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 grat.i.tude; 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 princ.i.p.al 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 n.o.blemen, 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 a.s.sistance, 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 a.s.sist 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 a.s.sist 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 surpa.s.ses. 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 a.s.siduous 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 pa.s.sed 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.

PUBLICATION OF THE 'VILLAGE MINSTREL.'

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 s.p.a.ce 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; st.i.tched in rough cardboard and printed on coa.r.s.e 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;' Sh.e.l.ley, 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 a.s.sert 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 a.s.sistance. 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 a.s.serted 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 surpa.s.sing 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 surpa.s.sing in beauty anything previously published by Clare, the work pa.s.sed over the heads of critics and public alike as unworthy of consideration. It drew pa.s.sing 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 n.o.bleman at the West End of London, before the a.s.sembled 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,'

pa.s.sed round the circle of n.o.ble West End visitors. All p.r.o.nounced the face to be highly _distingue_, and one young lady enthusiastically declared that John Clare looked 'like a n.o.bleman in disguise.' In which saying there was a certain amount of truth.

Notwithstanding many unfavourable circ.u.mstances, 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 partic.i.p.ating in the funeral; and that royal lifeguardsmen killed the loyal people like rabbits in the streets of London. Political pa.s.sions 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 n.o.ble 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 p.r.o.nounce 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 n.o.bility 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.

GLIMPSES OF JOHN CLARE AT HOME.

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 cla.s.s, 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 pa.s.ser-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-a.s.sured 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 pet.i.tion, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.ses 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-a.s.sembling 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 ent.i.tled '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 pa.s.sed 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, pa.s.sing 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 n.o.bleness, 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 circ.u.mstance 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 appet.i.te 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 b.u.t.toned 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.

SECOND VISIT TO LONDON.

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 pa.s.sed, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 pa.s.sionate 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.