The news that a poet had arisen on the borders of the Fens soon spread far and wide, even into Northamptonshire. The 'Quarterly Review' 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 Peterborough, and wished to make his acquaintance. 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 three 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 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 individuals said they did not know their way back, and nothing remained 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 with 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, schoolmasters, 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 in 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 sarcastic, and a few rude. After having inspected Clare, his person, house, wife and child, father and mother, they wanted further information concerning his daily habits, mode of eating and drinking, quantity of food consumed, and other particulars, and not getting the wished-for replies to all their questions, they told him to his face that he was an ill-bred clown. But there was another class of visitors still more dangerous to the peace of Clare and his little household. 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 who invited him to the alehouse were among the most intelligent 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 fields in favour of such company, required 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 offensive in speech, subsequently proved himself a warm friend. This was Dr. 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, subsequently known as Peter Pindar, who inspired him with a taste for literature, to which he devoted himself with a real passion after his retirement from the army. Though not a writer himself, 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, which he stuck upon large pieces of pasteboard, for the inspection of his friends, and subsequent publication in some 'canister' shape. John Clare met Peter Pindar's friend at the house of Mr. Gilchrist; they did not seem to like each other at first sight, but got on better terms at the second meeting, and after a while became 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 boys 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 godlike soul of the universe, 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 ploughman 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 endeavours frequently overstepped the bounds of prudence. The first thing he did was to write letters to all the wealthy inhabitants of the neighbouring district, begging, nay, entreating 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 contented themselves by forwarding small sums. But Dr. Bell was by no means discouraged at this result. With consummate 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 himself 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;' with delicate hint 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 in 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 dignified than persuasive. There was only one response to this petition, which 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 accompanying 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 what they had done. He told them they were wrong in bringing him forward 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 work of his hands. Mr. Taylor was somewhat offended when he got this protest, which seemed to him like ingratitude; but Dr. Bell remained undisturbed, and secretly made up his mind to continue his efforts with more energy than ever for his friend. 'A noble soul, yet altogether unfit for this ignoble world,' he said to Mr. 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 Reynardson, and other gentlemen, telling them that he had nothing to do with these appeals in his favour, and that he required no assistance whatever. Clare's innate nobility of character was strikingly shown in these epistles; nevertheless, they were very 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, was already quarrelling with those who had helped him to rise, and showed himself ungrateful as well as ill-bred. Besides, the wording of the letters was of a kind not to inspire any admiration of the poet. Though verse flowed 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 composition. There was not wanting in his letters a certain ruggedness and picturesqueness of style, but it was marred nearly always by ill-expressed and frequently incoherent eruptions, and disquisitions on extraneous matters, marking the absence of a regular chain of thought. It was here that Clare's want of education was 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 study to be duly appreciated. But it could scarcely be expected that gentlemen 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 that the 'Quarterly Review' which unduly depreciated poor Keats, had, equally unjustly, raised John Clare upon an unmerited pedestal of fame? This was the question asked by some of the former patrons of Clare, notably Earl Spencer and General Birch Reynardson. 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?' exclaimed the irate doctor; 'well, if he is not a poet, there never was one in the world.' General Reynardson, 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 with you—I shall put you among the Blue Devils.' So spoke the doctor; and John Clare, having heard the whole story of the effect of his epistles, promised obedience. He knew but too well, by this time, that the speech which God had given him was poetry, not prose.
The stream of visitors which set in at Helpston during the spring of 1820, did not cease till late in the summer of the same year. After the flood of schoolmasters, of farmers' wives, and of boarding-school misses, there came a rush of rarer birds of travel, authors and authoresses, writers of unpublished 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 writings, 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, he at once fell into a familiar strain: 'How do you do, John?' 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 manuscripts, having been hard at work in the fields. The great man frowned; yet after a while 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 kind of certificate containing the brother poet's appreciation of his works, together with letters of introduction to his patrons and publishers. It seemed cruel to refuse the request of such a dear and determined brother. John Clare, weighing 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 admiration 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. 'What do you mean by sending me such a d—— fellow?' 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 account of Mr. Preston and his box, and when Clare had finished, delivered another lecture upon practical wisdom, threatening his friend, as penalty for disobedience, with the 'Canister of the Blue Devils.'
Honours and good news came in fast upon Clare in the autumn of 1820. The poet, at his humble home, was visited, first by Lady Fane, eldest daughter of the Earl of Westmoreland; secondly, by Viscount Milton, 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 visitors dropped in. The marquis, with aristocratic tact, saved poor Patty from a fresh humiliation. Hearing the loud voice of the baby from afar, his lordship despatched one of his footmen to inquire whether Clare was at home. The man in plush 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 somewhat 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 somewhat 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 writing 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 hint that he would be glad to see some specimens, in manuscript, of the new publication, took his farewell. John Clare was not courtier enough to understand 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,' 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 with a great lord, sickle in hand, among the yellow corn. He therefore said nothing about the dedication, and the visit of his lordship remained without result—which was not his lordship's fault.
A few days after this interview with the Marquis of Exeter, Clare went to Stamford to see Mr. Drury and Mr. Gilchrist. The latter had important news. 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 Radstock, Dr. Bell, and others, had now reached the sum of £420 12_s_. and that this capital had been invested, for his benefit, under trustees, in the 'Navy five per cents.' Mr. Gilchrist, on communicating this information, expected an outburst 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 affair, both as being personally unwilling to receive alms, and, still more, unwilling to receive them in the aggravated form of helplessness, 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 manliness 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 his genius. The chord thus struck reverberated freely, and Clare, after warmly shaking Mr. Gilchrist by the hand, returned home to his wife and parents, joyfully communicating the great news that he was now the owner of not less than four hundred and twenty pounds. They fancied it an inexhaustible store of wealth, and great, accordingly, was the joy within the little cottage.
The four hundred and twenty pounds invested for the benefit of Clare, were the gift of twenty donors. Nearly 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 12_s_.—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 Northumberland, the Earl of Cardigan, Lord John Russell, Sir Thomas Baring, and six other noblemen, who subscribed ten pounds; and a few others who gave five pounds each. The sum thus collected was certainly insignificant, taking into account the extraordinary efforts made by Lord Radstock 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 Review,' and other critical journals, and the loud appeals for aid and assistance, it was found that there were only two patrons of literature in all England who thought him worth a hundred pounds, and of these two, 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 with the two hundred from Earl Fitzwilliam and Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, served, in the aggregate, to relieve the poet from absolute starvation. Invested in the funds, the capital gave him nearly twenty pounds a year, and, with the annuity already granted by the Marquis of Exeter, about thirty-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 his future career comparatively free from the cares and anxieties of daily subsistence. Unfortunately, this was not the case, and the very aid intended to smoothen his road through 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 Sherwell, to whom the poet had been introduced by Lord Radstock, and who lost no opportunity to aid and assist him. Shortly after his meeting with Clare, Captain Sherwell went on a visit to Abbotsford, where he indulged in high praises of the 'Poems of Rural 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 fraternize with the poet of Northamptonshire, and sternly declined the pressing demand of Captain Sherwell to write a note of approbation to Clare, or even to put his name to the subscription fund. The warm-heated captain was the more grieved at this refusal as he had already, in a letter to Lord Radstock, held out hopes that the 'Great Unknown' would enter into correspondence with their humble friend; and seeing the probability of this report reaching 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 was a copy of the 'Lady of the Lake,' together with a present of two guineas. Even the slight favour of writing his names inside the book, 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 was 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 imposture. 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. If 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 efforts 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 and head. It was not from any disapprobation 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 humiliation felt by John Clare. To ease his over-burthened 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 funniest thing I ever read.' And seeing Clare's melancholy face, he continued, 'Oh, don't be disheartened, my dear fellow; all this is stuff 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 saying, he went to his bookcase, and brought forth an elegantly-bound volume, together with a silk-tied note. 'This letter,' Mr. Gilchrist 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 your 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 high path will be the first to shake hands.' Thus spoke Octavius Gilchrist, grocer of Stamford, and contributor to the 'Quarterly Review.' And his speech set John Clare musing for some time to come.
As soon as the harvest was over, Clare ceased working in 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, filled 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 crudeness, 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 well as revising them finally. His mode of composition, likewise, became almost entirely changed at this period. While formerly his poetical conceptions were usually scribbled on little bits of paper, and furtively revised at intervals of labour, the correction, amounting to entire rewriting, 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 was warm and mild, or 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' progress—where 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, although 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 composed were sent to the printer; and though Mr. Taylor, the editor and publisher of the 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 own 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.
The publication of Clare's new 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 wished 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. Gilchrist, in the summer of 1820, had the misfortune of being dragged into the great quarrel of the Rev. William Lisle Bowles, the editor of Pope, with Byron, Campbell, and the 'Quarterly Review;' a battle of the windmills which occupied the literary world of England for several years. Having despatched the chief of his big foes, the Rev. 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 with 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 Magazine,' where abundant space was allowed to both Mr. Gilchrist and the Rev. 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 figure 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. What with his grocery business at Stamford, and his multifarious literary engagements, poor Mr. Gilchrist fairly lost his head in the midst of this thunderstorm, and was unable to think of anything else but Bowles and Pope, and Pope and Bowles. Clare happening to visit him one day, when musing on this all-absorbing subject, he tried to inspire him with a sense of the wrongs he had suffered at the hands of the Rev. 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 Magazine' for nigh another year.
After some lengthened correspondence between Clare and his publishers, it was arranged 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, specimens 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 announcement that 'The Village Minstrel, and other Poems, by John Clare, the Northamptonshire Peasant, with a fine portrait, will be published in a few days.' The work was published accordingly, in the middle of September. In outward appearance, the two new volumes offered a great contrast to Clare's former book. The 'Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery,' were dressed in more than rustic simplicity; 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, R.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, 12_s_., was too high compared with the former volume, which was sold at 5_s_. 6_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. Sir Walter Scott published 'Kenilworth Castle;' Lord Byron issued his tragedy of 'Marino Faliero;' Southey, 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 third 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, John 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 Northamptonshire 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 notoriously helpless poets. It was well known that Sir Walter Scott had made a large fortune by his verses and novels; that Moore 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 only five shillings 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 surpassing 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 feeling, for a time, was not outspoken; but nevertheless unmistakeable in its results.
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 previously 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 which 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 Minstrel,' 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-flowing 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, which 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 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, prefixed to the 'Village Minstrel,' passed round the circle of noble West End visitors. All pronounced the face to be highlydistingué, 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 unfavourable circumstances, and the ill-considered zeal of his patrons, who continued to importune 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 'five 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 'injured Queen of England' died; that the populace fought for the honour of participating in the funeral; and that royal lifeguardsmen killed the loyal people like rabbits in the streets of London. Political passions soared high, and public indignation was running still higher in newspapers and pamphlets. It was not to be expected that, at such a moment of universal excitement, there should be many people willing 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 Robert Bloomfield, for whose poetic genius he felt the most sincere admiration. In acknowledgment he received, about seven months afterwards, the following characteristic letter:—
'Shefford, Beds, May 3d, 1822.
Neighbour 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—"What is Life?"
With best regards and wishes,
I am yours sincerely,
Robert Bloomfield.'
The above letter, as will be seen from the date, was written 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 pronounce the word.
How entirely free John Clare was 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 himself. 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 ill-construed by some of Clare's lukewarm patrons, who reproached him for being a flatterer when he only wanted to be just.
During the summer of 1821, Clare gave up his agricultural labours almost entirely. The greater part of the time he spent in roaming through woods and fields, planning new poems, and correcting those already made. Visits to Stamford, 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 vulgar-curious element. Among the number was Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend, a dandyfied poet of some note, particularly gifted in madrigals and pastorals. 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 that the cottage, beautifully depicted in the 'Village Minstrel,' was not visible anywhere. His romantic scheme had been to seek Clare in his home, which 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 frustrated, for though the village could easily be surveyed at a glance, such a cottage as that delineated in the 'Minstrel,' with more regard to the ideal than the real, was nowhere to be seen. In his perplexity, Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend inquired of a passer-by the way to Clare's house. The individual whom he addressed was a short, thick-set man, and, as Mr. Hare Townsend thought, decidedly ferocious-looking; he was bespattered with mud all over, and a thick knotted stick, which he carried in his hands, gave him something 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 gentleman from London was too shrewd to be taken in by such a palpable device for being robbed; so declining the offer 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 landlord'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 conspiracy for the destruction of a literary gentleman from London in this Northamptonshire village. Mrs. Clare, fortunately, intervened at the nick of time to keep Mr. Townsend from fainting. Patty, always neatly dressed—save and except on washing days,—approached the visitor; and her gentle looks re-assured Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend. He wiped his 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 nature 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 excursion to his native place, Retford, in Nottinghamshire, on his return spent a few days at Stamford, with Mr. Drury; and, while here, could not help looking-in at the home of his 'Northamptonshire Peasant.' His survey of Helpston, Mr. Taylor described in the 'London Magazine' of November, 1821, in a letter 'to the Editor,'—that is, to himself. The sketch thus given furnishes 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 subject of his poems. A flatter country than the immediate neighbourhood can scarcely be imagined, but the grounds rise in 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 prominent 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 shrink at erecting a temporary cottage, much less a castellated mansion; fragments of Roman brick are readily found on ridges which still hint the unrecorded history of a far distant period, and the Saxon rampart and the Roman camp are in some places seen mingled together in one common ruin. On the line of a Roman 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 Casterton, there to meet such of the family as were out in service, on their annual re-assembling together at Michaelmas. I was very unwilling to disturb this arrangement, but Clare insisted on remaining with me, and the two cheerful girls left their companion with a "good bye, John!" which 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 communicated to his readers. 'John Clare,' Mr. Taylor reported, 'was walking 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, while a hasty storm passed over, refreshing themselves 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 accompaniments, making the whole waste populous with life, and shedding 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 towards Helpston, 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 distinction is soon felt in a conversation with him. From not considering 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 depth 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 such as he has read,—and the number is not few, especially of the modern poets,—and they will find no reason to undervalue his judgment. His language, it is true, is provincial, and his choice of words in ordinary conversation is indifferent, because Clare is an unpretending man, and he speaks in the idiom of his neighbours, who would ridicule and despise him for using more or better terms than they are familiar with. But the philosophic mind will strive to read his thoughts, rather than catch at the manner of their utterance; and will delight to trace the native nobleness, strength, and beauty of his conceptions, under the tattered garb of what may, perhaps, be deemed uncouth and scanty expressions.'
Arrived at Helpston with his companion, Mr. Taylor was somewhat surprised at the outer aspect of Clare's humble home. Of the inside, he furnished the following neat sketch:—'On a projecting wall in the inside of the cottage, which is white-washed, are hung some well engraved portraits, in gilt frames, with a neat drawing of Helpston Church, and a sketch of Clare's head which Hilton copied in water colours, from the large painting, and sent as a present to Clare's father. I think that no act of kindness ever touched him more than this; and I have remarked, on several occasions, that the thought of what would be his father's feelings on any fortunate circumstance occurring, has given him more visible satisfaction, than all the commendations which have been bestowed on his genius. I believe we must go into low life to know how very much parents can be beloved by their children. Perhaps it may be that they do more for them, or that the affection of the child is concentrated on them the more, from having no other friend on whom it may fall. I saw Clare's father in the garden: it was a fine day, and his rheumatism allowed him just to move about, but with the aid of two sticks, he could scarcely drag his feet along; he can neither kneel nor stoop. The father, though so infirm, is only fifty-six years of age; the mother is about seven years older. While I was talking to the old man, Clare had prepared some refreshment within, and with the appetite of a thresher we went to our luncheon of bread and cheese, and capital beer from the Bell. In the midst of our operations, his little girl awoke: a fine lively pretty creature, with a forehead like her father's, of ample promise. She tottered along the floor, and her father looked after her with the fondest affection, and with a careful twitch of his eyebrow when she seemed in danger. Our meal ended, Clare opened an old oak bookcase, and showed me his library. It contains a very good collection of modern poems, chiefly presents made him since the publication of his first volume; among them the works of Burns, Cowper, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, Crabbe, and other poets. To see so many books handsomely bound, and "flash'd about with golden letters," as he describes it, in so poor a place as Clare's cottage, gave it almost a romantic air, for, except in cleanliness, it is no whit superior to the habitations of the poorest of the peasantry. The hearth has no fire-place on it, which to one accustomed to coal fires looked comfortless, but Clare found it otherwise.'
The idea of a man being happy without a regular fire-place evidently staggered Mr. John Taylor. However, he recovered from his surprise, and having sent his servant—a stately domestic from town, introduced as 'my man'—in front, to prepare the way, the great publisher of Fleet Street solemnly took farewell from his poet, accompanied a proper distance along the road. This duty fulfilled, Clare buttoned up his smock-frock, and trotted away in great haste to meet Patty, and 'such of the family as were out on service.' Very likely, in the company of these 'cheerful girls,' John, for the rest of the evening, felt a great deal more at ease than in the presence of the learned and inquisitive gentleman, his editor and publisher.
Before Mr. Taylor left Helpston, he gave his client an invitation to come up to London, and spend a few weeks at his house. Perhaps the offer was meant only as a polite phrase, or a 'general invitation;' however, Clare, unaquainted with the ways of good society, took it to be a special summons, and, after due reflection, made up his mind to visit the great metropolis once more. He fixed the journey, to him a great undertaking, for the spring of 1822, and, remembering former miseries, decided upon going this time in a new suit of clothes, expressly ordered at Stamford. The winter of 1821-2 Clare spent at home, in comparative idleness. Visitors continued to drop in from various places, and the little cottage being too small to entertain them, he got into the regular habit of meeting them at the 'Blue Bell.' The custom, originating in this way, became a fatal one before long. Clare began to look upon the public house as his second home, and the corner seat near the fire-place as one specially appropriated to him, and which he ought to fill every evening. Fortunately, he was not enabled to indulge the habit to its utmost extent. Frequent excursions to Stamford, and sometimes to Peterborough, where he found a few good friends, drew him away from the 'Blue Bell,'—though sometimes to places where ale and spirits flowed as rapidly and were consumed with as much relish as at the little inn at Helpston. It was altogether a fatal period of excitement, threatening to the future of the warm-hearted and but too susceptible poet.
The winter thus passed, and Clare got ready in the spring to start for London. He had hoped to travel, as before, in the company of Octavius Gilchrist; but found, at the last moment, that this was impossible. Poor Mr. Gilchrist was lying ill at his house at Stamford, the dreadful battle with the Rev. Mr. Bowles and all the Bowles family having thrown him on a bed of sickness. Unaccustomed, like his more hardy brethren of the metropolitan press, to fight with the windmills of periodical literature, and to throw fire from his nostrils without burning himself, he had taken the whole Bowles campaign too much to heart, and was bleeding from the strokes which he had given as much as the wounds he had received. His mind was deeply impressed with the notion, that he had suffered defeat on some, if not on many points, and there being no stout-hearted literary lion within reach of his grocery store, to cheer his spirits and console him in his affliction, he began to feel sick and weary. All entreaties of his friends to come to London he absolutely refused, and there remained nothing for Clare but to set out alone. The due preparations having been made, he went to Stamford, one fine morning, in the month of May, mounted the outside of the coach, and was whirled away, through Northamptonshire, Huntingdon, and Beds, to the metropolis. Discharged, once more, at the 'George and Blue Boar,' Holborn, he was bold enough to steer, unaided, through the intricate thoroughfares of London, and reached the haven in Fleet Street without accident. Mr. John Taylor looked somewhat surprised on beholding his poet, carrying a big stick in one hand, and in the other a large bundle tied in a coloured pocket handkerchief, with a pair of hob-nailed boots sticking out on each side. However, a gentleman born and bred, he smiled pleasantly, helped to unpack Clare's bundle, and made him welcome to his house. Supper and wine contributed to break the ice, and Mr. John Taylor discovered, for the first time, that his guest from the country was a very pleasant companion.
The busy bookseller of Fleet Street had no time to play the cicerone; therefore, on the morning after Clare's arrival, he delivered him formally over to Mr. Thomas Hood, subeditor of the 'London Magazine.' But Mr. Hood, too—just rising into fame, thanks to 'Elia' and other friends—thought he had no time to spare, and left him to Tom Benyon, the much-respected head-porter of the firm of Taylor and Hessey. When Thomas Hood came to know John Clare a little better, he paid more attention to his charge; but this did not happen till at the end of two or three weeks. Meanwhile Clare amused himself as best he could, guided wherever he wished to go by the faithful Tom. One of his first visits was to Mrs. Emmerson, who received him in the most affectionate manner, and invited him to dine daily at her house. The invitation was freely accepted, and Clare for some time spent his afternoon and the early part of the evening regularly at the lady's house at Stratford Place, Oxford Street. Clare here met again his old friend and patron, Lord Radstock, besides a goodly number of the literary and artistic celebrities of the day. He found few friends, or men he liked, among the authors; but more among the painters into whose company he was thrown. With some of them he struck an intimate acquaintance, particularly with Mr. Rippingille, an artist of some note in his day. The latter was very fond of long rambles through London, and very fond of pale ale, too; and Clare sharing both these likings, the two were constantly together. Many an evening, after leaving Mrs. Emmerson's house—which happened, nearly always, immediately after dinner—the artist and poet set out together on a journey of exploration, visiting unknown parts of the metropolis, the haunts of thieves and vagabonds. When getting tired of this amusement, they directed their researches into other quarters, inspecting all the small theatres, exhibitions, and concert rooms, down to the very lowest. The progress of this movement was interrupted by an unexpected event. One evening, when visiting the Regency Theatre, in Tottenham Court Road, both were fascinated by the charms of a beautiful young actress, a native of France, figuring in the play-bills as Mademoiselle Dalia. Clare's susceptible heart took fire at once; and friend Rippingille was not behind in the sudden burst of his affections. They both vowed eternal love to the fair actress, and, as a commencement, Rippingille drew her portrait, after the dictate of his fancy, while Clare added to it a passionate effusion in verse. The artistic-poetical gift was duly despatched to Mademoiselle Dalia, but elicited no reply. Night after night, poet and painter took their seat within the temple of the muses in Tottenham Court Road; but night after night they waited in vain for a glance from the beautiful eyes of Mademoiselle Dalia, although they had taken care to inform her that they were sitting, arm in arm, in front of the pit. The neglect of Mademoiselle preyed upon their minds; they pined away, the two friends, and drank more pale ale than ever.
Clare's excursions with his friend kept him generally till after midnight from his residence, which was a great source of annoyance to the methodical bookseller of Fleet Street. Mr. Thomas Hood thereupon got instructions to tell Clare that early hours would be more acceptable to his host; which instructions were communicated by commission, in due business course, through the faithful Tom, the head-porter. Clare felt offended, and informed Mrs. Emmerson of what had happened; making a full confession of his sorrows, even those concerning the too beautiful Mademoiselle Dalia. Mrs. Emmerson deeply sympathised with her poetical friend, telling him at the same time that he would be welcome to stay at her house if he liked. The offer was accepted, and Clare marched back straightway to Fleet Street, gathered his property, including the boots, within the coloured pocket-handkerchief, and came back in triumph to Stratford Place. That same evening, thinking himself more at liberty in his new quarters, he undertook a somewhat longer excursion with Mr. Rippingille. After staying punctually through the performance in the Tottenham Court Road Theatre, sighing over the enchanting looks of Mademoiselle, the friends adjourned to a neighbouring public-house, and from thence to a tavern known as Offley's, famous for its Burton ale. The ale was unusually good this evening, and the company too was unusually good, which combined attraction made the friends remain in their place till long after their wonted time. Talking about poetry and high art, and talking still more about Mademoiselle Dalia and her angelic charms, the hours slipped away like minutes, and the first rosy clouds of a bright June morning began to appear in the east before they were able to quit Offley's hospitable roof. Shaking hands once more at the door, Rippingille took his way, with somewhat faltering step, to his lodgings in Oxford Street; while Clare, rather more steady in his gait, went straight to Mrs. Emmerson's residence. He discovered Stratford Place with the help of a sympathetic watchman; but was unable to get an entrance into his temporary home. Mrs. Emmerson, after waiting for her guest till towards the dawn of day, had gone to bed, thinking that he might have taken his way back to his old quarters in Meet Street. The combined efforts of Clare and the friendly watchman having proved fruitless to get into the house, nothing remained but to seek some other shelter. But there were no places open anywhere, and the poet, beginning to feel very tired, resolved to take the advice of his companion, and creep into the inside of a hackney coach, drawn up in a yard. The kind watchman carefully shut the door, and Clare, finding the place uncommonly snug and comfortable, fell asleep immediately.
Sweet dreams soon filled the mind of the poet. There dame visions of green fields decked with flowers; of large banqueting rooms thronged with beautiful ladies; and of theatres crowded by joyous multitudes; and right in the midst of all these apparitions stood the enchanting fairy of Tottenham Court Road. She approached him; she pierced his heart with a smile of her dark eyes; at last she kissed him. The touch of her lips was like an electric shock, and he sprang to his feet. But he could not stand; something was moving under him. He rubbed his eyes; rubbed them again and again; and at last discovered that he was inside a square box, drawn along by two horses. Gradually the events of the past day and night arose from out the mist of his dreams and fancies, and he began to be conscious that he was sitting in the identical hackney coach into which his friend, the watchman, had put him. The difficulty settled as to how he got in, there came the more perplexing question as to how he should get out again. The coachman was evidently unaware of the presence of a poet in his box, and a too sudden revelation of the fact, Clare feared, might produce the worst consequences. Viewed from the back, he seemed a grim, ferocious-looking fellow, the terrible driver of the hackney-coach. He kept whipping his horses continually, and faster and faster the vehicle jolted along, Clare hiding his face in the cushions, in bitter anguish of heart. At last the coach stopped in front of a public-house. A fervent prayer arose in the mind of the traveller that his coachman would go inside and take something to drink. Part of the prayer was fulfilled, for the man did take something to drink, though he did not go inside. A lounger at the gate, with whom he seemed on familiar terms, appeared in a moment with a glass in his hand, containing a steaming liquid, which the man with the whip gulped down in an instant, and then prepared to ascend his seat again. But Clare now began to think that he had travelled far enough, and, in a desperate leap, jumped out of his coach, and nearly overturned the astonished driver. The latter, however, had him by the collar in an instant, crying, 'And who are you?' Clare tried to explain; introducing himself as author of 'Poems of Rural Life,' and the 'Village Minstrel,' in two volumes, with engravings. But the hackney man, learning these facts, frowned more grimly than ever, his mind evidently full of grave doubts. After short reflection, he carefully examined the inside of the coach, and giving his victim a good shake, asked him how much money he had in his possession. Clare, trembling all over, took out his purse, and found he had ten shillings and a few pence. The terrible coachman grasped the purse, gave the owner a slap on the back as a receipt, and with a valedictory 'Go along, you scamp!' dismissed the unhappy poet. John Clare felt faint and ready to sink to the ground; but fear gave him courage, and he ran away as fast as he could. It was not long before he discovered that he was, after all, not far from his dwelling in Stratford Place. Having obtained entrance, he sank down utterly exhausted in an arm-chair, to the intense astonishment of Mrs. Emmerson.
When Clare had somewhat recovered himself, the questioning commenced. Although reluctant to tell his whole story, his vigilant hostess extracted it piece by piece, and finally broke out into an immoderate fit of laughter. Clare was surprised, and somewhat offended; but felt too weak for opposition or remonstrance. Even his desire that the affair should be kept as secret as possible was met with renewed merriment, the reply being that, before saying more, he should take some refreshment. A good luncheon, with liberal supply of sherry, had the effect of bringing Clare's feelings more in accordance with those of Mrs. Emmerson. He was himself inclined to laugh at his droll adventure in the hackney coach, and thought he should be ready almost to shake hands with the terrible driver. In this vein of good humour, Mrs. Emmerson got ready permission to tell his curious adventure to whomsoever she liked—even in his presence at the dinner-table. The stipulation was fulfilled to the letter. There was a grand party that evening at Mrs. Emmerson's house, and, towards the end of the entertainment, when all were in good spirits, the fair hostess told the story of the poet in the hackney coach. She told it in good dramatic style, embellishing it a little, and heightening the effect of some of the incidents. But she was not allowed to tell it uninterruptedly. There broke forth such a storm of laughter on all sides as seemed to shake the very table, and not a few of the guests appeared absolutely convulsed with merriment. Clare good-humouredly joined in the general hilarity, for which he was recompensed by having his health drunk, with full bumpers, by the whole assembly. After which, in special honour of Clare's ingenious method of declaring his identity to a hackney coachman, there came, amidst universal delight, another toast to 'The Village Minstrel in London.'
At the house of Mrs. Emmerson, Clare stayed about a week, and then accepted an invitation of the Rev. H. T. Cary, the translator of Dante, who had met him previously at Mr. Taylor's office. Mr. Gary was living at Chiswick, in an old ivy-covered mansion, formerly inhabited by Sir James Thornhill, the painter, and after him by his famous son-in-law, Hogarth. Clare spent some pleasant days here, his kind host pointing out to him various memorials connected with the great satirist and moralist—the window through which Hogarth eloped with old Thornhill's only daughter; the place where he painted the 'Rake's Progress;' and the spot in the garden where he buried his faithful dog, with the inscription, 'Life to the last enjoyed, here Pompey lies.' There were agreeable excursions, too, from Chiswick to the neighbouring places, particularly to Richmond, where Clare visited Thompson's monument on the hill, as well as his tombstone in the old church, which, covered as it was with cobwebs, he thought much less beautiful than that of Hogarth's dog. It was Clare's intention to stop at least a week with his kind host at Chiswick, but an awkward circumstance occasioned his departure at the end of a few days. The reverend translator of Dante's 'Inferno' introduced his guest in a careless sort of way to his house, without presenting the various members of his family, and the consequence was that Clare fell into a grievous mistake from the beginning. Mr. Cary had several grown-up children, and a beautiful young wife, looking of the same age as his daughters. In the round of excitement through which he had gone, and with his head still full of the charming Mademoiselle Dalia, of Tottenham, Court Road, Clare thought it incumbent upon him to write verses at the old ivy-covered mansion, the more so as the owner had emphatically introduced him as author of 'I love thee, sweet Mary.' So he began by penning delicate sonnets, dedicated to the lady whom he deemed the fairest of the daughters of the Rev. Mr. Cary, or, in point of fact, to his wife. Mrs. Gary, on getting the first poetical epistle, held it to be a declaration of lore, and, very properly, burnt the paper. But getting a second piece of poetry, somewhat mystic in expression, she showed it to her husband, who, being an elderly gentleman with a wig, got very excited over the matter. He took Clare aside on the instant, telling him, with much warmth, that it was not the custom at Chiswick to make love to other men's wives, and that, however much he admired his sonnets, he did not like his mode of distributing them. Clare was thunderstruck on learning that he had been addressing Mrs. Gary instead of the fair daughter of the house, and, for a moment, was almost unable to speak. Recovering himself, he stammered forth his simple tale, hiding nothing, nor trying to excuse his conduct. It was impossible to listen and not believe his words. The Rev. Mr. Gary perceived at once the ridiculous error into which he had fallen, and shaking Clare's hand in a most affectionate manner, bade him think no more of the whole affair, and for the future distribute as many specimens of his poetry as he liked to his wife and daughters. Clare fully appreciated the kindness which distated this offer; however, he thought that it was impossible for him to stop any longer at the house. He insisted upon leaving at once, and Mr. Gary, finding all his persuasions fruitless, accompanied him back to London. It was Clare's intention to return to Helpston immediately, but going to the shop of his publishers in Fleet Street, he heard that Octavius Gilchrist had arrived the previous day, and wished to see him. He therefore took up his quarters once more at the house of Mr. Taylor. The great battle with the Bowles' family and the book-grinding windmills had made poor Mr. Gilchrist really and seriously ill. The doctors of Stamford shook their heads, talking of nervous affection, of change of air, and of rest from the cares of grocery and literature. With every succeeding day, the men of science got to look more and more mournful, until the patient felt as if he was going already through the process of being buried. One morning, thereupon, he took a desperate resolution. Although ordered not to leave his room on any account, he went to the stage coach, engaged the box-seat, and bravely rode up to London. Mr. Gilchrist was really fond of Clare, and had no sooner arrived than he went in search of him. Clare consented to stay a little longer in town, partly at the house of Mr. John Taylor, and partly at that of Herr Burkhardt, Mr. Gilchrist's brother-in-law. The jolly watchmaker in the Strand was overjoyed on seeing his rural friend again, fancying to get another opportunity to show the lions of London. But Clare soon proved to him that by this time he knew more about the big metropolis, its theatres and concert-rooms, its taverns and alehouses, and even its beggars' and thieves' slums, than many a native of Cockaigne, and Herr Burkhardt, therefore, was compelled, much against his wish, to leave him alone. Mr. Rippingille having meanwhile taken his departure for Bristol, vainly trying to persuade his friend to follow him thither, Clare was left almost entirely in the company of Mr. Gilchrist. The latter introduced him to a great many of his acquaintances; first and foremost to Mr. William Gifford. Clare felt somewhat abashed when admitted into the presence of the renowned editor of the 'Quarterly Review,' whose pen had so much contributed to his rise in the world. Mr. Gifford, who was sitting on a couch, surrounded by an immense quantity of books and papers, received the poet in a very friendly manner, making some judicious remarks about the 'Village Minstrel,' which he declared to be vastly superior to the 'Poems of Rural Life.' This gave Clare courage, and he freely entered into a lengthened conversation, in the course of which the editor of the 'Quarterly' took care to warn him, with much emphasis, to be on his guard against booksellers and publishers. Leaving Mr. Gifford, Octavius Gilchrist, somewhat maliciously, took his friend direct to one of the dreaded class of publishers against which he had just been warned. They went to the house of Mr. Murray, in Albemarle Street, in front of which stood a number of brilliant carriages. Mr. Gilchrist and his friend had to wait some time in an anteroom; but, once admitted, both were received with great cordiality. Clare was much pleased with the simple, hearty manner of the great patron of literature; and the pleasure appeared to be mutual, for Mr. Murray, in his turn, began to converse in a very unrestrained manner, and, on leaving, bade Clare never to come to London without seeing him. Quitting the house in Albemarle Street, Clare ran right against Mr. Gifford, who was coming up the steps. Both apologised, and both felt somewhat confused concerning the thankless old business of giving and taking advice.