conversation, which he did by asking leave to sit do^vn, and exchange a few words with ' JNIr. Clare ' and his parents. Addressing old Parker Clare and his wife in a friendly manner, stroking the cat on the hearth, and sending a little boy, loi;nging about the door, for a bottle of ale, he at last succeeded in breaking the ice. To win confidence, Mr. Drury began giving an account of himself. He told John Clare that he had taken the shop of Mr. Thompson, at Starpford, and having found among the papers some prospectuses of a book of poetry, with a speci- men sonnet, he had felt anxious to pay a visit to the author. PATRONS FROM STAMFORD. 75 After awarding some high praise to the sonnet of the ' Setting Sim,' he next asked (,"lare whether the publication of the poems had been definitely agreed upon between him and Mr. Henson, of Market-Deeping. ' No,' answered John Clare, beginning to be won over by the frankness of his visitor. To fiu-ther questions, carefully worded, he replied, that as yet he had only seven subscribers — nominally seven ; in reality only one, the I^ev. Mr. ]\Ioun- sey, of the Stamford Grammar-school — and that Mr. Henson refused to commence printing the poems, unless the sum of fifteen pounds Avas advanced to him. There noAv was a moment's pause, broken by Mr, Drury, who said, addressing Clare, ' Well, if you have made no agreement Avith Mr. Henson, and Avill entrust me with yoiu* poems, I will undertake to print them without any advance of money, and leave you the profits, after deducting my expenses.' John Clare's heart rose within him when he heard these Avords, and but for the pompous man at Mr. Drury's side, he would have run np and pressed the good bookseller to his heart. 'Yes, you shall have all my papers,' he eagerly exclaimed ; ' shall have them as soon as I get them back from Market-Deeping. And I can show you a few verses at once.' Which saying, he left the room, returning in a few minutes with a queer bundle of odd-sized scraps of paper, tied round Avith a tliick rope, and scribbled over, in an almost illegible manner, in all directions. At the top of the bundle Avas a poem, begiixning, ' My love, thou art a nosegay SAveet,' which Mr. Drury had no sooner deciphered, than he shook Clare Avarmly by the hand. ' I think that Avill do,' he exclaimed, Avith some enthu- siasm, looking at his companion. The latter fancied he ought to say something. ' Mr. Clare, I shall be happy to see you to dinner, any of these days,' he exclaimed, Avdth a dignified nod and gracious smile. There- 76 LIFE OF JOHX CLAEE. upon, botli ]\Ir. Drury and Mr. NewcomL took their farewell, Clare once more promising that he would take his papers to the ' ISTew Puhlic Library,' as soon as obtained from Market- Deeping. On the threshold, Mr. l!^ewconib was seized with a new idea. ' If you get the manuscripts from Deeping, Mr. Clare, we shall be glad to see you,' he exclaimed ; ' if not, we can say nothing further about the matter.' Thus the friendly visitor got rid of the overwhelming fear of giving a dinner to a poor man for nothing. However, John Clare never in his life troubled INIr. iN'ewcomb of Stamford for a dinner. Disagreeable, and almost offensive, as the conversation of one of his visitors had been to John Clare, he was very much pleased with that of the other. For Mr. Edward Drury he felt a real liking, and deeming the proposition which the latter had made exceedingly liberal, he at once set to work carrying the proposal into execution. Fearing that Mr. Hen- son might, possibly, put obstacles in his way, John persuaded his mother to go to Market-Deeping and fetch his poems. The good old dame gladly fulfilled her son's wish, and the next morning trudged over to the neighbouring town. Clever diplomatist, like all ladies, yoimg or old, she managed to get, with some difficulty, her son's bundle of many-coloured papers, in the midst of which stuck, Hke the hard kernel in a soft pliun, a stout, linen-bound book. John, over-anxious now to possess liis verses, awaited the result of the journey half-way between Deeping and Helpston, near the -vdllage of Maxey. Here both mother and son sat down in a field, the latter examining his paper bundle with great care. It Avas all right ; nothing was missing, not even the jjitch-sealed document containing the prospectus of the ' Original Trifles.' Joyful at heart, the two went back to the little cottage, already expanded, in John's imagination, into a large com- fortable house. The first difficulty of getting them printed overcome, the success of his poems was to John Clare a matter WANTED A CRITIC. I i of no douljt "wliatever. His fency painted to liini, in glowing colours, what lionour they would bring liim, what friends, and what worldly reward. He would be enabled to get a nice dwelling for his old parents, abundance of good cheer for them, and abundance of good books for himself. And then — his heart swelled at the thought — he would be able to carry home his beloved mistress, his 'Patty of the Vale.' The idea made him dance along, the road ; and ho kissed his mother, and the good old dame began dancing, too, all through the green fields, in which the birds wore singing, and the flowers bending their faces in the wind. On the following morning, Jolm Clare walked to Stamford Avith his papers, handing them over to Mr. Drury. The latter ptresented him with a guinea, as a sort of purchase- money ' on hand,' encouraging liim, at the same time, to Amte more verses, and to complete all the remaining manuscript poetry in his possession. John went home elated with joy, promising to return to Stamford at the end of a week. To Jolin Clare it Avas a week of joy, wliile Mr. Edward Drury, on his part, felt somewhat uneasy in his mind. He was a man of good education, a relative of Mr. John Taylor — head of the formerly eminent publishing firm of Taylor and Hessey, Fleet Street, London — but, though vnth. fair natui-al gifts, and a lover of poetry, was not exactly a judge of literary productions. John Clare's sonnet ' To the Setting Sun,' which had first attracted his attention, looked well in its printed and corrected form ; but the rest of the manuscript poems, when he came to look over them, appeared to him to possess little or no value. Written on dirty bits of coarse paper, ill-spelt, full of grammatical blunders, and without any punctuation whatever, it required, indeed, a judge of more than ordinary capacity to pronounce on the intrinsic poetical value of these productions. Mr. Drury, having spent a day in scanning over the uncouth papers, began to feel very un- easy, doubting whether he had not promised too much in 78 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. agreeing ttat he would print tliem, and also whether he had not paid too dear for them already in giving John Clare a guinea, Fidl of these douhts, yet not wishmg to make a mistake in the matter, he resolved to submit the question to a higher tribunal. One of his customers, the Eev. Mr. Two- penny, incumbent of Little Casterton, had the reputation of a most learned critic, having published various theological and other treatises ; and he being the only literary man known to Mr. Drury in or near Stamford, the owner of the 'ISTew Public Library' resolved to make his appeal to him. Clare's rough bundle of verses accordingly found its way to Little Casterton parsonage, to the great surprise of the learned minister, who, though deep in theology, Hebrew, and Greek, knew, probably, much less of the value of English verse than even Mr. Drury. This, however, did not prevent the learned man from gi\Tng an opinion, for having examined the blurred and somewhat unclean MSS. submitted to him, and finding them full of many blunders in grammar and spelling, he expressed himself in a decisive manner to the effect that the so-called poetry was a mere mass of useless rubbish. Mr. Edward Driiry felt much downcast when he received this oracular note, which happened to come in on the very morning of the day arranged for the second visit of the poet of Helpston. Wlien Jolin Clare came into the shop in High Street, joyful and excited, with another large bundle of rope-tied poetry under his arm, Mr. Drury received him mth a some- what elongated face. Instead of expressing a wish to see the new manuscripts, he told his visitor, after some hesitation, that unexpected circumstances prevented him from carrying out the promised publication of the poems at the moment, and that he woidd have to postpone it for some time. John Clare was ready to burst out crying ; the blow came so un- expectedly that he did not know what to think of it. Although with little experience of the Avorld, he saw perfectly well, I THE EEV. MR. TWOPENNY. 79 from Mr. Dniry's manner, that something unfavoimihle had occiuTcd to produce a change respecting the poems. After a short pause, summoning up courage, he pressed his patron to exphain the matter. Thereupon the letter of the Eev. Mr. Twopenny was handed to Clare. He read it over ; read it once, twice ; and then grasped the counter to prevent himself from falling to the ground. It was the first harsh literary criticism the poor poet had to submit to in liis life. The hlood rushed to his face ; his hands clinched the fatal letter, as if to anniliilate its existence. After a while, he could not contain himself any longer, but bursting into tears, ran out of the shop. Good-natured Mr. Drury saw that he had made a mistake — perhaps a great, and certainly a cruel mistake. He rushed after his humble friend, and brought him back to the shop, and into the parlour behind, there soothing him as best he co,uld. It was easy to persuade John Clare that the Rev. Mr. Twopenny's opinion was, after all, but the opinion of one man ; that men differed much in almost everything, and in nothing less than the value they set upon poetry. The remarks were so evidently true, that the much-humbled poet brightened up visibly ; brightened up still more when Mr. Drury got a bottle of old ale from the cupboard and began filling two glasses. Viewed through this medium, the future looked much more cheery to Jolm Clare ; the world, there seemed no doubt, would appreciate good poetry, though the Rev. Mr. Twopenny did not. Having got his poetical friend into this happy mood, Mr. Drury talked to liim. seriously and sensibly. He advised John Clare to seek work immediately, either as a farm-labourer or lime-biu'ner, and to devote only his spare time to the writing of verses. As to the verses already written, he promised to lay them before other judges, and to publish them, at any rate, more or less corrected and altered. This, too, soimded hopefid, and when John Clare shook hands with the owner of the ' l^ew Public Library ' in the High Street of Stamford, he thought he was 80 LIFE OF JOHN CLAllE. a good deal nearer his long cherished object than he had ever been before. PEEPAEING FOE PUBLICATION. Acting upon Mr. Drury's advice, John Clare, at the end of a few days, visited his former employer, Mr. WUders, at Bridge Casterton, Avho, uj)on his earnest ai^plication, set him to work at once, first as a gardener, and, after a while, as labourer in one of his lime-kilns. Here John stayed the whole of the spring and summer of 1819; in many respects one of the most pleasing periods of his whole life. At the end of each day's hard work, he visited his beloved mistress at "Walkherd Lodge, with whom he was becoming verj' intimate — too intimate, alas ! — while the spare hours of morning, noon, and evening were devoted to poetry, and the whole of Simday to reading and music. Mr. Drury, begin- ning to feel more and more sjTiipathy with his young friend, invited him to spend every Sunday at the shop in the High Street, unrestrained by any forms and ceremonies whatever, and acting entirely as his own master. Jolin Clare accepted the first invitation with some shyness ; but before long felt himself fully at home at his friend's house, examining the books, maps, and pictures spread out before him. with a blissful enjoyment never before known. The Simday \-isits to Stamford, after a wliile, became to liun such an intense delight that he could scarcely await the happy day, and even neglected his love affairs in its expectation. There were no ^'isits to Walkherd Lodge on Satuixlay evenings, when John went early to bed, in order to rise earlier the next morning. The Sunday found liim aAvake hours before the cock had sounded the alarm, and many a time he had got over the two miles of road from Casterton to Stamford, and stood in front of the ' K"ew Public Library,' before even the sun had risen. Good-natured Mr. Drury now had to get out of bed, let his friend into the shop, and compose himself . MK. JOHN TAYLOR. 81 as best he could, to sleep again. Jolin now read for an hour or two ; but when he thought his friend had slept long enough, he took up his fiddle, safely kept among the books, and began playing a merry gypsy tune. This had the inva- riable effect of bringing Mr. Edward Drury, passionately fond of music, down to his books and his friend, and, coffee having been prepared, the long day of talking, reading, and fiddling set in for both. While these proceedings were going on, the fate of Clare's poems had been decided ; unknown, however, to the poet. Mr. Drury, after the very unfavourable judgment of the Eev. Mr. Twopenny, resolved upon sending his odd bundle of verses to London, to get the final opinion of his expe- rienced relative, Mr. John Taylor, the pubHsher of Fleet Street. Mr. Taylor, a talented author as well as bookseller, at a glance perceived the true poetic nature of John Clare. He saw that, under an uncouth garb, there were nameless beauties in the verses submitted to him : a wealth of feelins, and a depth of imagination seldom found in poetic descrip- tions of the external aspects of nature. Mr. Taylor saw — perhaps somewhat dimly, but still he saw — that Clare was one of the born poets of the earth ; a man who could no more help singing, than birds can keep from pouring forth their own harmonious melodies. But he saw also that Jolm Clare's works were diamonds wliich wanted polishing, and this labour he resolved to undertake. He informed Mr. Drury of his intention to bring out the poems under his o^vn editorship and supervision, telling him to encourage John Clare to devote himself more and more to the study of style and grammar, as well as to the improvement of his general education. Mr. Drury, who, by this time, knew his young friend intimately, hesitated to communicate Mr. Taylor's advice and directions. Thoroughly acquainted with the excitable nature of the poet, he feared that, in launching him again on a sea of expectations, which, after all, might G 82 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. remain unfulfilled, lie would do far more liann than good, and he therefore resolved to keep his imagination in leading- strings. He told John Clare that Messrs. Taylor and Hessey were Avilling to puhlish his poems, Mr. Taylor himself making the necessary grammatical and other corrections ; but that the success of the publication, as of all other books, being doubtful, he must not, for the present, indulge in too sanguine hopes of gaining either fame or fortune through his book. John was quite content with this information, and kept on steadily in his course ; reading and fiddling the first day, and making love and burning lime the other six days of the week. The love-making, after a while, took a turn not entirely creditable to the interested parties. Having re-established his confidential intercourse with Martha Tmiier, yet not won the good graces of her parents, who more than ever favoured the suit of the rival shoemaker, John induced his sweetheart to meet bim at places where she should not have gone, and made proposals to which she should not have listened. Poor Patty, loving not wisely but too well, did go and did listen to her lover, with the ordinary sad consequences. The sequel was as usual. She got sad and he got cold ; and her complaints becoming numerous and frequent, he left her and began flirting with other girls, trying to jDcrsuade himself that he was the injured party, inasmuch as Patty's parents treated him with scorn and contempt. An accidental occur- rence, in the summer of 1819, contributed much to make him forgetful of his moral obligations. At a convivial meeting of lime-burners, held at a Stamford tavern, Martha Turner, who was present, frequently danced with another man, which so irritated Jolm Clare that he, in liis tm-n, paid his attentions to a young damsel of the neighbourhood, known as Betty Sell, the daughter of a labourer at Southorp. Betty was a lass of sixteen; pretty and unaffected, with dark hair and hazel eyes ; and her prattle about green fields, flowers, THE WKONG ROAD. 83 and stmshine, of which, she seemed passionately fond, so intoxicated John that he got enamoured of lier on the spot. It was a mere passing fancy ; but to revenge liimself upon Patty for coquetting, as he thought, with others, he did not go near her, and, at the end of the entertainment, accom- panied Betty Sell to her home, some three miles distant. The quarrel, thus commenced, did not end soon. Patty was angry with John ; and John, in consequence, renewed his attentions to Betty Sell. I^ot long, and his first liking increased to a feeling akin to real love. Betty was so sweet and artless in her doings and sayings, and, above all, hung with such evident fondness on every word of her admirer about his life and his struggles, his intense admiration of nature, his poetry, and his hopes of rising in the world through his poetry, that the susceptible heart of John Clare soon got inflamed to ardent devotion of his new mistress. His infatuation rose to such a height that he neglected even his \isits to Mr. Drury, preferring, for once in his life, glowing eyes and lips to verses, music, and books. The Stamford bookseller was somewhat surprised on missing his young friend and his fiddle on several subsequent Sundays, and on inquiring the cause, was met by replies more or less unsatisfactory. Taking a real interest in John's welfare, Mr. Drury thereupon determined to get at the bottom of the afiair, and succeeded in discovering the secret one evening, after a merry supper. Having taken an unusual quantity of drink, John Clare became confidential, and his friend learnt all that Avas to be learnt respecting Martha Turner and Betty Sell. Like an honourable man, Mr. Drury was not slow in catechising John, telling him in a severe tone that unless he returned to his old love and gave up all acquaintance with the new, he would withtbaw his friendship from him, as a creature unworthy of it. Tlus had a deep eflect upon Clare, and though the immediate promise of reform made by him, was not fulfilled to the letter, his life, for the next seven or g2 84 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. eight months, was a constant struggle between duty and affection, in which duty at last got the upper hand. After the severe admonition of his friend and patron, John renewed his frequent visits to the ' New Public Library,' spending not only his Sundays, but many evenings of the week at the shop in Stamford. It was on one of these evenings that he was startled by the appearance of a sedate- looking gentleman, in spectacles, who went up to him with much ceremony, inquiring whether he had the pleasure to address Mr. John Clare. John, very confused, scarcely knew what to answer, imtil Mr. Drury came up, introducing the visitor as Mr. John Taylor, of London, the editor and publisher of his poems. A lengthened conversation followed, which, though it seemed to delight Mr. Taylor, was not by any means pleasant to the shy and awkward poet. Deeply conscious, as always, of his defective education, his rustic mode of expressing his thoughts, and, most of all, his tattered and dirty garments, he had scarcely the courage to look Mr. Taylor in the face, but kept hiding himself in a corner, looking for an opportimity to escape from the room. The opportunity, however, did not come, and worse afflictions remained behind. After Mr. Taylor was gone, and John had settled down to his favourite books, a servant appeared in the shop, inviting Clare to visit the house of INIr. Octavius Gilchrist, a few doors from the ' New Public Library.' John was fairly inclined to run away, as soon as he heard the message ; but found that escape was not so easy. Mr. Drury told him that it was a matter, not of pleasure, but of duty ; that Mr. Gilchrist was a very influential man in the literary world ; that at the house of Mr. Gilchrist he would meet Mr. Taylor, and that the success of his first volume of poems depended, to a certain extent, upon this interview. This ended all opposition on the part of Clare. He allowed himself to be dragged, like a lamb, into Mr. Gilchrist's house, which, though it was but a grocer's shop on the OCTAVIUS GILCHKIST. 85 ground-floor, seemed to liim a most magnificent dwelling. The drawing-room was lighted with wax candles, and was full of gilded paintings, carpets and fine furniture, amidst which his dirty clothes, fresh from the lime-kiln, appeared entirely out of place. Nevertheless, he was graciously received by Mr. and Mrs. Gilchrist, and warmly welcomed by Ms previous acfpiaintance, Mr. Jolm Taylor. ]\Ir. Octa\dus Gilchrist, in whose house John Clare now found himself, and who came to exercise a considerable influence over his future career, was a literary man -of some note in his day. He was born in 1779, the son of a gentleman settled at Twickenham, who had served during the German war as lieutenant and surgeon in the third regiment of Dragoon Guards. Octavius was destined by his parents to be a clergyman, and went to Magdalene College, Oxford; but before takiag liis degree, or entering holy orders, his means began to fail, upon which he went to Stamford, to assist a well-to-do uncle ia the grocery business. The change from the study of the classics at Magdalene College to the weighiag-out of halfpenny worths' of soap and sugar to the rustics of Lincolnshire, amounted to a melancholy fall in life ; however, Octavius Gilchrist bore it gaily, softening the drudgery by a continuation of liis studies in spare hours, and frequent attempts to contribute to the periodical literature of the day. The Stamford Mercury having inserted several of his articles, he got bolder, and sent essays to several London INIagazines, which met with a like fortunate fiite. In 1803, the Stamford uncle died, after wdliug all his property, including the profitable grocery business, to his nephew. This induced j\Ir. Gilchrist to devote himself more than ever to literature, leaving the shop to his assistants, and taking to the scales only on Fair days and other solemn occasions. Having married, in 1804, the daughter of Mr. James Nowlan, of London, he was drawn still more into literary society, got acquainted with 86 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE, "William Giflford, and became a contributor to the 'Quarterly Eeview.' He assisted GiiFord in his edition of Ben Jonson's works, and in 1808 published a book of his own, entitled * Examination of the charges of Ben Jonson's enmity towards Shakspeare.' This was followed, in the same year, by ' Poems of Eichard Corbet, Bishop of ISTorwich, with notes, and a life of the author;' and in 1811, by a 'Letter to William Gifford, Esq., on a late edition of Ford's plays.' On one of his periodical visits to London, IVIr. Gilchrist made the casual acquaintance of Mr. John Taylor. The acquain- tance soon ripened into friendship, leading to much personal intercourse and a variety of literary schemes. Mr. Gilchrist first started a proposal to pubHsh a ' Select collection of Old Plays,' in fifteen volumes, and on the failure of this scheme, owing to the sudden appearance of a flimsy kind of work called ' Old Plays,' Mr. Taylor and he agreed to launch a new monthly publication, under the revived title of ' The London Magazine.' The negotiations fot carrying out this work were pending between writer and publisher, when the first instalment of Clare's manuscripts was sent by Mr. Drury to his relative Mr. John Taylor. The latter read and liked the verses, and being desirous to know something of the writer, requested information from Mr, Gilchrist. ' I know nothing whatever of your poet,' was the reply ; ' never heard his name in my Hfe.' This somewhat surprised the cautious publisher; he thought that Stamford being so near to Helpston, and poets being not quite as plentiful as black- berries in the fen-country, John Clare and his prospectuses ought to be of at least local fame. To clear the matter up, as well as to make some fm-ther arrangements respecting the early issue of the ' London Magazine,' Mr. Taylor went down to Stamford, called upon his relative at the ' JSTew Public Library,' where, as accident would have it, he met Jolm Clare, and then went to take up his quarters at the house of Mr. Gilchrist. The latter saw John Clare for the TEMPTATION. 87 first time wliea introduced to hiiii in his drawing-room over the grocery shop. Clare was more than ever shy and awkward when ushered into tliis drawing-room, and it took a considerable time to make him feel at his ease. To do so, Mr. Gilchrist engaged him in conversation, and with the aid of Mr. Taylor and sundry bottles of wine, succeeded in getting from liim a rough account of his life and struggles. Wine and spirits were temptations which John Clare was totally unable to withstand, indulging, on most occasions, far more freely in drink than was warranted by propriety and good sense. Per- haps, at Mr. Gilclirist's house, the host was as much to blame as the guest ; the former encouraging Clare's weakness for the purjjose of overcoming his extreme shyness and getting at the desired autobiograpliical information. By the time this was extracted, the poet had taken decidedly too much wine, and when a young lady in the room sat down to the piano and sang 'Auld Eobin. Gray,' he began crying. The sight was somewhat ludicrous, and Mr. Gilchrist sought to armid it by reading an antiquarian paper on Woodcroft Castle, which had the effect of driving John Clare out of the room and back to his bookshop. Here he sat down, and, stni under the influence of the entertainment, wrote some doggerel verses called ' The Invitation,' which INIr. GUchrist had the cruelty to print in number one of the ' London Magazine,' in which the English public received the first information of the existence of 'John Clare, an agricultural labourer and poet.' It seems somewhat doul^tful whether at this time either Mr. Gilchrist or Mr. John Taylor thoroughly appreciated John Clare. Both, although encouraging his poetical talent, never did justice to the noble and manly, nay lofty heart that beat under the ragged lime-burner's dress. Mr. Taylor, on his part, wanted a hero for liis forthcoming monthly magazine, and he seemed to think that John Clare was the best that coidd be had. He therefore induced Mr. Gilclirist to limn the rustic ■ 88 LIFE OF JOHN CL.VEE. novelty to the greatest advantage, which was done accord- ingly in the first number of the ' London ^lagazine.' A paper headed, ' Some account of John Clare, an agricultural labourer and poet,' intended evidently as a preliminary puif of the poems, and consisting of a rather pompous description of the visit of Clare to Mr. Gilchrist's house, was, on the whole, in the tone in wliich a parvenu might speak of a pauper. The chief fact dwelt upon was the extreme kindness of ' the person who has generously imdertaken the charge of giving a selection of Clare's poems to the press,' thus trying to make the world believe that a London publisher should so far forget himself as to neglect his own interest in favour of that of a poor author. Though perhaps well-meant in the first instance, this patronizing manner in speaking of Clare, and attracting public attention to him, less as a poetical genius, but as happening to be a poor man, did infinite mischief in the end. It did more than this — it killed John Clare. After his fijst interview with Mr. Gilclirist, John con- tinued to visit at the house, and was openly taken under the great literary man's protection. By his desire, William Hilton, E.A., happening to pass through Stamford, consented to paint Clare's portrait for exliibition in London. The poet was delighted ; and all went on well, untd. one day when Mr. Gilchrist, desirous of aiding to his utmost power the success of the forthcoming volun^e, asked, or ordered, Clare to write to Viscount Milton, eldest son of the Earl Fitzwilliam, humbly requesting permission to dedicate the poems to his lordship. John Clare, remembering his former visit to Milton Park, in company with the nimble parish clerk of Helpston, refused the demand, to the great annoyance of Mr. Gilchrist. At length, however, giving way to Mr. Drury's importunities, Clare sat down and penned his himible epistle, which was dvdy despatched by Mr. Gilchrist. But there never came an answer from Viscoimt Milton, who, probably, at the time, held it to be a vUe conspiracy to extract a five-pound note NEW AND OLD PATRONS, 89 from his pocket. Mr. Gilchrist was mortified ; but John Clare was rather pleased tlian otherwise. He was more pleased when, a few weeks after, Mr. Drury showed him an advertisement in a London paper, announcing, ' Poems de- scriptive of rural life and scenery, by John Clare, a North- amptonshire peasant.' It was stated, in capital letters, that the book was ' preparing for publication.' SUCCESS. In October, 1819, Clare left the lime-kiln at Bridge-Cas- terton, where he had been working during the greater part of the year, and returned to Helpston, He did so partly on account of a new reduction of wages, but partly also because suffering from constant ill-health. His old enemy, the fever of the fens, continued its attacks at intervals, and he found that he was less able to withstand the foe in the lime-kiln than when working in the open air. This time he was fortunate enough to find regular work as a farm labourer in the neighbourhood of Helpston, and having got somewhat better, he set with new energy to thrasliing and ploughing. His visits to Mr. Drury and Mr. Gilchrist henceforth became somewhat more scarce. Though conscious of being deeply indebted to both these friends, he could not bear being con- stantly reminded of this indebtedness in the patronizing air which they assumed, and the high tone of superiority which they arrogated to themselves in their intercourse with him. With Mr. Gilchrist, especially, he found fault for attempting to guide him in a manner which, he held, this gentleman had no right to do. John Clare had become acquainted, in the spring of 1819, with the Rev. Mr. Holland, minister of the congregational church at Market-Deeping. Mr. Holland, a well-educated man, with a fine appreciation of poetry, happened to see Clare's prospectus, with the sonnet to the * Setting Sun,' at a farm-house near Northborough, and 90 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. being struck with tlie verses, as well as with, the account wliich the farmer, who knew Clare, gave of the author, he at once went in search of the poet. After some trouble, he discovered him in the lime-kiln at Bridge-Casterton, just ^hile Clare was resting from his work, and scribbling poems upon the usual shreds of paper spread out on the crown of his hat. Mr. Holland, much astonished at the sight, forth- with entered into conversation, and being a simple man, "wdth nothing of the patron about him, at once won Clare's affection. The acquaintance thus begun soon ripened into friendship, ^vit]l, however, but scant personal intercourse, owing to the many occupations of the active dissenting minister, and the distance of his place of residence from Casterton. But John Clare did not fail to lay most of the verses he was writing before his clerical friend, and was delighted to meet always with hearty encouragement. ' If this kind of poetry does not succeed,' Mr. Holland said on one occasion, looking over Clare's shoulder, while the latter was Avriting the ' Village Funeral ;' 'if this kind of poetry does not succeed, the world deserves a worse opinion than I am inclined to give it.' These Avords made a deep impression upon Clare, and he kept on repeating them to himself when- ever his mind was fluttered with doubts of success and apprehensions of failure. Very naturally, upon the man who had cheered him mth such hearty and well-timed approval, Clare looked as one of his best friends, and lost no occasion to proclaim the fact. He told the story of his acquamtance with the Eev. Mr. Holland, as at many other times, so at the first interAdew with INIr. Gilchrist. The latter seemed rather displeased Avhen he heard that the young rustic, presented to his patronage, was acquainted with a dissenting minister, although professing to be a member of the Church of England. ISIr. Gilchrist took at once occasion of rebukinsj him for tliis con- duct, and in the account given of Clare in the ' London ORTHODOXY. 91 Magazine,' alluded to the subject at some length, explaining that ' Mr. Holland, a Calvinistic preacher in an adjoining hamlet, had paid him some attention, but his means of aiding the needy youth was small, whatever might have been his -wish, and he has now quitted liis charge.' The statement was untrue in several respects ; for Mr. Holland was neither a ' Calvinistic preacher,' nor stationed in a ' hamlet,' nor had he ' quitted his charge,' that is, given up his friendship with Clare. To make at least the ultimate assertion true, Mr. Gilchrist, after having been acquainted for some time Avith John, insisted that he should cease all communication with the ' Calvinistic preacher.' This Clare refused at once, looking upon his intercourse ^vitli Mr. Holland as an entirely private matter, not in the least connected with religious opinions. The refusal brought about a great coldness on the part of Mr. Gilclirist, which Clare no sooner perceived than he absented himself from his house. This was very unfor- tunate ; but could scarcely be helped for the moment. John Clare was totally unable to understand the orthodox high- church principles of the former student of Magdalene College, while INIr. Gilchrist, on his part, was incapacitated from ap- preciating the lofty feeling of independence that existed in the breast of the poor lime-burner and farm labourer. In his account in the ' London Magazine,' Mr. Gilclirist's esti- mate of the poet's character was expressed in the words : — 'N'othing could exceed the meekness, and simplicity, and diffidence with which he answered the various inquiries con- cerning liis life and habits ; ' and it was upon this supposed ' meekness ' that all subsequent treatment of Clare by him and other friends and patrons was based. But it was an estimate of character entirely false. Though meek and humble outwardly, the consequence of early training and later habit, John Clare had all the towering pride of genius — more than this, of genius misunderstood. The year of 1820 broke dull and gloomy upon Clare. He 92 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. had expected Ms poems to "be published in the month of November, or the beginning of December previous ; but was without any information whatever, either from Stamford or London, and did not know when the long-expected book would appear, or whether it would appear at all. The Little money he had received from Mr. Drury at various periods — some twenty pounds altogether — had been speiit by this time, and, being out of work, he was once more face to face with grim poverty. Day after day passed, yet no news, tUl, in the last week of January, the smiling face of a friend suddenly lighted up the gloom. It was a rainy day, and Clare was unable to take his usual ramble through the fields, when the clattering of hoofs was heard outside the little cottage. A man on horseback alighted at the door, and shaking off the dripping wet, rushed into the room, where Clare and his father and mother were sitting round the little fire. It was the Eev. Mr. Holland. ' Am I not a good prophet ? ' he cried, running towards John, and shaking him warmly by the hand. Jolm looked up in astonishment ; he had not the slightest notion of what his friend meant or alluded to. But Mr. Holland kept on laughmg and dancing, shaking himself like a wet poodle. 'Am I not a good prophet *? ' he repeated, again and again. The long face of his melancholy young friend at last brought him to a sense of the actual state of affairs. ' You have had no letter from your publishers 1 ' he inquired. ' None whatever,' was the reply. ' Then let me be the first herald of good news,' cried Mr. Holland ; ' I can assure you that yoiu- utmost expectations have been realized. I have had a letter from a friend in London, this morning, telling me that your poems are talked of by everybody ; in fact, are a great success.' How the words cheered the heart of John Clare ! He fancied he had a slight touch of the ague m the morning ; but it seemed to fall like scales off his body, and he thought he had never been so well all his life. Mr. Holland was aboi;t getting into bis wet saddle again. A HERALD OF SUCCESS. 9 Q ' Oh, do stop a little longer,' said John, imploringly ; ' have something to eat and drink.' And he looked at his father and mother ; and father and mother looked at him. Alas ! they all knew too well that there was nothing in the house to eat ; and no money wherewith to purchase food. Good Mr. Holland, at a glance, perceived the actual state of afl'airs. ' Well,' he exclaimed, ' I intended having some dinner at the inn round the corner ; but if you will allow me, I will have it sent here, and take it in your company.' And in a twmkling of the eye, he was out of doors, leading his horse, which had been tied to a post, towards the 'Blue Bell.' He was back in ten minutes ; and in another ten minutes there appeared the potboy from the ' Blue Bell ' carrying a huge tray, smoking hot. Thrice the messenger from the ' Blue Bell ' came and returned, each time carrying something heavy in his fat, red hands, and going away with empty trays. Wlien he had turned his back for the third and last time, they all sat down around the little ricketty table, the Eev. Mr. Holland, John, his father and mother. 'Every good gift, and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights,' said the minister. 'Amen !' fervently exclaimed John. The good news of which the Eev. Mr. Holland had been the bearer was soon confii'med on all sides. Early the next morning there came a messenger from Stamford, asking Clare to visit Mr. Drury as well as Mr. GUchrist. He called first at the house of the latter, and was very graciously received, being informed that his poems were published, and that Mr. William Gifford, editor of the ' Quarterly Eeview ' had taken a great interest in him and his book. John Clare, who had never heard either of Mr. Gifford, or the ' Quarterly,' listened to the news with much indifference, to the evident surprise of his friend. Leaving Mr. Gilchrist^ he went next door, to Mr. Drury, and, entering the shop, fell back with astonish- ment on hearing a tall aristocratic-lookuig elderly gentleman 94 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. inquire for 'Jolin Clare's Poems.' It sounded like sweet music to his ear, the cracked voice of the old gentleman. Mr. Dmry, not noticing the entrance of Clare, took a small octavo volume from the top of a parcel of similar books lying on his counter, and handed it to the gentleman, informing his customer at the same time that the poems were ' universally applauded both by the critics of London and the public' John kept firm ia his corner near the door ; he thought his friend Drury the most eloquent speaker he had ever heard. ' And, pray, who is this John Clare 1 ' asked the tall aristo- cratic-looking gentleman. 'He is . . .' began Mr. Drury, but suddenly stopped short, seeing a whole row of his books tumble to the ground. John Clare, in his terrible excite- ment, had pressed too close towards an overhanging shelf of heavily-bound fohos and quartos, which came down with a tremendous crash. It seemed as if an earthquake was over- turning the ' !N'ew Public Library ; ' and the astonishment of the owner did not subside when he saw his poetical friend creeping out from under the ruins of five-score dictionaries, gazetteers, and account-books. Having somewhat recovered his composure, Mr. Drury, "with a grave mien, turned towards the tall gentleman, exclaiming, ' I beg to introduce to you Mr. Clare, the poet.' The gentleman burst out laughing at the intensely ludicrous scene "before him ; yet checked himself instantly, seeing the colour mount into Clare's face. ' I beg you a thousand pardons, Mr. Clare,' he exclaimed ; ' I hope you have not been hurt.' And as if to compensate for his rude hilarity, the tall gentleman entered into a conversation with Clare, ending by an invitation to visit him at his residence on the following day : ' Mr. Drury will give you my address ; good morning.' John Clare made no reply, and only bowed ; he did not feel much liking for his ncAV acquaintance. However, when Mr. Drury told him that the stranger was General Birch Eeynardson, a gentleman of large property, residmg near Stamford, on an estate called IN PRINT 95 Holywell Park, and that his acquaintance might bo of the greatest benefit for the success of his book, if not for him- self, Clare consented to pay the desired visit. The allusion to his published poems by Mr. Driuy was pleasant to his ears, and Clare eagerly sat down to examine his book. It was not by any means a handsome volume in outward appearance, being bound in thick blue cardboard, with a small piece of coarse linen on the back. But the coarseness of the material was relieved by the inscription, ' Clare's Poems,' printed on the back in large letters ; and the plain appearance of the book was forgotten over the title-page, ' Poems descriptive of rural life and scenery, by John Clare, a Northamptonshire peasant.' He eagerly ran his eye over the poems, and was more than ever pleased with them in their new dress, with slightly altered spelling, and all the signs of punctuation added. There was only one part of the book with which he was not pleased, which was the part headed ' introduction.' It gave an untrue accoimt of his life, and, what was still more galling to the jjride of the poet, spoke of his poverty as the main point deserving public attention. AU this deeply hurt his feelings ; nevertheless the pre- dominating sentiment of joy and satisfaction prevented him saying anything on the subject to Mr. Drury. He stayed some hours at the shop, and it was arranged that early on the next morning he should call again to get ready for the important visit to General Eeynardson. When on the point of leaving, Mr. Drury put a letter in Clare's hands. ' I had almost forgotten it,' he said ; ' it has been lying at the shop for several days. I suppose it is from your sweetheart.' The letter was from the ' sweetheart ; ' but a very melan- choly letter it was nevertheless. Poor Martha Turner told her lover, what he knoAv long ago, that she was about becoming a mother before being a wife ; that her situation was known to her parents ; that her father and mother refused to forgive her frailty ; and that she was cruelly treated and 9S LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. on the point of being expelled from under their roof. John Clare read the letter on the roadside, between Stamford and Helpston ; he read it over again and again, and his burning tears fell upon the little sheet of paper. A fierce conflict of passions and desires arose within his soid. He fancied that he did not love Martha Turner half so well as the pretty httle lass of South orp ; he fancied that since his first overwhelm- ing affection for ' Mary,' he had never been devoted, heart and soul, so much to any one as to Betty Sell. Yet to Martha Turner, once his sweet ' Patty of the Vale,' he knew he was bound by even stronger ties than those of affection and love — ^lie trembled thinking thus, yet held firm to the nobler element in his breast. The secret struggle, short and intense, ended with a firm resolve that duty should conquer passion. Early on the day following, John Clare made his appearance at Mr. Druiy's shop. The busy tradesman had already pro- vided an outfit for his friend, whom he meant to patronize more than ever, now that his poems promised to be successful. In the course of half an hour, John found himself clothed in garments such as he had never before worn. He had a black coat, waistcoat, and troiisers, a silk necktie, and a noble, though very uncomfortable, high hat ; while his heavy shoes seemed changed by a covering of brilliant polish. Siirvejdng his figure, thus altered, in a looking-glass, John was greatly satisfied vnth. himself, and with a proud step marched off towards Hol}^vell Park. General Birch Ee}Tiardson received him with gi-eat atfabiUty ; at once took him by the hand, and led him into the library. It was the finest collection of books Clare had ever seen, and he warmly expressed his admiration of it. After a while, the General took a small quarto, bound in red morocco, from the shelves, and showing it to his guest, asked him what he thought of the contents. They were poems written by the general's father ; and Clare, seeing the fact stated on the title-page, was jiohte enough to declare them to be very beautiful. Another red-morocco HOLYWELL PARK. 97 volume thereupon came doMoi from the shelves, full of manu- script poetry of the General's own composition, John Clare began to see that genius was hereditary in the family, and exi^ressing as much to his host, earned a grateful smile, and a warm pressure of the hand. He was asked next to pro- menade in the gardens tiU dinner was ready. The gardens of Holywell Park were laid out A\dth great taste, and John Clare soon lost himself in admiration of the many beautiful views opened before him. While wandering along the banks of an artificial lake, fed by a cascade at the upper end, he was joined by a young lady of extraordinary beaut)^ He believed it was the wife of the General ; yet, though showing the deepest respect to the lady who addressed him while walking at his side, he could not help looking up into her face now and then, in mute admiration of her exqiusite loveliness. The General, after a while, joined the promenaders, when John, somewhat to his surprise, learnt that his fair companion was not the hostess of the establish- ment, but the governess. Notwithstanding the presence of the master of the house, the young lady continued speaking to Clare in the freest and most unrestrained manner, bewitch- ing him alike by the tones of her voice and the soft words of flattering praise she poured into his ear. She told him that she had read twice through the volume of jjoetry which the General had brought home the preceding evening, having sat up for this purpose the greater part of the night. Clare's face got scarlet when he heard these bewitching words; never before had praise sounded so sweet to his ear ; never before had it come to him from such honeyed lips. He was beside himself for joy, when, as a proof of her good memory, she began reciting one of his poems : ' My love, thou art a nosegay sweet.' And when she came to the last line, 'And everlasting love thee,' Clare's eyes and those of the beautiful girl met, and he felt her glances burning into his very soul. The general did not seem to take much notice of his com- 98 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. paiiions, being busy picking up stones in tbe footpath, and examining tlie state of tbe grass on the borders of his flower beds. On returning towards the house, he informed Clare that the servants were about sitting down to their dinner, and told him to join them in the hall. The young governess appeared intensely surprised at the words ; she looked up, first at the General and then at Clare. Probably it seemed to her a gross insult that a poet should be sent to take his meal with the footmen and scullery-maids. But Clare's face looked bright and serene ; to him, as much as to the master of the house, it appeared perfectly natural to be returned to his proper social sphere, after a momentary dream-like rise into higher social regions. He walked into the hall, and humbly sat down at the lower end of the servants' table. The big lackeys whispered among themselves, looking with a haughty air upon the base intruder. John Clare heeded it not ; his soul was far away in a world of bliss. Before him, in his imagination still hovered that sweet beautiful face which he had seen in the gardens ; in his ear still sounded the soft tones of her voice : ' And everlasting love thee.' Thus he sat at the table, among the footmen and kitchen wenches, tasting neither food nor drink — an object of utter contempt to his neighbours. Before long, however, there came a message from the housekeeper's room, inviting Clare to proceed to the select apartments of this potent lady. He followed the servant mechanically, careless where he was going ; but was joyfully surprised on entering the room to see his dream changed into reality. There, op- posite the table, sat his beautiful garden-companion, smiling more sweetly, and looking more exquisitely enchanting than ever. She stretched out her little white hand, and Clare sat down near her, utterly immmdful of the presence of the mistress of the apartment, the lady housekeeper. The latter felt somewhat offended in her dignity, yet overlooked it for the moment, being desirous to proffer a request. Having 'OMNIA VINCIT AMOR.' 99 .succeeded in rousing Clare's attention, she informed her visitor, with becoming condescension, that she was very fond of poetry ; also that she had a son who was very fond of poetry. But it so happened that, though very fond of read- ing verses, neither she nor her son was able to produce any. Now hearing, from her friend the governess, that there was a ^poet in the house, she had taken the liberty to send for him, to do some trifling work. What she wanted was an address of filial love, as touching and affectionate as possible ; this she woidd send to her son, and her dear son would return it to her, signed by his own name. She hoped it could be dcme at once, while she was getting the tea ready. Could it be done at once ? Clare started on hearing himself addressed a second time by the high-toned lady — he did not remember a word of all that had been said to him. But he bowed in silence, and the dignified elderly person left the room to make the tea, firmly persuaded that her poetry would be got ready in the meantime. When she was gone, Clare looked up, and found a pair of burning eyes fixed upon him. He tried to speak, but could not ; the words, rising from his heart, seemed to perish on his tongue. After a long pause, the young governess, flushed with emotion, found courage to address her neighbour : ' I hope to see you agaui, Mr. Clare ; I hope you will "wi'ite to me sometimes.' He had no time to reply before the bell rang and a servant entered the room, reporting that General Birch Reynardson wished to see John Clare before leaving. The intimation was vuiderstood. John went up to the library, bowed before his stately host, muttered a few words of thanks, he knew not exactly for what, and left the house. AVhen the gate closed after him, he felt as if expelled from the garden of Eden, Slowly he walked up the road, when suddenly a white figure started up on his path. The young governess again stood before Clare. ' I could not hear of yoiu- going,' cried the beautiful girl, her bright face suffused with blushes, and h2 100 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. her long auLurn hair fluttering in the wind ; ' I could not hear of your going, without saying good-bye.' Clare again tried to speak, and again the words died upon his lips. Eut she continued addressing him : ' Oh, do not forget to write to me,' she said earnestly, with a tinge of melancholy in her soft voice. It thrilled through his soul, and opened his lips at last. ' I will write,' he answered, ' and I will send you some new poems.' Thus saying, he bent forward and took both her hands, and their eyes met, full of un- speakable passion. But a sudden noise from the distance startled Clare and his fair companion. There was a man on horseback coming up with full speed, riding in the direction of Holywell Park. The young governess softly loosened her hands, turned a last fond look upon the poet, and fled away like a frightened hind into a neighbouring wood. John Clare hurried forward, his face flushed, Ms head trembling ; forgetful of all the things around him. At last, feeling exhausted, he sat down on a stone, at the ttirning of two roads. The one of the roads was leading to Stamford ; the other to Bridge Casterton and Walkherd Lodge. Clare felt like one entranced. Joy unutterable was struggKng in his bosom together with infinite sadiiess, and the wild pidsa- tion of his heart seemed to drive his blood, like living fire, to his very soul. And he held his burning head in his hands, sitting at the corner of the two roads. The image of the beautiful girl he had just left, an image more perfect, more sweet and angelic than ever conceived by his imagina- tion, appeared standing in one of the roads, and the picture of a sad, suffering woman, surrounded by angry parents, in the other. Lower sank the sun on the horizon ; it was be- ginning to get dark ; but Clare still kept sitting at the corner of the two roads, his throbbing head bent to his knees. The clouds in the west glowed with a fierce purple, when he started up at last. He started up and walked, swiftly and A HOST OF CRITICS. 101 with, firm step, towards Wiilkherd liodge. The clouds in. the west seemed to glow with an vuiearthly light. 'OPINIONS OF THE PRESS' AND CONSEQUENCES. The London hook-season of 1820 was a dull one. The number of books published was very small, and there were but few extraordinary good or extraordinary bad ones amongst them. All the ' reviewers ' were at their wits' end ; for wit, sharp as a razor, must get dull over books undeserving of praise, yet incapable of being ' cut up ' with due brilliancy of style. Into this mournful critical desert, there fell like manna the ' Poems descriptive of rural life and scenery.' Mr. John Taylor and his literary coadjutors had taken great pains to spread the news far and wide that a new Burns had been discovered on the margin of the Lincolnshire fens, and was to be publicly exhibited before a most discerning public. There were low rumours, besides, that William Gififord in- tended to place the new Burns on the pedestal of the ' Quarterly,' spreading the fixme of the humble poet into the most distant regions. Accordingly, when the first volume of Clare's poems was published, on the 16tli of January, 1820, there was an immediate rush to the shop of Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, in Fleet Street. Before many days were over, a first edition was exhausted ; and before many weeks were gone, all the critical reviews began singing the praises of the book. The ' Gentleman's Magazine,' leading the van, got eloc^uent over ' the unmixed and unadulterated impression of the loveliness of nature,' contrasting it with 'the riches, rules, and prejudices of literature ; ' the latter being in allu- sion to a quarrel which the learned editor had just had with some learned fellow-editors. Next followed the 'New Monthly Magazine,' the reviewer of which informed a dis- cerning public that ' Clare is strictly a descriptive poet, and 102 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. his daily occupation in the fields has given him manifest advantages.' This profound remark made great impression, and was quoted hj Messrs. Taylor and Hessey in all their prospectuses ; not even the deepest thinkers disputing the thesis that if Clare had been born and lived all his life in a cellar in the Seven Dials, his rural poetry might be less truthful. The 'London ]\Iagazine,' belonging to the publishers of Clare's poems, came modestly behind in critical praise, con- tenting itself, in a review of five pages, with giving plentiful extracts from the book, putting forward, at the same time, a somewhat undignified appeal to public charity. The demand for the pence and shillings of the charitable was, as stated in the review, ' made by one who has counselled and super- intended tins interesting publication,' and the same authority piteously invoked the aid of the nobility and gentry for ' this poor young man.' When Clare came to see this article, some months after its publication, he burst into a fit of indignation, and wrote an angry letter to Mr, Drury ; but with the sole result of hearing, on his next visit to the Stamford Public Library, that he was not only a very poor, but a very imgrateful young man. The ' Eclectic Review,' reviewed Clare in a very flattering article ; and the ' Antijacobin Review,' ' Baldwin's London Magazine,' and a host of other periodicals, followed suit, all dwelling upon the luminous aspect of the poems, with pau- perism as dark backgroiuid. Last in the list, but greatest, came the ' Quarterly,' with William Gifford at the hebn. The ' Quarterly Review ' of May, 1820, actually devoted nine pages to a description and praise of Clare's poems, speaking of them as the most interesting literary production of the day. The review was supposed to be "written by Mr. Gilchrist ; but it ■was generally understood that the editor of the ' Quarterly ' himself corrected and altered the article, strengthening its praise, and putting in some hearty, honest words about Clare as a man, as well as a poet. Perhaps of all li-\dng authors, THE QUARTERLY REVIEW, 103 William GLfford liest understood John Clare, and felt thorough and entire sympathy Avith the attempt of this noble soul to struggle into light, through all the haze of printers, publishers, and reviewers. Very likely he might have loved Clare as a brother — had the poet not been an author. William Gifford, as Southey truly remarks, ' had a heart full of kindness for all living creatures, except authors ; them ho regarded as a fishmonger regards eels, or as Izaak Walton did slugs, worms, and frogs.' Nevertheless, the ' Quarterly Review' praised Clare in a way which quite astonished the book-makers of the day. After comparing him with Burns and Bloomfield, and dwell- ing upon the fact that his social position was far lower than that of either these two poets, the writer in the ' Quarterly ' — here Mr. Gifford himself — gave some sound ad\T.ce to Clare. ' We entreat him,' the article ran, ' to continue something of his present occupations ; to attach liimself to a few in the sincerity of whose friendship he can confide, and to suffer no. temptations of the idle and the dissolute to seduce him from the qidet scenes of his youth to the hollow and heartless society of cities ; to the haunts of men who would court and flatter him while his name was new, and who, when they had contributed to distract his attention and impair his health, would cast him off" unceremoniously to seek some other novelty.' These words of true advice proved almost pro- phetic in the life of the poet. The article in the ' Quarterly Eeview * had the immediate effect of making John Clare the Kon of the day. Rossini set one of his songs to music; Madame Vestris recited others before crowded audiences at Covent Garden, and the chief talk of London for the season was about the verses of the ' Northamptonshire peasant.' His fame descended to North- amptonshire itself, and far into the misty realm of the fen- bound regions. The Right Honourable Charles AVilliam, Viscount Mnton, was somewhat startled on the waves of this fame reaching Milton Park. The idea that for one five-pound 104 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. note he might have secured part of this high renown to himself, figuring in the ' Quarterly Eeview ' as a noble patron of Uterature, and protector of heaven-horn genius slumbering in obsciu:ity, made him feel intensely vexed with himself. Eeflecting upon the subject, it struck his lordship that it would be best to take Clare still under his protection, in view of new editions open to dedication. Full of this idea, a messenger was despatched at once to Helpston, with a gracious order that the poet should j)resent himself on the following morning before the noble Viscount. John Clare, remembering but too keenly the past, was unwilling to obey his lordsliip's command ; but the tears of his father and mother made him change his resolution. Consequently, on the morning aj)pointed, a Sunday, he went to Milton Park, and having had the honour of lunching with the footmen in the kitchen, was ushered into the presence of his lordship. Viscount Milton was exceedingly affable, took Clare by the hand, sat him down on a stool, and at once explained to him why liis letter respecting the dedication of the poems had not been answered. His lordsliip had been excessively busy at the time, making preparations for a journey, and in the hurry of these labours had unfortunately forgotten to send a reply. !N"ow her ladyslup entered the room, in turn addressing the poet. After questioning him on all points, birth, parentage, weekly income, religion, moral feeHngs, and state of health, Clare was finally asked whether he had found aheady a patron. His vacant look expressed that he did not know even the meaning of the word patron. To the plainer question, whether some nobleman or gentleman of the neighbourhood had promised him anything, Clare truthfully replied in the negative. There was nobody who had made offers of assist- ance, except Mr. Edward Drury, bookseller, of Stamford; and his promises, John was sorry to say, were rather vague. Thereupon the noble viscount warned Clare to be on his guard against all publishers and booksellers ; not explaining, HIGH FRIENDS. 105 however, how to protect himself, or how to do without them. Meanwhile the Earl Fitzwilliam had entered the room, and added his voice to that of Ms son in a warning against hook- sellers. After a little more conversation. Lord Milton put his hand in his pocket, and withdrawing a quantity of gold, tlirew it into Clare's lap. John was humbled and confused beyond measure. His first impulse was to retui-n the money instantaneously; but a moment's thought con- vinced him that this would be excessively rude, and he con- tented himself, therefore, with a feeble protest against his lordship's kindness. He now left, making an awkward bow, his pockets heavy under the weight of gold, and his brain heavier under a feeling of deep humiliation, akin to shame. However, this feeling was dispelled in the fresh outer air. He thought of his poor father and mother at home, and the comfort all his gold would bring them ; and getting almost joyful at the thought, sat down at the roadside to count his golden sovereigns. There were seventeen pieces, all bright and new, fresh from the Mint. Clare had not had so much money in Ms possession in all his life, and he got frightened almost in looking at the glittering treasure before him. To secure it well, he took off Ms neck-tie, wrapped the sovereigns in it, and ran home as fast as Ms legs would carry him. There were happy faces that mght in the little cottage at Helpston. John Clare's invitation to Milton Park created much astomsliment in the village ; but the wonder increased when, a few days after, another liveried messenger inquired Ms way to Clare's dwelling. The new envoy was of far more gorgeous aspect than the former one, being the representative of the greatest lord in the county, the most noble the Marquis of Exeter. Has lordship had seen the ' Quarterly Eeview,' as well as Viscount Milton ; and his lordship had learnt, more- over, that Clare had been called to Milton Park, for purposes easily imagined. The chief of the elder line of the Cecils there- 106 LIFE OF JOHX CLAEE. upon determined not to he outdone "by his petty Whig rivals, the FitzAnlliams, with wliich object in view he summoned the poet in his turn. The gorgeous scarlet messenger who arrived at Helpston, to the wonderment of the whole village, brought a letter from the Hon. Mr. Pierrepont, hrother-in-law of the marquis, desiring Clare to make liis appearance on the follow- ing morning, precisely at eleven o'clock, at Burghley Hall. To this summons there was no opposition on the part of Clare, for to resist the will of the Marquis of Exeter, within twenty miles of Stamford, was deemed nothing less than treason by any inhabitant of the district. Jolin was ready to go to Burgliley Hall the next morning ; but it rained heavily, and the cobbler had not returned the shoes entrusted to him for mending. Could John present himself without shoes on a rainy morning, before the most noble the ]\Iarquis of Exeter ? That was the question gravely debated between Parker Clare, his wife, and his son. It was decided that John could not go without shoes ; and the village cobbler refusing to return his trust, because engaged in threshing, the important visit to Burghley Hall had to be postponed till the day after. John went quite early, trembling inwardly to show himself before the great lord, whose very valet was looked uj)on in the country as a man of high estate. His fears increased a thousandfold when arrived at the gate of the palatial residence, and being told, on giving his name to the porter, that he ought to have come the day before. On Clare making his excuse on account of the state of the weather, the high functionary got very angry. 'The weather?' he exclaimed, excitedly ; ' you mean to say that you have not obeyed lus lordship's commands simply because it was a wet day ! I' tell you, you ought to have come if it rained knives and forks.' This frightened Clare bej'^ond measure ; he tui-ned round upon his heels and was about running away, when he was stopped by a footman. The arrival of Clare had just been announced to the marquis, and there was an order VISIT TO BURGHLEY HALL. 107 to admit liiin instantaneously to the presence of his lordship. So the tall footman, without further ceremony, took Clare by the arm, and hurried him up a marble staircase, through innumerable passages, and a maze of halls and corridors which quite bewildered the poor poet. The sound of his heavy hob- naded shoes on the polished floor made him tremble, no less than the sight of his mud-bespattered garments among all the splendid upholstery, through which the gorgeous lackey Avas guiding his steps. At last, after a transit through painted halls which seemed endless, Clare stood before the noble marquis. His lordship received the humble visitor in a quiet, unaffected manner ; and the mind of the poet was relieved of an immense burthen when he foimd the great lord to be a decidedly amiable and cheerfid young man of his own age, with manners pleasantly contrasting with those of the aristocratic porter at the gate, and the splendid footman who had shown him the way. The marqms, with great tact, questioned Clare as to his antecedents ; asked to see some of his manuscript verses — which the Hon. ISIr. Pierrepont, in his summons, had ordered him to bring — and, having inspected these, informed the astonished poet that he would grant him an annuity of fifteen guineas for life. John Clare scarcely believed his o^vn ears ; the announcement of tliis liberality came so unexpected, and appeared to him so extraordinary, that he did not know what to say, or how to express his thanks. Quitting his lordship in utter confusion, he felt almost giddy on finding himself in the hall outside. There were immense passages stretching away to right and left, leading into unknown realms of magnificence, into which the poor poet Avas trembling to venture. The marquis, who, with great politeness, had accompanied his visitor to" the door, on seeing his embarrassment undertook the part of guide, lead- ing Clare to the outskirts of the palatial labyrinth, and here handing him over to a valet, with instructions to let his guest partake of the common dinner in the servants' hall. It was 108 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. the third dinner in the hall of noble patrons to which Clare was ushered — clearly showing that, however much differing on other subjects, the admirers of high literature in North- amptonshire held that the true place of a rui-al poet was among the footmen and kitchen-maids. NEW SIGHTS AND NEW FEIENDS. The great liberality of the Marquis of Exeter enabled Clare to Carry out, without further delay, the wish of his heart, and to make ' Patty ' liis wife. Her parents, under the circum- stances, had given up all their old o]3position, and were not only willing, but most anxious, that Clare should cement his unhappy connexion with their daughter by the sacred ties of marriage. The due preparations were made accordingly, and on the 16th of March, 1820, John Clare and Martha Turner became man and wife. The event stands registered as fol- lows ia the records of Great Casterton Church : — ' John Clare of the Parish of Helpston Bachelor and Martha Turner of tliis Parish Spinster were married in this Church by banns this 16th day of March in the year one thousand eight hundred and twenty by me Eichard Lucas.' And underneath : — ' This marriage was solemnized between us, John Clare her Martha -f Turner mark.' Little more than a month after the wedding, a child was born to Clare; a little girl, baptized Anna Maria. Mrs. Clare for a wliile remained at her father's hoiise ; but as soon as she was able to move, went to live with her husband, at the humble dwelling of his parents at Helpston, which, DISTANT TERRORS. 109 tliough scarcely large enougli to contain the aged couple, liad now to accommodate two families. Yet Clare felt happy in this narroAv cottage, for, humble as it was, it presented to him a thousand cherished associations, and now became dearer than ever to his heart, as sheltering not only his beloved parents, but his dear wife and cliild. AH his life long the Helpston cottage was to Clare his ' home of homes.' Before removing with his young wife to his native village, the poet had to go through some excitmg adventures in a journey to London. "WTien one day at the house of Mr. Gilclirist, at Stamford, there arrived a letter from Mr. John Taylor, speaking in high terms of the success of the ' Poems of Eural Life,' which brought about the question, addressed to Clare : ' Should you like to go with me on a short visit to London 1 ' John Clare Avas delighted at the idea, and eagerlj' expressed his wish to go ; whereupon it was arranged that he and Mr. Gilchrist should set out on the journey at the end of a week. Patty cried when the news was brought to her ; and old Parker Clare and his wife cried still more. In a few hours, the report spread like Avildfu'e through Helpston that John Clare was going to London. There was but one man in the village who had ever been to the big town far away, and his account of it had filled the hearts of all the Helpston people with terror. This man, an old farm-labourer called James Burridge, as soon as he heard of Clare's intention to undertake the dreaded journey, hurried up to entreat him to abandon the plan. To enforce his advice, he gave a vivid description of the horrors awaiting the unwary traveller in the great metropolis, and the fearful dangers that beset his path on every side. One half the houses of London, he said, were inhabited by swindlers, thieves, and murderers, and a good part of the other half by their helpers and con- federates, all on the look-out for the good people from the country. To catch their victims with the greater certainty, there were trap-doors in the pavement of the most frequented 110 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. streets, -wliicli, when touclied, let the wayfarer down into a deep cellar, and into a kettle of boiling water, surrounded by cut-throats who made all escape from the kettle impossible. The assassins, having killed the unhappy \dctim, and taken all his property, to the very shirt on his back, finally — culmination of horrors ! — sold the body to the doctors. Such was the account which James BuiTidge gave of London, with the effect of striking terror into the hearts of his hearers. Parker Clare and his wife, with bitter tears, entreated their son not to leave them; and John himself, though slightly incredulous about some of the items' in the tales of his friend Burridge, began to be seriously alarmed. But he was ashamed to confess his fears to Mr, Gilchrist; the more so, as a mere casual mentioning of the street-traps and the kettles of boiling water produced immoderate laughter. He therefore made liis mind up to start on his dangerous journey like a hero. After bidding solemn fare- well to wife and parents, and dressing, by the advice of James Burridge, in his worst clothes, to be the less a mark for tliieves and cut-throats, Jolin Clare very early one morn- ing in April, 1820, started for Stamford, and having met Mr, Gilchrist, took his seat precisely at seven o'clock in the 'Eegent,' a famous foiu'-horse coach, warranted to take passengers in thirteen hours to London. There was little talk on the road ; John Clare had enough to do to look out of the window, marvelling at all the new sights open to his eyes. Thus the travellers passed tlirough Stilton, Hunting- don, St. Neot's, Temsford, and Biggleswade, until at last, soon after dusk, the fiery glow of the horizon announced the neighbourhood of the big city. On being told that they were about to enter London, Clare became much excited ; but there was time for the excitement to cool, for more than two hours elapsed before the heavy coach rumbled from the soft liigh road up to the hard-paved streets. At last, at nine o'clock in the evening, the ' Eegent ' stopped in front of the A WEEK IN LONDON. Ill ' George and Blue Boar,' in Holborn, and John Clare alighted, utterly bewildered with all that he had seen during the day in the greatest journey he had ever made in liis life. Mr. Gilclmst took liis friend to the house of his brother- in-law, a German named Burlchardt, proprietor of a jeweller's and watcluuaker's shop in the Strand. Ilerr Burkhardt, a well-to-do tradesman, with a rubicund face and an inex- haustible stock of good humour, was excessively fond of showing strangers the sights of London; and his guests had no sooner arrived, than he wanted to take them to Covent Garden theatre. John Clare was very anxious to go, on hearing that Madam Vestris was reciting one of his poems at this place of entertainment ; but findmg that Octavius Gilchrist was disinclined to rise from his comfortable arm- chair, and with secret apprehension of the trap-doors and vessels of boiling water, he declared himself likewise in favour of the arm-chair, with hot whiskey and water. Worthy Herr Burkhardt had his fidl share of satisfaction the next day, when he had the pleasure of taking his brother- in-laAv and friend to Westminster Abbey, the Tower, Smith- field market, Newgate, and Vauxliall Gardens. John Clare was not so much astonished as disappointed with all that his eyes beheld in the great metropolis. Standing upon West- minster Bridge, he compared the Kiver Thames with Whittle- sea Mere, and found it wanting ; the sight of the ToAver, of Newgate, and of Smithfield, engendered not the least admiration ; and as for the Poet's Corner in the Abbey, he loudly declared that he could see no poetry Avhatever about it. But what hurt the feelings of Herr Bm-khardt most of all, was the utter contempt Clare showed for the deKghts of Vauxhall. The tinsel and the oil-lamps, the wooden bowers and paper flowers, struck Clare as perfectly absiu'd, and he expressed his astonishment that people should go and stare at such childish things, with a world of wonder and of beauty 112 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. lying all around it in tlie green fields. The worthy jeweller of the Strand was amazed, and privately confided to his brother-in-law that he thought his companion ' a very stupid man from the country.' John Clare stayed a week in London, and during the whole of this time felt painfvilly uncomfortable in liis thread- bare suit of labourer's clothes, patched top and bottom, with leather baffles and gaiters to match. He fancied, when walking along the streets, that everybody was staring and laughing at his smock frock ; and the sound of his heavy hob-nailed shoes startled him whenever he entered a house. What made , things worse was, that Mr. Gilchrist wanted to draw him into many fine places and among high and wealthy people, for whose company Clare felt an instmctive dislike. He knew that they could not look upon him otherwise than in the light of a rustic curiosity, and being unwilling to play the part of a newly-discovered monkey or hippopotamus, he absolutely refused to go to parties and meetings to which he had been invited. However, a few of the visits were indispensable, such as presentation to Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, and their friends. Mr. John Taylor, on meeting Clare, perceived at once that one reason of his excessive reluctance to show himself was his scant stock of clothing, and mentioning the matter with great frankness, he offered him a suitable dress. But Clare refused to take anything, except an ancient overcoat somewhat too large for him, but useful as hiding his whole figui-e from the top of the head down to the heels. In this brigand-like mantle he hence- forth made all his visits, unwilling to take it off even at dinner, and in rooms hot to suffocation. It made a deep impression upon Clare that, with all his awkwardness, homely speech, and ragged clothes, he was, for the first time in his life, treated as an equal by Mr. Taylor's friends, and other gentlemen whom he visited at London. The example of his patrons in the country, who, after i^raising LOKD EADSTOCK. 113 his talents in the drawing-room, sent him down to the kitchen for his dinner, had already pauperized him to such an extent that he was quite startled when Mr. Taylor, on his second visit to the shop in Fleet Street, asked him to meet several men of rank and talent, among them Lord Eadstock, at dinner the same evening. He woidd gladlv have declined, hut was not allowed to do so, being told that it would he a thorough breach of good manners to refuse to see his friends, the admirers of his poems. Clare went, with much fear and trembling; but came to be at ease before long. He sat next to Lord Eadstock, and this gentleman, with an extreme tact and knowledge of character, at once succeeded in gaining liis whole confidence. It proved the beginning of a friendship which lasted for years, and spread its iir&uence over Clare's whole life. "William "Walde- grave. Baron Eadstock, Admiral of the Eed, was a gentle- man much knoAvn at this period in the literary and artistic circles of London. A younger son of the thu'd Earl of Waldegrave, born in 1758, he was bred to the naval pro- fession, became a captain at the age of eighteen, and com- mander of a fine frigate soon after, so that the way to fame and distinction was marked out for him clearly and forcibly. But not content to be lifted in the world solely by reason of birth, he, from an early age, devoted himself to independent pursuits, and became a scholar and a poet even before he Avas a captain in the Eoyal JSTavy. The scientific and literary tastes of the young nobleman were greatly fostered by his marriage, in 1785, with the second daughter of David Van Lennep, 'chief of the Dutch factory at Smyrna, a lady of most genial disposition and an education very superior to her age. William Waldegrave was appointed admiral in 1794 ; distinguishing liimself at the naval fight off Cape Lagos, in 1797; and having been advanced, three years after, to the dignity of Baron Eadstock, of Castletown, Queen's County, quietly settled with his family in London I 114 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. to give liimself entirely up to his favourite studies and pursuits. On the appearance of Clare's poems, he at once felt greatly interested in the author, and being acquainted -wdth Mr. Jolin Taylor, heard of his arrival in London, and arranged to meet him at dinner. So it came that John Clare, in his smock frock, leather gaiters, and brigand mantle, found him- self sitting at the right hand of the Eight Honourable Lord Radstock, son of an earl, and admiral in the Royal Xavy, Lord Eadstock''s simple, sailor-like speech, distant alike from condescension and studious politeness, had the effect of at once opening the jDent-up affections of John Clare. For the first time since his arrival in London, he found somebody to whom he could speak in full confidence, and he did so to his heart's desire, prattling like a child about trees and flowers, fields and meadows, birds and sunshine, and not at aU disguising liis dislike to the big town in which he noAv found himself. As the dinner went on, Clare became still more commiuiicative, tenderly encouraged by the sym- pathising friend at his side. He spoke of his struggles, his aims, and aspirations ; his burning desire to soar upward on the wings of poetry, and his constant battling for the barest necessities of life, the mere daily bread. Lord Ead- stock was deeply touched ; he had seen many authors, writers of prose and of verse, in the course of his life, but never such a poet as this. Clare did not in the least complain of his existence ; he merely described it, in simj^le, graphic utter- ance, the truth of which was stamped on every word and look. The admiral, before meetuag John Clare, had admired him as a poet ; he now began to feel far deeper admiration for him as a man. He told him in a few kind and affec- tionate words, speaking as a father Avould to his son, that he intended to be his friend, and Clare warmly shook the hand offered to him. It was late at night when the party broke up at Mr. Taylor's, and Lord Eadstock and John Clare were the last to leave the house together. MRS. EMMERSON. 115 During the few days that Clare remained in London, he was almost constantly in Lord Eadstock's comiDany. The latter, anxious to introduce his young friend to persons who he thought might be useful to him in life, led him to a great number of places, one more uncomfortable than the other. Clare suffered much, but had not the courage to confess it to his noble patron, whose good intentions he fully understood. So he kept on trotting from one drawing-room to the other, with his heavy mud-bespattered shoes, his immense coat, a world too large for his thin, short body, and his long unkempt hair, hanging down in wild confusion over the shoulders. His friends soon got accustomed to the sight, and thought no more of it, and strangers willingly excused the garb as born of the ' eccentricity of genius ; ' but Clare himself, with his extreme sensibility, felt daily mortification on contrasting his own appearance Avith that of the people he met, and suffered tortures in thinking himself an object of general ridicule. The feeling was aggravated by the fact that he met but few persons he liked, and in whose conversation he took an interest. Among these few was Mrs. Emmerson, an authoress of some talent, and contributor to the * London Magazine,' to whom he was introduced by Lord Eadstock. John Clare at the first interview was not at all favorably impressed by this lady ; for she assumed what he fancied to be a theatrical air; burst out in bitter laments about what she termed the ' desolate appearance ' of her visitor, and wept that ' so much genius and so much poverty ' should f^o together. ALL this was very unpleasant to Clare ; particularly the ' desolate appearance,' which he took to be an unrnerited allusion to his great coat. In return, the poet, stung to the quick, replied in a few cold and sarcastic words, which irritated Lord Eadstock so much that, on leaving the place he reproached his companion for his apparent want of feeling Subsequent interviews greatly modified Clare's first impres- sion, for he found Mrs. Emmerson not only a most amiable i2 116 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. kind-hearted lady, but a true and faithful friend, whose advice and assistance often proved of the greatest service to him. Having stayed a week in London, in a continual round of visits to dinner parties, soirees, and theatrical entertainments — which latter did not impress him very much — John Clare agaia went, in the company of Mr. Gilchrist, to the ' George and Blue Boar,' Holhorn, and took seat for the return journey to Stamford. He was heartily glad to get away from the big town, yearning for his old haunts, the quiet woods, streams, and meadows, and the little cottage among the fields with his wife and darUng baby. It seemed to him an'immense time siuce he had left these everyday scenes of his existence ; it was as if his whole life had changed in the interval. He felt like one in a dream when the coach went rolling northward along the high road, through fields in which labourers were busy with plough and spade. It was not so very long ago that he had been just such a labourer : hoAv strange that he should now loll upon soft cushions, in a coach drawn by four horses, while others like him kept on digging and ploughing in the sweat of their brow. And would he be ever content to dig and plough again, after ha^dng tasted the sweets of a more genial existence, treading upon carpeted floors and diuiiig with lords 1 Such were tbe thoughts and questions that arose tumultuously in his mind, iii the long ride from London to Stamford. He had not the courage to face them and think them out, feeling his brain begin to ache, and his heart to throb in wild excitement. Then there flickered before his eye the vision of wife and babe in the little cottage at home, and the tumult of his soul changed into bliss. He determined to be happy, as of yore, in the green fields among his former friends, and to dismiss all thoughts of changing his old course of life. It was late at night when the coach rattled into Stamford ; but John Clare would not hear of stopping at his friend's house, even for a few minutes. UNBIDDEN VISITORS. 117 The clouds were dark overhead, and no lights visible any- where ; yet through night and darkness he groped his way home, and bursting into liis little hut, clasped wife and babe in Ms arms. FIRST TROUBLES OF FAME. The news that a poet had arisen on the borders of the Fens soon spread far and wide, even into ISTorthamptonshire. The ' Quarterly Eeview ' and ' Gentleman's Magazine ' carried the report into mansions, villas, and vicarages, and the ' Stamford Mercury ' and other local papers spread it among the inmates of farmhouses and humbler dwellings. Much incredulity was manifested at first ; but the news being confirmed on all hands, there arose a great and universal desire to behold the new poet. The reign of fame commenced soon after Clare's return from London, when, true to his resolution, he had taken to his old labours in the fields. About the second or third morning after resuming work, there came a message from his father, requesting him to return home in all haste, in order to see some gentlemen waiting for him. Clare ran as fast as he could, and found two elderly men in spectacles, who said they were schoolmasters, had come from Peter- borough, and wished to make his acquauatance. After questioning him closely for two hours, upon all matters, and at the end subjecting him to a rigid cross-examination, they went away, promising to call again. Clare had lost part of a day's work ; however, he did not mind it much, for he was somewhat flattered by the visit. The day passed, and the next morning ; but on the following afternoon, he was again called away from his labours. This time, there were tliree aged ladies from Market Deeping, who said that they had bought a copy of his poems between them, and could not rest till they had seen him face to face. One of the ladies was somewhat deaf, and Clare had to answer all questions 118 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. twice ; first by speaking to two of his visitors in the ordinary key, and then shouting it into the ear of the third old dame. After detaining him for an hour, the elderly uidividuals said they did not know their way back, and nothing re- mained but to show them the road for a couple of miles. It was getting late, and Clare, therefore, instead of going to his work again, went into the public-house. Fame threatened to be dangerous. The tide set in wdtli full force before another week was over. Not a day passed without Clare being called away from his work in the fields, to speak to people he had never seen in his life ; people of all ranks and conditions, farmers, clergymen, horsedealers, dissenting ministers, butchers, school- masters, commercial travellers, and half-pay officers. One morning, the inmates of a whole boarding-school, located at Stamford, visited the unhappy poet, and, a shower coming on, the fluttering damsels with their grave monitors crowded every room ia the little hut, preventing the baby from sleeping, and Mrs. Clare from doing her weekly washing. Most of the visitors were polite ; some, however, were sar- castic, and a few rude. After having inspected Clare, his person, house, wife and child, father and mother, they Avanted fm'ther information concerning his daily habits, mode of eating and drinking, quantity of food consumed, and other particidars, and not getting the wished-for replies to all their questions, they told him to his face that he was an ill-bred clown. Eut there was another class of visitors still more dangerous to the peace of Clare and his little hovisehold. Young and middle-aged men came over from Stamford, from Peterborough, and sometimes as far as from London, inviting the poet to conversation and ' a glass ' at the tavern, and keeping him at their carousals for hours and whole days. Already too much inclined by nature and early bad example to habits of intemperance, the good resolutions of Clare fairly gave way under this new temptation. The persons DEMOCRITUS, JUNIOH. 119 who invited him to tlie alehouse were among the most in- telligent of his visitors ; they talked freely and pleasantly about subjects interesting to the poet, and often made their conversation still more attractive by music and song. To resist the incitement of flying the dull labours of the helds in favour of such company, requhed more moral strength than Clare possessed, or was able to command. Early training he had none ; and even now there was not a soul near to teach and warn him of the danger. So the unhappy poet kept gliding down the fatal abyss. Clare's visits to Stamford were not quite so frequent after his return from London as before, although he made it a point to call upon Mr. Gilchrist and Mr. Drury at least once a week. On one of these occasions he made the acquaintance of a very eccentric elderly gentleman, who, cold at first and almost ofiensive in speech, subsequently proved himself a warm friend. This was Pr. Bell, a retired army surgeon, who had long resided near Stamford, and was on good terms with many of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood. While serving in His Majesty's forces abroad. Dr. Bell became the intimate friend of a versatile colleague, Dr. Wolcot, subse- quently known as Peter Pindar, who inspired him with a taste for literature, to wliich he devoted himself with a real passion after his retirement from the army. Though not a writer liimself, he brought out several books, among them a very droll one, made up of quotations of the most curious kind, and entitled, ' The Canister of the Blue Devils, by Democritus, junior.' Dr. Bell possessed a very large library, and spent a good part of his time in extracting, both from his books and the newspapers and periodicals of the day, all available paragraphs containing quaint sayings and doings, Avliich he stuck upon large pieces of pasteboard, for the inspection of his friends, and subsequent publication in some ' canister ' shape. John Clare met Peter Pmdar's friend at the house of Mr. Gilchi-ist ; they did not seem to like each 120 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. other at first sight, hut got on hetter terms at the second meeting, and after a wliile hecame attached friends. Dr. Bell had an instinctive dislike to poets, whom he held to be 'moonstruck.' He was not long, however, in discovering that John Clare was a great deal more than a mere maker of verses and apostrophiser of love-sick hoys and girls. The high and manly spirit of the poor labourer of Helpston ; his yearning after truth, and his constant endeavour to discover, beneath all the forms and symbols of outward appearances, the godhke soul of the iiniverse, struck him with something like wonderment. He first began to look upon Clare as a sort of phenomenon ; but found that the more he studied him, the more incomprehensible, yet also the more admirable, appeared this great and lofty spirit, wrapped in the coarse garb of a plougliman and lime-burner. The odd, tender-hearted doctor soon conceived a passionate affection for Clare, and set him up as a hero at the shrine of his devotion. He thought of nothing else but advancing his young friend's welfare, and worked with great zeal to this effect ; to such an extent that his endeavom-s frequently overstepped the bounds of prudence. The first tiling he did was to write letters to aU the wealthy inhabitants of the neighbouring district, begging, nay, en- treating them to set their name to a subscription list for a fund, destined to make the poet independent for the rest of his days. However, the appeal was but faintly responded to, and most of the persons addressed either declined, or con- tented themselves by forwarding small smns. But Dr. Bell was by no means discouraged at this result. With con- summate worldly experience, he resolved upon attacking his ' patients ' from the weakest side, and extract from their vanity what he could not get from their munificence. He put liimself in communication with Mr. John Taylor, and, by dint of extreme pressure, succeeded in enlisting him in his project. It was to make an appeal in favour of John Clare on the part of the conductors of the ' London Magazine ; ' POETRY AND THE POOR RATES. 121 with delicate liint that any act of liberality would not be condemned to blush unseen. But this scheme, too, did not realize the expectations of Dr. Bell, chiefly because Mr. John Taylor, out of feelings easily comprehended, did not join him m his endeavours with the heartiness he expected. To make the appeal appear as much in favour of poetry as of a single poet, Mr. Taylor, in his letters, asked assistance for Keats as well as for Clare, wording his request in terms more digni- fied than persuasive. There was only one response to this petition, wdiich came from Earl Fitzwilliam, who forwarded £100 to Clare and £50 to Keats. The liberality of the kind nobleman was scarcely appreciated as it deserved. One of the friends of Keats, in a loud article in the 'London Magazine,' of December, 1820, disclaimed "his intention to be beholden to any lord. ' We really do not see,' ran the article, ' what noblemen have to do with the support of poets, more than other people, while the poor rates are in existence. In the present state of society, poetry, as well as agricultural produce, should be left to find its own level.' All this was very fine ; though it looked somewhat inconsequential that the conductors of the very periodical in which this was printed, should go a-begging for poets, and that the poets themselves — Keats not excepted — made no scruple in taking the money. As for poor Clare, he got the news of Earl Fitzwilliam's noble gift together with the ' London Magazine' of December, 1820, and felt utterly ashamed to accept the money with the accomanying reminder of the poor rates being in existence. John Clare for some time was unaware of all the exertions made by his friends to secure him an independence, and when he heard the whole of it, so far from being pleased, reproached them for Avhat they had done. He told them they were wrong in bringing him fonvard in the character of a beggar without his consent, and with some energy declined to live upon alms as long as he was able to subsist by the 122 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. work of his licands. Mr. Taylor was somewhat offended when he got this protest, which seemed to him like ingrati- tude ; but Dr. Bell remained undisturbed, and secretly made up his mind to continue his efforts ■\vT.th more energy than ever for liis friend. ' A noble soul, yet altogether unfit for this ignoble world,' he said to IMr. Gilchrist, issuing his circulars for another philanthropic campaign. When Clare learnt that new appeals to assist him had been put forward, he determined to interfere in the matter. Accordingly, he wrote long letters — very pathetic, though ill-spelt — to Earl Fitzwilliam, Earl Spencer, General Birch Eeynardson, and other gentlemen, telling them that he had nothing to do Avith these appeals in his favour, and that he required no assistance whatever. Clare's innate nobility of character was strikingly shoAvn in these epistles ; nevertheless, they Avere veiy injudicious, and had an effect decidedly contrary to that imagined by the author. The gentlemen to whom the letters were addressed naturally came to the conclusion that Clare, scarcely risen from obscurity, Avas already quarrelling with those who had helped him to rise, and showed himself ungrateful as well as Ol-bred. Besides, the wording of the letters was of a kind not to inspire any admiration of the poet. Though verse floAved as naturally from his pen as music from the throat of the nightingale, Clare, all his life long, was unable to express his thoughts in prose com- position. There Avas not wanting in his letters a certain ruggedness and picturesqueness of style, but it was marred nearly ahvays by ill-expressed and frequently incoherent eruptions, and disquisitions on extraneous matters, marking the absence of a regular chain of thought. It Avas here that Clare's want of education Avas most strongly visible. High- soaring like the lark in his poetical flights, yet unable to trot along, step by step, on the grammatical turnpike road of life, Clare's mode of expressing his thoughts, orally or in writing, was not of the ordinary kind, and required some sort of PETER Pindar's friend. 123 study to be duly appreciated. But it could scarcely be expected that gentlemeu like Earl Spencer, and the other exalted personages to whom the poet addressed his pathetic notes, should enter upon such a study. They saw before them nothing but large sheets of paper, of coarse texture, full of ill-spelt and ill-connected sentences, made more obscure by an utter absence of punctuation ; and the not unnatural judgment thereupon was that the man who ■wrote such letters was a thoroughly vulgar and uneducated person. There came doubts into the minds of many, who read these prose compositions, as to whether the author was really the genius exalted by the periodicals of the day. "Was it not possible tliat the ' Quarterly Review ' which un- duly depreciated poor Keats, had, equally unjustly, raised John Clare upon an unmerited pedestal of fame 1 This was the question asked by some of the former patrons of Clare, notably Earl Spencer and General Birch Eeynardson. The latter spoke to Dr. Bell about it ; but was astonished at the burst of indignation which broke from the lips of Peter Pindar's friend. ' What ! Clare not a poet 1 ' exclaimed the irate doctor ; ' well, if he is not a poet, there never was one in the world.' General Eeynardson, having a great respect, somewhat mingled with fear, for the author of the ' Canister,' humbly acquiesced in the decision, promising to put his name down on the Stamford subscription list. But Dr. Bell was ill at ease nevertheless, and rode over the same day to Helpston. ' If you ever again write letters to our friends without showing them to me first, I shall be very angry Avith you- — I shall put you among the Blue Devils.' So spoke the doctor ; and John Clai-e, having heard the whole story of the effect of his epistles, promised obedience. He knew but too well, by tliis time, that the speech which God had given him was poetry, not prose. The stream of Adsitors Avhich set in at Helpston during the spring of 1820, did not cease tiU late in the summer of 124 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. tlie same year. After the flood of sclioolmasters, of farmers' wives, and of boarding-scliool misses, there came a rush of rarer bu"ds of travel, authors and authoresses, writers of un- published books, and unappreciated geniuses in general. The first of the tribe was an individual of the name of Preston, a native of Cambridge, and author of an immense quantity of poetic, artistic, and scientific works — none of them printed, owing to ignorance of public and publishers. He sent Clare formal notice that he would come on a certain day, and, previous to coming, forwarded a large box full of manuscripts. There was a full description of his life, with sketch of his rare talents and accomplishments ; also the greater part of his poetical "m-itings, comprising five epics, three hundred ballads, and countless acrostics, madrigals, and sonnets. John Clare felt greatly flattered when he got the large box, and the same evening, after coming home from his work in the fields, sat down to inspect the manuscripts sent for his perusal. However, he did not get far, but fell asleep over the first dozen pages of the first epic. He honestly tried again the second evening, but with the same result as before ; and on the third day relinquished the attempt in despair, accusing himself for his want of intelligence. Soon after, Mr. Preston made his appearance. He was a tall, thin man, with red whiskers and -a red nose ,• dressed in a threadbare black coat, buttoned up to the chin. Introducing himself with some dignity, h-e at once fell into a familiar strain : ' How do you do, John i ' and ' Hope you are glad to see a brother poet.' John was glad, of course ; very glad. The tall, thin man then gave a glance at his large box, and John trembled. To allay the coming storm, Clare confessed at once that he had not had time to read through the manu- scripts, having been hard at work in the fields. The great man frowned ; yet after a wliile relaxed his features, telling Clare that he would give him two days more to read through his poems. At the end of this term, he intended to ask for A BROTHER POET. 125 a kind of certificate containing the brother poet's appreciation of his works, together with letters of introduction to his patrons and publisliers. It seemed cruel to refuse the re- quest of such a dear and determined brother. Jolm Clare, Aveighing in his mind how poor and friendless he had been himself but a short while ago, felt stirred by compassion, and though he knew he could not read the epics, indited a warm letter of praise and admu-ation for Mr. Preston. The latter thereupon took his farewell, and went away, accompanied by his large box. Some days after, Dr. Bell came down to Helpston, in greater excitement than ever. ' "VVliat do you mean by sending me such a d fellow 1 ' he broke forth in a burst of indignation. Poor Clare ! he meant nothing, thought of nothing, and knew nothing ; and all that he could do was in a few simple words to explain the whole story. The doctor quietly listened to the accoimt of Mr. Preston and his box, and when Clare had finished, delivered another lecture upon practical wisdom, thi-eatening his friend, as penalty for disobedience, with the ' Canister of the Blue DevUs.' PATRONAGE UNDER VARIOUS ASPECTS. Honours and good news came in fast upon Clare in the autumn of 1820. The poet, at his humble home, was "sasited, first by Lady Fane, eldest daughter of the Earl of West- moreland; secondly, by Viscount MLLton, coming high on horseback, in the midst of red-coated huntsmen ; and, finally, greatest of honours, by the Marquis of Exeter. The villagers were awe-struck when the mighty lord, in his emblazoned coach, with a crowd of glittering lackeys around, came up to the cottage of Parker Clare, the pauper. Mrs. Clare was utterly terrified, for she was standing at the washing-tub, and the baby was crying. Her greatest pride consisted in keeping the little cottage neat and tidy ; but, as ill-luck would have it, she was always washing whenever 126 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. visitors dropped in. The marquis, with aristocratic tact, saved jDOor Patty from a fresh humiliation. Hearing the loud voice of the hahy from afar, liis lordship despatched one of his footmen to inquire whether Clare was at home. The man in jdIusIi carefully advanced to the cottage door, and holding a silk handkerchief before his fine Roman nose, summoned John before him. Old Parker Clare thereupon hobbled forward, trembling all over, and, in a faint voice, told the great man that his son was mowing corn, in a field close to Helpston Heath. Thither the glittering cavalcade proceeded, and John was soon discovered, in the midst of the other labourers, busy with his sickle. Though some- what startled on being addressed by his lordship, he was secretly pleased that the interview was taking place in the field instead of in his narrow little hut. It seemed to him that here, among the sheaves of corn, he himself was some- what taller and the noble marquis somewhat smaller than within the four walls of any cottage or palace ; and this feeling encouraged him to speak with less embarrassment to his illustrious visitor. His lordship said he had heard rumours that a new volume of poetry was forthcoming, and wanted to know whether it was true. Clare replied that he was busy Avriting verses in his spare hours, and that he intended writing still more after the harvest, and during the next winter, which would, probably, result in another book with his name on the title-page. The marquis expressed his satisfaction in hearing this news, and, after a few kind words, and a liint that he Avould be glad to see some specimens, in manuscript, of the new publication, took his farewell. John Clare was not courtier enough to under- stand the hint about the manuscripts in all its bearings. For a moment, the thought flashed through his mind of asking his lordship to allow the new volume to be dedicated to him ; but the idea was as instantaneously crushed by a remembrance of the fatal article in the ' London Magazine,' SUDDEN WEALTH. 127 in which it was said, ' We really do not see what noblemen have to do with the support of poets more than other people.' The remark had left a deep impression upon his mind, and he felt its truth more than ever while standing face to face Avith a great lord, sickle in hand, among the yellow corn. He therefore said nothing ahout the dedication, and the visit of his lordship remained without result — wliich was not his lordsliip's faidt. A few days after this interview with the Marquis of Exeter, Clare went to Stamford to see Mr. Drury and ]\Ir. Gilclirist. The latter had important ne'\\'s. He told his friend that he had just received a letter from Mr. John Taylor, stating that the fund collected for his benefit through the exertions of Lord Eadstock, Dr. Bell, and others, had now reached, the sum of £420 12s. and that this capital had been invested, for his benefit, under trustees, in the ' Navy five per cents.' Mr. Gilchrist, on communicating this mformation, expected an outbiu'st of gratitude ; but was surprised to see that Clare received it with a coldness which he could not understand. Being pressed for an explanation, Clare frankly stated that he was not pleased with the whole aflair, both as being personally unwilling to receive alms, and, still more, un- willing to receive them in the aggravated form of help- lessness, from ' under trustees.' Clare's remark quite startled Mr. Gilchrist. He had hitherto looked upon the poet as a man who, gifted with considerable talent, was yet little removed from the ordinary hind of the fields ; willing not only, but anxious to live upon charity, and kneeling, in all humility of heart, before rank and wealth. The high man- liness of Clare now struck him for the first time, and he deeply admired it, though giving no words to his feelings. He even remonstrated about his friend's coldness in receiving gifts offered by real lovers and admirers of liis genius. The chord thus struck reverberated freely, and Clare, after warmly shaking Mr. Gilchrist by the hand, returned home to his wife 128 LIFE OF JOHN CLAKE. and parents, joj^ully communicating the great ncAvs that he was now the o^vner of not less than foui- hundred and twenty poimds. They fancied it an inexhaustible store of wealth, and great, accordingly, was the joy witliin the little cottage. The four hundred and twenty pounds invested for the benefit of Clare, were the gift of twenty donors. K"early one-half the sum was contributed by two benefactors, namely, the Earl Fitzwilliam, who gave £100, and Clare's publishers, who bestowed the like amount upon him. The remaining two hundred and twenty pounds — accurately, £220 12s. — were made up of sums of five, ten, and twenty pounds, the principal contributors being the Dukes of Bedford and of Devonshire, who gave twenty pounds each ; Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg — subsequently King Leopold of Belgium — the Duke of iS^orthumberland, the Earl of Cardigan, Lord John Eussell, Sir Thomas Baring, and six other noblemen, who subscribed ten pounds ; and a few others who gaA^e five pounds each. The siim thus collected was certainly insig- nificant, taking into account the extraordinary efforts made by Lord Eadstock and other friends of Clare to procure him a provision for life. After all the high praise bestowed upon the new poet by the ' Quarterly Eeview,' and other critical journals, and the loud appeals for aid and assistance, it was found that there were ordy two patrons of literature in all England who thought liim worth a hundred pounds, and of these tAvo, one was a bookselling firm in Fleet Street. It really seemed as if the world at large engrossed the dictum of the ' London Magazine,' of the wealthy having no business to assist poets while the poor rates are in existence. The two hundred and twenty pounds collected for Clare from eighteen patrons of literature, together Avith the tAvo hundred from Earl FitzwiUiam and Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, served, in the aggregate, to relieve the poet from absolute starvation. Invested in the fimds, the capital gaA^e liuu nearly twenty pounds a year, and, with the annuity already granted by the THE ' GREAT UNKNOWN.' 129 Marquis of P^xeter, about tliii-ty-five. Dr. Bell, by dint of restless exertions, managed to add another ten pounds to this yearly income. He wrote to Earl Spencer, temporarily residing at Naples, and obtained the promise of his lordship to grant Clare ten pounds per annum for life. So that altogether the poet now was endowed with a regular income of forty-five pounds a year, or rather more than seventeen shillings a week. It was far above the average of what he had ever earned before as a labourer, and, properly regulated, might have been sufficient to make liis future career comparatively free from the cares and anxieties of daily subsistence. Un- fortunately, this was not the case, and the very aid intended to smoothen his road tlirough life led, almost directly, to his ruin. The autumn of 1820, together with many gratifying gifts, brought Clare some little mortification. A few of his friends were somewhat too zealous : among them, Captain Sherweil, to whom the poet had been introduced by Lord Eadstock, and who lost no opportunity to aid and assist him. Shortly after his meeting -with Clare, Captain SherweU went on a visit to Abbotsford, where he indulged in high praises of the ' Poems of Em-al Life and Scenery,' trying hard to gain the sympathies of his distinguished host in favour of the author. But Sir Walter Scott showed little inclination to fraternise with the poet of Northamptonsliire, and sternly declined the pressing demand of Captain Sherwell to write a note of approbation to Clare, or even to put his name to tlie subscription fund. The warm-heated captain was the more grieved at this refusal as he had already, in a letter to Lord Eadstock, held out hopes that the ' Great Unknown ' would enter into correspondence with their humble friend ; and seeing the probability of this report reachmg Clare, he deeply felt the disappointment which it would cause. He, therefore, when on the point of leaving Abbotsford, tried once more to get some token of friendship for Clare ; but all he was able to obtain £ 130 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. was a copy of the ' Lady of the Lake,' together with a present of two gimieas. Even the slight favour of writing his name inside the hook, Sir Walter Scott absolutely refused. Captain Sherwell, greatly humiliated in finding all his endeavours fruitless, forwarded the two guineas and the 'Lady of the Lake ' to Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, placing a paper in the volume, with the inscription : ' Walter Scott presents John Clare with the " Lady of the Lake," with the modest hope that he will read it with attention.' John Clare, in receiving the book, naturally supposed that this paper was written by Sir Walter Scott himself. He therefore pasted it on the fly-leaf, and having to proceed, a few days after, to Burghley Park, to receive his quarterly stipend from the Marquis of Exeter, he took the book with him, and showed it to his lordship's secretary. The latter, deeming it an interesting curiosity, sent the copy to the marquis for inspection ; but v^^as astonished on getting it returned on the instant, with the message that the autograph was not that of Sir Walter Scott, and that the matter seemed to be an impostiu-e. John Clare, of course, felt terribly mortified on hearing this message delivered. He forthwith applied to Captain Sherwell for an explanation; but, before he could expect an answer, received a note from this gentleman, written, evidently, before obtaining the request. The captain's note, notable in many respects, ran as follows : — 'My dear Clare, — I have forwarded to Mr. Taylor the long-expected " Lady of the Lake," with an earnest request that it may be sent to you speedily. H you have not read it already I shall be better pleased. It contains a sweetness of style, guided by a correctness of language, which no one of his works surpasses. All my endeavours, all my efi'orts of persuasion proved fruitless in obtaining the fulfilment of the anxious wish I had expressed to him that he would address a few lines to you on the blank-leaf. Sir Walter Scott seemed bound hand apd head. It was not from any disapprobation WALKING IN THE HIGH PATH. 131 of your talent, or taste ; but occasioned by the high, path in which he strides in the literary field of the present day. The paper in the " Lady of the Lake " is placed by me merely as a memorandum.' This curious letter certainly furnished a confirmation of the fact discovered by the Marquis of Exeter, that the paper in the ' Lady of the Lake ' was not in Sir Walter Scott's handwriting ; but it all the more increased the deep humilia- tion felt by John Clare. To ease his over-burthen ed heart, he ran to Stamford, and laid both Captain Sherwell's letter and the book before Mr. Gilchrist. The latter had no sooner looked through the note, when he burst out laughing. * Well,' he exclaimed, ' this is the fimniest thing I ever read.' And seeing Clare's melancholy face, he continued, * Oh, don't be disheartened, my dear fellow ; all this is stufi' and nonsense. I know the time when this great Scotch baronet did not stride in the high path into which he has now scrambled, and I will show you something to the effect.' Which sajong, he went to his bookcase, and brought forth an elegantly-bound volume, together with a silk-tied note. ' This letter,' Mr. Gilclirist exclaimed, ' and this book, called the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," the author of the " Lady of the Lake " sent me more than ten years ago. He was then simple Mr. Walter Scott : a very humble man as you will see from his letter, in which he gives profuse thanks for a little review of his work which I wrote in a magazine. Therefore, I say again, don't be disheartened, my dear fellow. Keep up your head, and let us have some more of yom- verses ; some better ones, if possible. Then, if the world applauds you, and applauds you again and again, I give you my word, the great baronet in his liigh path will be the first to shake hands.' Thus spoke Octavius Gilchrist, grocer of Stamford, and contributor to the ' Quarterly Eeview.' And his speech set John Clare musing for some time to come. As soon as the harvest was over, Clare ceased working in K 2 132 LIFE OF JOHN CLAKE. the fields, and during the next six months devoted himself to literature. He had arranged with Messrs. Taylor and Hessey to bring out another volume of poetry in the spring of 1821, and the preparation of this work, together with much reading, fiUed up the whole of his time. Clare now was in possession of a rather considerable collection of books, chiefly poems; most of them gifts of friends and admirers, and the rest added by his own purchases. Small presents of money from strangers he invariably invested in books ; and the two guineas of Sir Walter Scott went directly to buy the works of Burns, Chatterton's poems, and Southey's ' Life of Nelson.' The assiduous study of these works necessarily tended to elevate Clare's taste and to improve his style. All his earlier productions bore more or less the stamp of crude- ness, by no means effaced by the corrections of the editor in orthography and punctuation; but he now gradually acquired the skill of handling verse, and shaping it into the desired smoothness of expression. He began to compose, too, with far greater rapidity than before. Many a day he completed two, and even three poems, elaborating the plan, as weU as revising them finally. His mode of compo- sition, likewise, became almost entirely changed at this period. While formerly his poetical conceptions were usually scribbled on little bits of paper, and furtively re'V'ised at intervals of labour, the correction, amounting to entire re- ■\vriting, often extending over weeks and months, he now got into the regular habit of finishing all his poems in two sittings, casting them first, and polishing them the second time. Almost invariably the first process took place out of doors. Inspiration seldom came to him in-doors, within the walls of any dwelling; but descended upon his soul in abundant showers whenever he was roaming through the fields and meadows, the woods and heathery plains around Helpston. It mattered not to him whether the earth was basking in sunshine, or deluged with rain ; whether the air POETIC INSriRATION. 133 was warm and mild, ov ice and snow lying on the ground. At the accustomed hour every morning, he would wander forth, now in one direction, now in another ; only caring to get away from the haunts of men, into the cherished solitude of nature. Then, when full of rapture about the wonderful, ever-beautiful world — wonderful and beautiful to him in all aspects and at all seasons — he would settle down in some quiet nook or corner, and rapidly shape his imagination into words. There were some favourite places where he delighted to sit, and where the hallowed vein of poetry seemed to him to flow more freely than at any others. The chief of these spots was the hollow of an old oak, on the borders of Helpston Heath, called Lea Close Oak — now ruthlessly cut down by ' enclosure ' progi'ess — Avhere he had formed himself a seat with something like a table in front. Few human beings ever came near this place, except now and then some wandering gypsies, the sight of whom was not unpleasing to the poet. Inside this old oak Clare used to sit in silent meditation, for many hours together, forgetting everything about him, and unmindful even of the waning day and the mantle of darkness falling over the earth. Having prepared his verses in rough outline, within the oak, or in some other lonely place, he would hurry home without delay. Patty, carefullest of housewives, altliough little comprehending the erratic ways of her lord, had got into the habit of always keeping a slight meal ready for the hungry poet. He took his broth, or his cup of tea, in silence, and then crept up to the narrow bedroom in the upper part of the hut. Here the day's poetical productions were passed in review. Whatever was not approved, met with immediate destruction ; the rest was carefully corrected and polished, and afterwards copied out into a big book, a sort of ledger, bought at Stamford fair. Clare had laid down the rule for himself to make no further corrections or examination whatever. The poems thus com- posed were sent to the printer ; and though Mr. Taylor, the 134 LIFE OF JOHN CLAEE. editor and publisher of tlie new work, was anxious to alter and revise some of them, Clare would not allow any change, save orthographical and grammatical corrections. There was at this time an impression on Clare's mind that his verses were the product of intuition; and that the songs came floating from his lips and pen as music from the throat of birds. So he held his OAvn orthodoxy more orthodox than that of the schools. In which view poor John Clare was decidedly wrong, seeing that his music was not offered gratis like that of the skylark and nightingale, but was looking out for the pounds, shillings, and pence of a most discerning public. PUBLICATION OF THE 'VILLAGE MIXSTEEL.' The publication of Clare's neAV volume, arranged for the spring of 1821, gave rise to some difficulties as the time grew near. It was the intention of his publishers to bring out the work with some artistic embellishments, including a portrait of the author and a sketch of his home ; to both which Clare had certain objections, as far as the execution of the task was concerned. On the other hand, Messrs. Taylor and Hessey washed to exclude some of Clare's poems, which they did not think quite as good as the rest, under the pretence that they had already more than sufficient in hand to make a strong volume ; but this again was opposed by the author, who sent in his ultimatum to print all his verses or none. The difficulty might have been easily arranged by Mr. Gilchrist, with his great influence both over Clare and his publishers, but he, unfortunately, was over head and ears in trouble, and had no time to attend to the perplexities of others. Mr. Gilclirist, in the summer of 1820, had the misfortune of being dragged into the great quarrel of the Rev. AVilliam Lisle Bowles, the editor of Pope, with Byron, Campbell, and the ' Quarterly Eeview ; ' a battle of the BATTLE OF THE WINDMILLS. 135 windmills M'hich occupied the literary world of England for several years. Having despatched the chief of his big foes, the Eev. Mr. Bowles thought fit to turn round upon Mr. Gilchrist, whom he held to be the author of a severe article in the ' Quarterly.' This was not the case ; nevertheless, Mr. Gilchrist took up the cudgels, striking out vnth all the impetus so much in vogue among the pen-wielding celebrities of the time. From the * Quarterly ' — too Jupiter-like to be long detained by street rows — the quarrel was transferred to the pages of the ' London INIagazine,' where abundant space was allowed to both MrT Gilclirist and the Eev. Mr. Bowles to fight out their battles. The great question was whether Mr. Bowles had done justice to the character of Pope, or drawn the figiu-e of his hero in too hard outlines ; and as there was much to be said on either side, the articles grew longer every month, and the spirit of the combatants became more and more embittered. The conflagration got general through a flaring pamphlet, ' by one of the family of the Bowles's,' and for a year or two the air was filled with squibs, flysheets, articles, and reviews, for and against Bowles. "N^Hiat with his grocery business at Stamford, and his multifarious literary engagements, poor Mr. Gilchrist fairly lost Ms head in the midst of this thunderstorm, and was unable to tliink of anything else but Bowles and Pope, and Pope and Bowles. Clare happening to visit him one day, when musing on this aU-absorbing subject, he tried to inspire him with a sense of the wrongs he had suffered at the hands of the Eev. William Lisle Bowles ; but meeting with utter apathy, Mr. Gilchrist turned in disgust from his poetic friend, shocked at his callousness. As a sort of revenge, on being appealed to for his aid in settling the difficulty between his friend and Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, he declared that he had no time to attend to the matter. This was certainly true, for the din of the great Bowles battles kept raging in the air and the pages of the ' London ^lagazine ' for nigh another year. 136 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. After some lengthened correspondence between Clare and his publishers, it was aiTanged that the new work should be brought out in two volumes in the summer of 1821. This made it possible to give the whole of the poems, and to finish the engravings with the care desired by the author. In the meanwhile, to keep Clare before the public, speci- mens of the forthcoming volume were published at intervals in Mr. Taylor's periodical, and, finally, the September number of the ' London Magazine ' contained at the head of the list of ' works preparing for publication,' the announce- ment that ' The Village Minstrel, and other Poems, by John Clare, the N'orthamptonshife Peasant, with a fine portrait, wiU be published in a few days.' The work was published accordingly, in the middle of September. In outward appearance, the two new volumes ofiered a great contrast to Clare's former book. The ' Poems descriptive of Eural Life and Scenery,' were dressed in more than rustic sim- plicity; stitched in rough cardboard and printed on coarse paper, with no artistic adornments whatever. On the other hand, the ' Village Minstrel ' presented itself in beautiful type, with two fine steel engravings, the first a portrait of Clare, from the painting by William Hilton, E.A. and the latter a sketch of his cottage. Notwithstanding all these attractions, the new work met with but a cold reception. It was accounted for by the publishers in the fact that its price, 12s., was too high compared with the former volume, which was sold at 5s. &d. ; but the real cause undoubtedly was that the time of publication was very unfavourable. It was a period when the English book-mart was overstocked with poetry and fiction, and when the world seemed less than ever inclined to devote itself to poetry and fiction. The year 1821, in fact, formed a notable epoch in the annals of literature for the number of productions from celebrated authors. Su- Walter Scott published ' Kenilworth Castle ; ' Lord Byron issued his tragedy of ' Marino Faliero ; ' Southey, REWARDS OF GENIUS. 137 his 'Vision of Judgment;' Shelley, his 'Prometheus,' and Wordsworth a new edition of his poems. Besides these giants in the field of literature, numerous stars of the second and tliird magnitude sent forth their light. Charles Lamb, Hazlitt, Barry Cornwall, Tom Moore, Allan Cunningham, Leigh Hunt, and others, were busy writing and publishing, and John Keats sent his swan-song from the tombs of the Eternal City. In the midst of this galaxy of genius and fame, Jolin Clare stood, in a sense, neglected and forlorn. The very reputation of his first book was against him, for most of his friends were unreasoning and uncritical enough to assert that the ' Poems on Rural Life and Scenery,' were less remarkable as poetic works, than as productions of a very poor and illiterate man. This statement was echoed far and wide, with the necessary result of getting ' the Northamp- tonshire Peasant ' looked upon as but a nine-days' wonder. Quite as fatal to Clare's fame as a poet were the loud appeals made on his behalf for pecuniary assistance. There was, and, indeed, is at all times, an instinctive feeling, in the main a just one, among the public, that genius and talent are self-supporting, and that he who cannot live by the exercise of his own hand or brain, does not altogether deserve success. The feeling was even stronger than usual about this period, because of the repeated announcements of fabulous sums earned by book-makers, including the noto- riously helpless poets. It was well known that Sir Walter Scott had made a large fortune by his verses and novels ; that INIoore got .£3,000 for his ' Lalla Rookh,' and Crabbe .£2,000 for his ' Tales of the Hall ; ' that Southey had no reason to be dissatisfied with the pecuniary result of his epics and articles, nor Mr. Millman cause to weep over the ' Fall of Jerusalem.' There were rumours even, embodied in sly newspaper paragraphs, that Mr. Murray was paying Lord Byron at the rate of a guinea a word ; though this was disputed by others, who asserted that the remuneration was 138 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. only five sliillings a syllable. However, all these reports had led the public to the not unjust conclusion, that booksellers, on the whole, are no bad patrons of literature, and that the reward of genius might be safely left to them. As a consequence, from the moment that the begging-box was sent round for Clare — sent round, too, with a zeal far siirpassing discretion — there arose a latent feeling among readers of books, that ' the ^Northamptonshire peasant ' was not so much a poet as a talented pauper, able to string a few rhymes together. The feeUng, for a time, was not outspoken ; but nevertheless unmistakeable in its residts. The sale of the ' Village Minstrel and other Poems,' was not large at the commencement, and the book was scarcely noticed by the literary periodicals of the day. Though containing verses far surpassing in beauty anything pre- viously published by Clare, the work passed over the heads of critics and public alike as unworthy of consideration. It drew passing notes of praise from a few genuine admirers of poetry ; but Avhich resulted in nothing but a couple of letters to the author, and the present of some cheap books. From one of these letters, it appears that the ballad commencing ' I love thee, sweet Mary,' printed in the first volume of the ' Village Mmstrel,' was read one evening at the house of a nobleman at the West End of London, before the assembled guests. All were in raptures about the sweetness of the softly-flomng stream of verse, and all inquired eagerly after the author. But there was but one person in the room who knew anything about him ; and his whole knowledge consisted in the fact, told somewhere by somebody, that Clare was a young ' peasant,' formerly very poor, but now in a state of affluence through a most liberal subscription fund, amounting to some twenty thousand pounds, wliich had been collected for him and invested in the Funds. The news gave universal satisfaction to the distinguished company ; and though none had contributed a VILLAGE MINSTRELSY, 139 penny to the wonderful subscription list, every guest felt an inward pride of living in a land offering the bountiful reward of ' the Funds ' to poetic genius, born in obscurity. After the applause had subsided, the portrait of Clare, pre- fixed to the ' Village Minstrel, ' j^assed round the circle of noble "West End visitors. All pronounced the face to be highly distingue, and one young lady enthusiastically declared that John Clare looked 'like a nobleman in disguise,' In which saying there was a certain amount of truth. Notwithstanding many unftwourable circumstances, and the ill-considered zeal of his patrons, who continued to im- portune the public with demands for charitable contributions, the coldness with which Clare's new work was received at its appearance, was really very extraordinary. The greatest share of it, in all probability, was due to the period of publication, which could not well have been more ill-timed. Besides the natural anxiety of a civilized community to read, in preference to cheap rural poetry, verses paid for at the rate of ' a guinea a word,' or at the least ' live shillings a syllable,' there were many notable matters directing public attention away from village minstrelsy to other things. The book was brought out in the same month that the 'injmed Queen of England ' died ; that the populace fought for the honour of jDarticipating in the funeral ; and that royal life- guardsmen killed the loyal people like rabbits in the streets of London. Political passions soared high, and public indignation was running still higher in newsj)apers and pamphlets. It was not to be expected that, at such a moment of universal excitement, there should be many people wiUing to withdraw to rural poetry. Thus Clare, ' piping low, in shade of lowly grove,' was condemned to pipe unheard, or very nearly so. A copy of his ' Village Minstrel ' Clare sent to Eobert Bloomfield, for whose poetic genius he felt the most sincere 140 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. admiration. In acknowledgment he received, about seven months afterwards, the following characteristic letter : — 'Shefford, Beds, May 3d, 1822. Neighbouk John, — If we were still nearer neighbours I would see you, and thank you personally for the two volumes of your poems sent me so long ago. I write with such labour and difficulty that I cannot venture to praise, or discriminate, like a critic, but must only say that you have given us great pleasure. I beg your acceptance of my just published little volume ; and, sick and ill as I continually feel, I can join you heartily in your exclamation — " "VVliat is Life 1 " With best regards and wishes, I am yours sincerely, Robert Bloomfield.' The above letter, as will be seen from the date, was wi'itten little more than a year before Bloomfield's death, he living at the time in great retirement, broken in mind and body. The author of the ' Farmer's Boy,' like Clare, felt a noble contempt for punctuation and spelling, and in the original note the word ' vollumn,' twice repeated, stands for volume — representing, no doubt, the way in which he used to pro- nounce the word. How entirely free John Clare w^as from the common failing of literary jealousy, is shown by his admiration of Bloomfield. He not only freely acknowledged the high standard of Bloomfield's works ; but, what was more, held him up to all his friends as a poet far greater than him- self. Untrue as was this comparison, it strikingly exhibited the innate nobility of soul of the poor ' ^Northamptonshire Peasant.' Yet even this humility, the true sign of genius, was iU-construed by some of Clare's lukewarm patrons, who reproached him for being a flatterer when he only wanted to be just. VISITORS TO IIELPSTON. 141 GLIMPSES OF JOHN CLARE AT HOME. During the summer of 1821, Clare gave up liis agrricultural labours almost entirely. The gi'eater part of tlie time he spent in roaming through woods and fields, planning new poems, and correcting those already made. Visits to Stam- ford, also, were frequent and of some duration, and he not unfrequently stayed three or four days together at the house of Mr. Gilchrist, or of Mr. Drury. The stream of visitors to Helpston had ceased, to a great extent, and the few that dropped in now and then were mostly of the better class, or at least not belonging to the vidgar-curious element. Among the number was Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend, a dandyfied poet of some note, particularly gifted in madrigals and pas- torals. He came all the way from London to see Clare, and having taken a guide from Stamford to Helpston, was utterly amazed, on his arrival, to find tliat the cottage, beautifully depicted in the ' Village Minstrel,' was not visible anywhere. His romantic scheme had been to seek Clare in his home, wliich he thought easy with the picture in his pocket ; and having stepped over the flower-clad porch, to rush inside, with tenderly-dignified air, and drop into the arms of the brother poet. However, the scheme threatened to be frus- trated, for though the village could easily be survej^ed at a glance, such a cottage as that delineated in the ' Minstrel,' with more regard to the ideal than tlie real, was nowliere to be seen. In his perplexity, Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend inquired of a passer-by the way to Clare's house. The in- dividual whom he addressed was a short, thick-set man, and, as Mr. Hare To-\vnsend thought, decidedly ferocious- looking; he was bespattered vnth mud all over, and a thick 142 LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. knotted stick, which he carried in his hands, gave him some- thing of the air of a highwayman. To the intense surprise of Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend, this very vulgar person, when addressed, declared that he himself was John Clare, and offered to show the way to his house. Of course, the gentle- man from London was too shrewd to be taken in by such a palpable device for being robbed ; so declining the ofiPer ■with thanks, and recovering from his fright by inhaling the perfume of his pocket handkerchief, he retreated on his path, seeking refuge in the ' Blue Bell ' public house. The land- lord's little girl was ready to show the way to Clare's cottage, and did so, leaving the stranger at the door. Mr. Townsend, now fairly prepared to fall into the arms of the brother poet, though not liking the look of his residence, cautiously opened the door ; but started back immediately on beholding the highwayman in the middle of the room, sipping a basin of broth. There seemed a horrible conspii"acy for the destruc- tion of a literary gentleman from London in this E'orthamp- tonshire village. Mrs. Clare, fortunately, intervened at the nick of time to keep Mr. To"v\Tisend from fainting. Patty, always neatly dressed — save and except on washing days, — approached the visitor ; and her gentle looks re-assured Mr. Chauncey Hare ToAvnsend. He wiped liis hot brow with his scented handkerchief, and, not without emotion, introduced himself to the owner of the house and the neat little wife. The conversation which followed was short, and somewhat unsatisfactory on both sides, and the London poet, in the course of a short half an hour, quitted the Helpston minstrel, leaving a sonnet, wrapped in a one-pound note, behind him. Clare frowned when discovering the natvire of the envelope ; but he liked the sonnet, and for the sake of it, and on Patty's petition, consented not to send it back to the giver. Shortly after this curious visit, there came another, which gave Clare much more pleasure. Mr. John Taylor, of London, _ having been on an exciirsion to his native place, Eetford, in THE POET AT HOME. 143 Nottinghamshire, on his return spent a few days at Stamford, with Mr. Driiry ; and, while here, could not help looking-in at the home of his ' Northamptonshire Peasant.' His survey of Helpston, Mr. Taylor descrihed in the ' London Magazine ' of Novemher, 1821, in a letter 'to the Editor,' — that is, to himself. The sketch thus given fiu-nishes an interesting glimpse of the poet and his quiet home life at this period. Mr. Taylor's letter, dated Oct. 12, 1821, set out as follows : — * I have just returned from visiting your friend Clare at Helpston, and one of the pleasantest days I ever spent, was passed in wandering with him among the scenes which are the suhject of his poems. A flatter country than the im- mediate neighbourhood can scarcely be imagined, but the gromids rise ia the distance clothed with woods, and their gently swelling summits are crowned with village churches ; nor can it be called an uninteresting country, even without the poetic spirit which now breathes about the names of many of its most jirominent objects, for the ground bears all the traces of having been the residence of some famous people in early days. " The deep sunk moat, the stony mound," are visible in places where modern taste would slirinlc at erecting a temporary cottage, much less a castellated mansion ; fragments of Eonian brick are readily found on ridges which still hint the unrecorded history of a far distant period, and the Saxon rampart and the Eoman camp are in some places seen mingled together in one common ruin. On the line of a Eoman road, which passes within a few hundred yards of the village of Helpston, I met Clare, about a mile from home. He was going to receive his quarter's salary from the steward of the Marquis of Exeter. His wife Patty, and her sister were ■with him, and it was the intention of the party, I learned, to proceed to their father's house at Cas- terton, there to meet such of the family as were out in service, on their annual re-assembHng together at ]\Iichaelmas. I was very unwilling to disturb this arrangement, but Clare insisted 144 lIfE of JOHN CLAEE. on remaining with me, and the tAvo cheerful girls left their companion with a " good bye, John ! " Avhich made the plains echo again.' Walking along the road, Mr. Taylor, under the guidance of Clare, came to Lolham Brigs, a place sketched in the second volume of the ' Village Minstrel,' in a poem entitled ' The last of March.' The curious publisher and editor, anxious to gather facts for his ' London Magazine,' wanted to know the origin of the poem, and got a full account of it, which, accompanied by some lofty criticisms, he communi- cated to his readers. ' John Clare,' Mr. Taylor reported, ' was Avalking in this direction on the last day of March, 1821, when he saw an old acquaintance fishing on the lee side of the bridge. He went to the nearest place for a, bottle of ale, and they then sat beneath the screen which the parapet afforded, Avliile a hasty storm passed over, refreshing them- selves with the liquor, and moralizing somewhat in the strain of the poem. I question whether Wordsworth's pedlar could have spoken more to the purpose. But all these excitations would, I confess, have spent their artillery in vain against the woolpack of my imagination ; and after well considering the scene, I could not help looking at my companion with surprise : to me, the triumph of true genius seemed never more conspicuous, than in the construction of so interesting a poem out of such common-place materials. With your own eyes you see nothing but a dull line of ponds, or rather one continued marsh, over which a succession of arches carries the narrow highway : look again, with the poem in your mind, and the wand of a necromancer seems to have been employed in conjuring up a host of beautiful accompani- ments, makmg the Avhole waste populous with life, and shed- ding all around the rich image of a grand and appropriate sentiment. Imagination has, in my opinion, done wonders here.' From Lolham Brigs, the poet and his publisher turned editor's view of author. 14)5 towards Helpsfcon, passing by ' Langley Bush,' also sung in the ' Village Minstrel.' The Bush furnished an opportunity for some moralizings on the part of Mr. Taylor, interesting as giving the impressions of an eye-witness as to Clare's character and the working of his mind. Says Mr. Taylor : — 'The discretion which makes Clare hesitate to receive as canonical all the accounts he has heard of the former honours of Langley Bush, is in singular contrast with the enthusiasm of his poetical faith. As a man, he cannot bear to be imposed upon, — his good sense revolts at the least attempt to abuse it ; — but as a poet, he surrenders his imagination with most happy ease to the allusions which crowd upon it from stories of fairies and ghosts. The effect of this distinc- tion is soon felt in a conversation with him. From not con- sidering it, many persons express their surprise that Clare should be so weak on some topics and so wise on others. But a willing indulgence of what they deem weakness is the evidence of a strong mind. He feels safe there, and luxuriates in the abandonment of his sober sense for a time, to be the sport of all the tricks and fantasies that have been attributed to preternatural agency. Let them address him on other subjects, and unless they entrench themselves in forms of language to which he is unaccustomed, or take no pains to understand him according to the sense rather than the letter of his speech, they will confess, that to keep fairly on a level with him in the deptli and tenour of their remarks, is an exercise requiring more than common effort. He may not have read the books which they are familiar with, but let them try him on siich as he has read,— and the number is not few especially of the modern poets, — and tliey will find no reason to undervalue his judgment. His language, it is true is provincial, and his choice of words in ordinary conversa- tion is indifferent, because Clare is an unpretendin