Just before quitting the 'Blue Bell,' at the end of his twelve months'
service, another important event took place in the life of John Clare.
One morning, while tending his master's cattle in the field, a farmer's
big boy, with whom he had but a slight acquaintance, showed him a copy of
Thomson's 'Seasons.' Examining the book, he got excited beyond measure.
It was the first real poem he had ever seen, and in harmony as it was
with all his feelings, it made upon him the most powerful and lasting
impression. Looking upon the book as a priceless treasure, he expressed
his admiration in warm words, asking, nay, imploring the possessor to
lend it him, if only for an hour. But the loutish boy, swollen with
pride, absolutely refused to do so; it was but a trumpery book, he said,
and could be bought for eighteen-pence, and he did not see why people who
wanted it should not buy it. The words sunk deep into John Clare's heart;
'Only eighteen-pence?' he inquired again and again, doubting his own
ears. The big boy was quite sure the book cost no more than
eighteen-pence; he had himself bought it at Stamford for the money, and
could give the name and address of the bookseller. It was information
eagerly accepted by John, who determined on the spot to get the coveted
poem at the earliest opportunity. His wages not being due at the moment,
he hurried home to his father in the evening, entreating the loan of a
shilling, as he himself possessed but sixpence. But Parker Clare, willing
though he was to gratify his son, was unable to render help on this
occasion. A spare shilling was not often seen in the hut of the poor old
man, dependent chiefly upon alms, and in want, not unfrequently, of the
bare necessaries of life. But the loving mother could not listen to her
son's anxious entreaty without trying to assist him, and by dint of
superhuman exertions she managed to get him sevenpence. The fraction
still wanting to complete the purchase-money of the book was raised by
sundry loans at the 'Blue Bell,' and John waited with eagerness for the
coming Sunday, when he would have time to run to Stamford. The Sunday
came--a Sunday in spring; and he was up soon after midnight, and stood
before the bookseller's shop in Stamford when the eastern clouds assumed
their first purple hue. John Clare patiently waited one hour, two hours,
three hours, yet the treasure store which contained Thomson's 'Seasons'
remained closed. Tremblingly he asked a boy who came along the street at
what time the shop would be opened: 'It will not be open at all to-day,
for it is Sunday, rejoined the other. Then John went home in bitter
sorrow to Helpston, not knowing how to get the much-coveted book. On the
way, a bright thought struck him. If he could but raise twopence, in
addition to the capital already acquired, he thought he could manage the
matter. So by making extraordinary efforts, he got his twopence, and then
held a long conversation with the cowherd of a neighbouring farmer.
Clare's occupation on the following morning was to take his master's
horses to the pasture, and he offered the cowherd the sum of one penny to
look after the horses for him, and one more penny for 'keeping the
secret.' The bargain was struck, after an animated discussion, in which
the conscientious cowherd strove hard to get a total reward of
threepence, so as to be able to keep the secret for any length of time.
But John was inflexible, for strong reasons of his own, and thus gained
the victory.
During the night from Sunday to Monday, John Clare could not shut his
eyes for sheer anxiety. The questions whether the bookseller would have
any copies left of the wonderful poem; whether it could really be bought
for eighteen-pence; and whether the big farmer's boy did not mean the
whole story as a hoax, occupied his mind all night long. It seemed so
improbable to him, on reflection, that a book containing the most
exquisite verses could be bought for little more than the common fairy
tales of the hawkers, and it seemed still more improbable that, being
sold so cheap, there would be any books left for sale, that he at last
inwardly despaired of getting the book. Thereupon he had a good long cry
in the silence of the night, when all the village was asleep; and the
crying closed his eyelids, too, for sheer weariness. And when he roused
himself again there was a faint glow in the sky; so he rushed down to the
stables, took out his horses, and led them to the pasture, awaiting the
arrival of his confederate. The latter came at length, and, having given
over his horses, John set off in a sharp trot, skipping over the seven or
eight miles to Stamford in little more than an hour. The bookseller's
shop, alas, was still closed; but the people in the streets told the
eager inquirer that the shutters would be taken down in about an hour and
a half. John, therefore, sat down in quiet resignation on the door-step,
counting the quarters of the chiming clock. At last there was a noise
inside the house, a rattling of keys and drawing of bolts. The bookseller
slowly opened his door, and was immensely astonished to see a little
country lad, thin and haggard, with wild gleaming eyes, rush at him with
a demand for Thomson's 'Seasons.' Was there ever such a customer seen at
Stamford? The good bookseller was not accustomed to excitement, for the
old ladies who dealt at his shop bought their hymn-books and manuals of
devotion without any manifestations of impatience, and even the young
ones, though they asked for Aphra Behn's novels in a whisper, came in
very quietly and demurely. Who, then, was this queer, haggard-looking
country boy, who could not wait for Thomson's 'Seasons' till after
breakfast, but was hovering about the shop like a thief? The good
bookseller questioned him a little, but did not gain much satisfactory
information. That his little customer was servant at the 'Blue Bell;' had
hired himself to Master Gregory for a year; had a father and mother
maintained by the parish; and had seen Thomson's 'Seasons' in the hands
of a farmer's boy--that was all the inquisitive bookseller could get at;
and, indeed, there was nothing more to tell. However, the Stamford
shopkeeper was a man of compassion, and seeing the wan little figure
before him, resolved upon a tremendous sacrifice. So he told Clare that
he would let him have Thomson's 'Seasons' for one shilling: 'You may keep
the sixpence, my boy,' he exclaimed, with a lofty wave of the hand. John
Clare heard nothing, saw nothing; he snatched up his book, and ran away
eastward as fast as his legs would carry him. 'A queer customer,' said
the shopkeeper, finishing to take down his shutters.
The sun had risen in all his glory when John Clare was trotting back from
Stamford to Helpston. Every now and then he paused to have a peep in his
book. This went on for a mile or two, after which he could contain
himself no longer. He was just passing along the wall of the splendid
park surrounding Burghley Hall, the trees of which, filled with melodious
singers, overhung the road. The village of Barnack in front looked dull
and dreary; but the park at the side was sweet and inviting. With one
jump, John was over the wall, nestling, like a bird, among some thick
shrubs in the hedge. And then and there he read through Thomson's
'Seasons'--read the book through twice over, from beginning to end. And
the larks and linnets kept singing more and more beautifully; and the
golden sun rose higher and higher on the horizon, illuminating the
landscape with a flood of light, a thousandfold reflected in the green
trees and the blue waters of the lake. John Clare thought he had never
before seen the world so exquisitely beautiful; he thought he had never
before felt so thoroughly happy in all his life. He did not know how to
give vent to his happiness; singing would not do it, nor even crying. But
he had a pencil in his pocket and a bit of crumpled paper, and,
unconscious almost of what he was doing, with a sort of instinctive
movement, he began to write--began to write poetry. The verses thus
composed were subsequently printed, but with great alterations, under the
title, 'The Morning Walk.' What Clare actually wrote on his crumpled bit
of paper was, probably, very imperfect in form, and not fit to be seen
till thrice distilled in the crucible of his future 'able editor.'
John Clare felt intensely joyful when returning to Helpston from his long
morning walk. He did not mind being taken to task by his indulgent
employer for having, for the first time, neglected his duty; did not mind
the reproaches of his fellow-servant as to his having broken his compact.
The cowherd justly argued that, after the solemn agreement to look after
the horses for three hours on payment of one penny, and to keep the
secret for another penny, it was unfair to burthen him with the
responsibility of the guardianship, as well as the secret, for more than
half a day. Seeing the justice of the claim, John Clare, in the fulness
of his heart, gave his brother cowherd the sixpence, which the kind
bookseller at Stamford had presented him with. However, though generously
paid, the cowherding youth was unable to keep the terrible secret for
more than a day. The next morning he told his sweetheart, in strict
confidence, that Clare had got into an immense fortune, and was running
up and down to Stamford to buy books and 'all sorts of things.' Before it
was evening, the whole village knew the story, and a hundred fingers were
pointed at Clare while he walked down the street. He was greatly blamed
on all sides: blamed, in the first instance, for allowing himself to be
drawn away by the sprites and their nameless chief, and, as was supposed,
accepting gold and silver from them; and blamed still more for not
sharing his fortune with his poor parents. There were those who had seen
him, on the brink of the mere, holding converse with the Evil One; they
had actually witnessed the passing of the glittering coin, 'which fell
into his hands like rain drops.' Clare's poor old father and mother did
not believe these stories; yet even they shuddered when their son entered
the little hut. It was clear John could not remain long at Helpston.
There was danger in being a poet on the borders of the fen regions.
VARIOUS ADVENTURES, INCLUDING THE PURCHASE OF 'LOWE'S CRITICAL
SPELLING-BOOK.'
When the yearly engagement at the 'Blue Bell' came to an end, there was
serious consultation between John and his parents as to his future course
of life. He was too weak to be a farm labourer; too proud to remain a
potboy in a public-house; and too poor to get apprenticed to any trade or
handicraft. John himself would have liked to be a mason and stone-cutter,
which trade one Bill Manton, of Market Deeping, who had a reputation far
and wide for setting up gravestones, was ready to teach him. Bill Manton
was a big swaggering fellow, who, vibrating constantly to and fro between
tavern and graveyard, hinted to John that in becoming his apprentice he
would have to write the mortuary poetry as well as to engrave it upon
stone; and the notion was so pleasing that he made a desperate effort to
get initiated into the art and mysteries of stone-cutting. But the
obstacles were insurmountable, for Bill Manton wanted a premium of four
pounds, which Clare's parents had no more means of raising than so many
millions. There was another chance for learning a trade in the offer of
one Jim Farrow, a hunchback, who proposed to teach John the art of
cobbling gratis, the sole condition being that the apprentice should
provide his own tools. The few pence necessary for this purpose might
have been obtained, and the poet might have taken to the calling of St.
Crispin, but that he showed a great aversion to the trade. The prospect
of passing his whole life in a narrow cabin, mending hobnailed boots, was
one he could not face, and he strongly expressed his wish of rather
remaining servant in a public-house than submitting to this necessity.
One more resource remained, which was to become a gardener's apprentice
at Burghley Park, the seat of the Marquis of Exeter, where such a place
happened to be vacant. The mere mentioning of the name Burghley Park had
charms of its own to John Clare; and although the situation was but a
poor one as regarded pay, he eagerly expressed his willingness to apply
for it. To make success more sure, old Parker Clare resolved to accompany
John in making the application. Accordingly, one morning, father and son,
dressed in their very best, made their appearance at the park gates,
inquiring for the head gardener of the noble Marquis. After a long delay
they were ushered into the presence of the great man. Parker Clare, in
whose eyes a head-gardener was quite as important a personage as a
prince, took off his hat and bowed to the ground, and the example was
followed, in great trepidation of mind, by John. This evidently pleased
the high functionary, and he condescended to engage John Clare on the
spot. The terms were that John should serve an apprenticeship of three
years, receiving wages at the rate of eight shillings per week for the
first year, and a shilling more each successive year; out of which sum he
would have to provide his board and all other necessaries except
lodgings. The arrangement seemed a most advantageous one both to John and
his father, and poor old Parker wept tears of joy when returning to
Helpston, and informing his wife of the brilliant future in store for
their offspring. He was now, they thought, on the high road to fortune.
However, it was an evil day for John when entering upon his service at
Burghley Park. The visions of poetry which swept across his mind when
first lying under the trees of the park, and, with Thomson's 'Seasons' in
hand, surveying the beautiful scenery, soon took flight, to give way to a
reality more dreary and more corrupt than any he had yet witnessed. John
Clare had not been many weeks in his new place, before he found that his
master, the head-gardener, was but a low, foul-mouthed drunkard, while
his fellow-apprentices and the other workmen sought pride in rivalling
their chief in intemperance and dissipation. It was the custom at
Burghley Park to lock up all the workmen and apprentices employed under
the head-gardener during the night, to prevent them robbing the orchards.
The men did not much relish the confinement in a narrow house, and
therefore got into the regular habit of making their escape, at certain
days in the week, to a neighbouring public-house, which they reached by
getting out of the window of their garden-house prison, and climbing over
the park fence. The tavern at which the jolly gardeners held their
carousals was kept by one 'Tant Baker,' formerly a servant at Burghley
Park, and now retailing fermented liquors under the sign of 'The
Hole-in-the-Wall.' To go to the 'Hole-in-the-Wall' was one of the first
proposals made to John after he had entered upon his service, and though
he at first showed some reluctance, his scruples were soon overcome by
the persuasion of his companions, who made the greater effort for this
purpose, as they were afraid that by leaving him behind he would become a
tell-tale. The young apprentice, in consequence, paid his regular visits
with the others to the public-house; and it was not long before he came
to like Tant Baker's strong ale as well, if not better, than his
companions. Thus John Clare became accustomed, in some measure, to
intemperate habits. Not unfrequently he took such a quantity of drink at
the 'Hole-in-the-Wall' as to be completely stupified, and disabled to
reach his sleeping-place for the night. He would then lie down under any
hedge or tree, sleeping off his intoxication, and creeping home, in the
early morning, to Burghley Park. Debasing as were the moral effects of
this course of life, the physical consequences were not less disastrous.
Several times, after having made his bed on the cold ground, John Clare
found on awaking his whole body, covered as with a white sheet, the
result of the cold dews of the night. Rheumatic complaints followed,
permanently enfeebling a body weak from infancy.
The unhappy course of Clare's life was aggravated by the conduct of those
under whom he served. The head gardener, a confirmed drunkard, thought it
nevertheless beneath his dignity to get intoxicated at the
'Hole-in-the-Wall,' but sought his alcoholic refreshments at a more
aristocratic public-house in the neighbouring town. He often caroused at
Stamford so long and so late, that his spouse got impatient at her lonely
residence, and despatched one messenger after the other to bring her
truant lord home. The policy of the wife, however, was defeated by her
drunken husband. He made it a rule of keeping the envoys sent to him, and
plying them with strong drink till they were more unable to report their
own than his movements. Poor little John, unfortunately, was often sent
on these errands, which led to his being made drunk one night at
Stamford, by his master, and the next evening, by his fellow-workers, at
the way-side 'Hole-in-the-Wall.' What would have become of him had this
wretched career been pursued long, is easy to imagine; but, happily, the
state of things was brought to an end shorter than at first calculated
upon. The drunken master was likewise a brutal master, and, to escape his
insults and occasional violence, one of the gardeners, bound by a long
engagement, resolved to run away; and, having taken a certain liking to
John, persuaded him to become a companion in the flight. This was when
John Clare had been about eleven months at Burghley Park, and, by the
terms of his agreement with the head gardener, would have had to remain
an apprentice for above two years longer. However, he did not think
himself bound by the contract, and early one morning in autumn--date
again uncertain, but probably about the year 1809, Clare now full
sixteen--he scrambled through the window with his companion, and
furtively quitted Burghley Park and the service of the Marquis of Exeter.
Already on the evening of the same day he repented his rash act. His
companion in the flight took him on a long trot to Grantham, a distance
of twenty-two miles, where the two lodged at a small beerhouse, and Clare
fancied that he was fairly out of the world. Having not the slightest
notions about geography, or topography either, he believed he had now
arrived at the confines of the habitable earth, and with but little
chance of ever seeing his parents again. The thought brought forth tears,
and he wept the whole night. On the next morning, the two fugitives tried
to find work at Grantham, but did not succeed, so that they were
compelled to tramp still further, towards Newark-upon-Trent. Here they
were fortunate enough to obtain employment with a nurseryman named
Withers, who gave them kind treatment, but very small wages. John,
meanwhile, had got thoroughly home-sick, and the idea of being an immense
distance away from his father and mother did not let him rest day or
night. Not daring to speak to his companion, for fear of being retained
by force, he at last made up his mind again to run away from his
employer, this time alone. It was beginning to get winter; the roads were
partially covered with snow, and swollen streams and rivers interrupted
on many points the communication. Nevertheless, John Clare started on his
home journey full of courage, though absolutely destitute of money and
clothing, leaving part of the latter, together with his tools, at his
master's house. During the two or three days that it took him to reach
Helpston, he subsisted upon a crust of bread and an occasional draught of
water from the nearest stream, while his lodgings were in haystacks on
the roadside. His heart beat with tumultuous joy when at last he beheld
the loved fields again, and the village where he was born. And when the
door swung back which led into the little thatched hut, and he saw his
mother and father sitting by the fire, he rushed into their arms, and
fairly frightened them with the outburst of his affection.
There now remained nothing for John Clare but to fall back upon his old
way of living, and to seek a precarious existence as farm-labourer. This
was what he resigned himself to accordingly, only changing his occupation
now and then, as circumstances permitted, by doing odd jobs as a shepherd
or gardener. It was a very humble mode of life, and its remuneration
scarce sufficient to purchase the coarsest food and the scantiest
clothing; but it was, after all, the kind of existence which seemed most
suited to the habits and inclinations of the strange youth, now growing
into manhood. His intense admiration and worship of nature could not
brook confinement of any sort, even such as suffered within the vast
domain of Burghley Park. While gardener at the latter place, his poetical
vein lay entirely dormant; he was never for a moment in the mood of
writing nor even of reading verses. Perhaps the habits of dissipation
into which he had fallen had something to do with this; yet it was owing
still more to the position in which he was placed; The same scenery which
had inspired him to his first poetical composition, when viewed in the
glowing light of a beautiful morning in spring, left him cold and
uninspired ever after. He often complained to his fellow-labourers, that
he could not 'see far enough:' it was as if he felt the rattling of the
chain, which bound him to the spot. A yearning after absolute freedom,
mental as well as physical, was one of his strongest instincts through
life, and not possessing this, he appeared to value little else. It was a
desire, or a passion, which nearly approached the morbid, and gave rise
to much that was painful in the subsequent part of his existence.
Once more a farm-labourer at Helpston, John Clare was all his own again.
Thomson's 'Seasons' never left his pocket; he read the book when going to
the fields in the morning, and read it again when eating his humble meal
at noonday under a hedge. The evenings he invariably spent in writing
verses, on any slips and bits of paper he could lay hold of. Soon he
accumulated a considerable quantity of these fugitive pieces of poetry,
and wishing to preserve them, yet ashamed to let it be known that he was
writing verses, he hid the whole at the bottom of an old cupboard in his
bedroom. What made him more timid than ever to confess his doings to
either friends or acquaintances, was their entire want of sympathy,
manifested to him on more than one occasion. It sometimes happened, on a
Sunday, that he would take a walk through the fields, in company with his
father and mother, or a neighbour; and seeing something particularly
beautiful, an early rose, or a little insect, or the many-hued sky, John
Clare would break forth into ecstasies, declaiming, in his own
enthusiastic way, on what he deemed the marvellous things upon this
marvellous earth. His voice rose; his eyes sparkled; his heart bounded
within him in intense love and admiration of this grand, this
incomprehensible, this ever-wonderful realm of the Creator which men call
the world. But whenever his companions happened to listen to this
involuntary outburst of enthusiasm, they broke out in mocking laughter. A
rose was to them a rose, and nothing more; an apple they valued higher,
as something eatable; and, perhaps, over plum-pudding they would have got
enthusiastic, too. As it was, poor John was a constant butt for all the
shafts of coarse ridicule; even his own parents, to whom he was attached
with the tendered affection, and who fully returned his love, did not
spare him. Old Parker Clare shook his head when he heard his son
descanting upon the beauties of nature, and reproved him on many
occasions for not using his spare time to better purpose than scribbling
upon little bits of paper. Parker Clare's whole notion of poetry was
confined to the halfpenny ballads which the hawkers sold at fairs, and it
struck him, not unnaturally, that the things being so cheap, it could not
be a paying business. This important fact he lost no occasion to impress
upon his son, though with no result whatever.
While the father was not sparing in his attacks upon John's poetical
manifestations, the mother, on her part, was active in the same
direction. She had discovered her son's hiding-place of the curious slips
of paper which engrossed his nightly attention, and, to make an end of
the matter at once, the good woman swept up the whole lot one morning,
and threw it in the chimney. Very likely there was in her mind some
intuitive perception of the fact that her son's poems 'wanted fire.' John
was greatly distressed when he found his verses gone; and more still when
he discovered how the destruction happened. To prevent the recurrence of
a similar event, he conceived the desperate plan of instilling into his
parents a love of poetry. He boldly told them, what he had hitherto not
so much as hinted at, that he was writing verses 'such as are found in
books,', coupling it with the assertion that he could produce songs and
ballads as good as those sold at fairs, so much admired by his father.
Parker Clare again shook his head in a doubting mood, expressing a strong
disbelief of his offspring's abilities in writing poetry. Thus put upon
his mettle, John resolved to do his best to change the scepticism of his
father, and having written some verses which he liked, and corrected them
over and over again into desirable smoothness, he one evening read them
to his astonished parents. But the result was thoroughly disappointing.
So far from admiring his son's poetry, Parker Clare expressed his strong
conviction that it was mere rubbish, not to be compared to the half-penny
songs of the fairs. John was much humbled to hear this; however, he
carried within himself a strong belief that his verses were not quite
valueless, and therefore resolved upon one more test. Hearing the
constant vaunting of the cheap ballads, he made up his mind to try
whether his father was really able to distinguish between his own verses
and those in print. Accordingly, when he had finished another
composition, he committed it to memory, and rehearsed it to his parents
in the evening, pretending to read it from the print. Then his father
broke out in the delightful exclamation: 'Ah, John, my boy, if thou
couldst make such-like verses, that would do.' This was an immense relief
to the poor scribbler of poetry. He now saw clearly that his father's
want of confidence was in him, the writer, and not in his writings.
Henceforth, he made it his regular habit of reciting his own poetry to
his parents as if reading it from a book, or printed sheet of paper. The
habit, though it was strictly a dishonest proceeding, proved to him not
only a real source of pleasure, in hearing his praises from the lips of
those he loved most, but it also served him as a fair critical school.
Whenever he found his parents laugh at a sentence which he deemed very
pathetic, he set himself at once to correct it to a simpler style;
whenever they asked him for an explanation of a word, or line, he noted
it down as ill-expressed, or obscure; and whenever either his father or
mother asked for a repetition of a song which they had heard before, he
marked the slip of poetry so honoured as a success. And all these
successful slips of paper John Clare placed in a crevice between his bed
and the lath-and-plaster wall; a hole so dark and unfathomable as to be
beyond the reach of even his sharp-eyed mother, always on the look-out
for manuscript poetry to light the fire.
Having gained the surreptitious approval of his verses by his parents,
John Clare began to be moved by a slight and almost unconscious feeling
of ambition. Hitherto he had written poetry solely for the sake of
pleasing himself, but he now was stirred by anxiety to discover what
value others set upon his writings. The crevice in his bed-room,
jealously guarded since his mother's grand _auto-da-fé_, and as yet
undiscovered by the watchful maternal eye, contained a few dozen songs
and ballads, descriptive of favourite trees, and flowers, and bits of
scenery, and, after long brooding within himself, John resolved upon
showing these pieces to an acquaintance. The person selected for this
confidence was one Thomas Porter, a middle-aged man, living at a lonely
cottage at Ashton Green, about a mile from Helpston. He was one of those
individuals, described, in a class, as 'having seen better days;'
besides, a lover of books, of flowers, and of solitary rambles. Their
tastes coinciding so far, John Clare and Thomas Porter had become
tolerably intimate friends, the former making it a point to visit, almost
every Sunday, the little cottage at Ashton Green. Having wound his
courage up to the point, John at last, with much secret fear and
trembling, showed to his friend the best specimens of his poetry, asking
for his opinion on the same. Mr. Thomas Porter, though a very
good-natured man, was somewhat formal in his habits, scrutinizing, with
visible astonishment, the little pieces of paper--blue, red, white, and
yellow, having served the manifold purposes of the baker and tallow
chandler before being helpful to poetry--which were submitted to his
judgment. Seeing his young friend's disappointed look at the examination,
he promised to give his opinion about the poetry in a week, namely, on
the following Sunday. The week seemed a long one to John Clare, and he
was almost trembling with excitement when again approaching the door of
the small cottage of Ashton Green. He trembled still more at the first
question of Mr. Thomas Porter:--'Do you know grammar?' It was useless for
John to profess that he did know so much as the meaning of the word
grammar; or whether it signified a person or a thing. Then Mr. Thomas
Porter began to frown. 'You cannot write poetry before you know grammar!'
he sternly exclaimed, handing the many-coloured slips of paper back to
his poor friend. John Clare was humiliated beyond measure: he felt like
one having committed a dreadful, unpardonable crime. Because the sense of
the words was not at all clear to him, he was the deeper impressed with
the consciousness of the heinous misdeed of having written verses without
knowing grammar. So he resolved to know grammar, even should he perish in
the attempt.
To ask Mr. Thomas Porter by what means he could get to know grammar, he
had not the courage: the ground was burning under his feet in the little
cottage at Ashton Green. John Clare, therefore, took his farewell without
seeking further information, and hurried off to the house of a lad with
whom he had been at Mr. Merrishaw's school. Did he know where or what
grammar was? Yes, the lad knew; he had plunged into grammar at Mr.
Merrishaw's, instead of into algebra and the pure sciences. But he could
not tell how to learn grammar, except through one very difficult work,
bound in leather, and called 'The Critical Spelling-book.' To get this
wonderful book now became the all-absorbing thought of John Clare. Penny
after penny was hoarded by immense exertions, and the greatest frugality,
approaching to a want of the necessaries of life. The two shillings for
the 'Critical Spelling-book' were saved at length, and John once more
made his way to the Stamford bookseller, as eager as when in quest of
Thomson's 'Seasons.' He was lucky enough to get 'Lowe's Critical
Spelling-book' at once; but, having got it, underwent a fearful
disappointment. Reading it under the hedge on the roadside, in his
anxiety to possess the contents; reading it at his noonday meal; and
reading it again at the evening fireside--the more he read it, the less
could he understand it. Algebra and the pure sciences had puzzled him
infinitely less than this awful grammar. Worthy Mr. Lowe's 'Critical
Spelling-book,' happily forgotten by the present generation, instilled
knowledge on the good old plan of making it as dark and mysterious as
possible. There was, first, a long preface of twenty-two pages, in which
Mr. Lowe deprecated all other spelling-books whatever, especially those
of his very dear friends and fellow-teachers, Mr. Dixon, author of the
'English Instructor;' Mr. Kirkby, the learned writer of the 'Guide to the
English Tongue;' Mr. Newberry, creator of the 'Circle of the Sciences;'
Mr. Palairet, the famous compiler of the 'New English Spelling-book;' and
Mr. Pardon, author of 'Spelling New-Modelled.' Having gone through the
painful task of deprecating his friends, with the annexed modest
statement that the 'Critical Spelling-book' would be found superior to
any other work of the kind, past, present, or future, Mr. Lowe proceeded
to give his own rules, distinguished 'by the greatest simplicity. Through
the first chapter, treating of 'monosyllables,' John Clare made his way,
with some trouble; but the second, entering the field of 'polysyllables,'
brought him to a stop. Read as he might, poor John could not understand
the ever-changing value of 'oxytones,' 'penacutes,' 'ternacutes,'
'quartacutes,' and 'quintacutes,' and was still more bewildered when he
found that even after having got through all these hard words, there was
a still harder tail at the end of them, in the shape of 'exceptions from
the spelling-book--sounds of letters and syllables, some of which are
more simple, and may conveniently be learnt by a single direction, others
more complex, and may better be explained by being cast into phrases.'
Finding it absolutely impossible to get over the oxytones, he shrunk back
from the quartacutes and quintacutes as beyond the reach of an ordinary
human being, and gave up the study in despair. He next put 'Lowe's
Critical Spelling-book' into the old cupboard where his mother used to
look after his poems--for culinary purposes. But the good housewife never
burnt the 'Critical Spelling-book;' it being, probably, too tough for
her, in all its hide-bound solidity. As for John Clare, he entirely
failed in learning grammar and spelling, remaining ignorant of the sister
arts to the end of his days.