Soon after his first meeting with Martha Turner, at the beginning of
October, 1817, John Clare left Bridge Casterton, hand went to Pickworth,
a village four miles off, in a northerly direction, where he found
employment in another lime-kiln, belonging to a Mr. Clerk. The reason he
quitted his old master was that the latter lowered his wages from nine to
seven shillings per week, which reduction John Clare would not submit to.
Though content, throughout his life, to live in the humblest way, he had
two strong reasons, at this moment, for wishing to earn moderately good
wages, so as to be able to save some money. The first was that he had set
his heart on having a new suit of clothes, including an olive-green coat.
As young maidens sigh for a lover, and as children long for sweetmeats,
so John Clare had set his heart for years on having an olive-green coat.
For this wonderful garment he was 'measured' soon after returning from
Oundle and martial glory, under the agreement, carefully stipulated with
the master tailor, that it was to be delivered only on cash payment. But
he had never yet been able to raise the necessary fifty shillings,
although the olive-green coat was dearer to his heart than ever before.
However, there was one still dearer object, for the carrying out of which
he wanted to save money, namely, the attempt to get some of his verses
printed. His chief impulse, in this respect, was not-so much literary
vanity, but a strong desire to get the judgment of the world on his own
secret labours. As yet, though with an intuitive perception of the
intrinsic worth of his poetry, he had no real faith in himself. The
intimation of Thomas Porter, respecting the necessity of grammar, still
weighed heavily upon his mind, and the cold reception which his verses
met with at the hands of the bookseller of Market Deeping greatly
contributed to weaken the belief in the value of his writings.
Nevertheless, the old spirit of faith urging him again and again, he had
more than once renewed his communications with Mr. Henson, and repeated
visits to Market Deeping at last produced a sort of treaty between
bookseller and poet. Mr. Henson agreed to print, for the sum of one
pound, three hundred prospectuses, inviting subscribers for a small
collection of 'Original Trifles by John Clare.' The price of the volume
was to be three shillings and sixpence, 'in boards;' and Mr. Henson
promised that, as soon as one hundred subscribers had given in their
names, he would begin to print the book, at his own risk. This treaty,
the result of several interviews, and much anxiety on the part of John
Clare, was settled between the interested parties in the month of
December, 1817.
A more excited time than that which now followed, Clare had never seen in
his life. He was in love over head and ears, and had to pay frequent
visits to his mistress at Walkherd Lodge; he had to think of saving money
for his long-desired olive-green coat--more than ever desired now for
presentation at the Lodge; and, last not least, he had to work overtime
to get the one pound sterling required for the printing of the three
hundred prospectuses. In short, he had to labour harder than ever, in
order to gain more money; and, yet, at the same time, required more
leisure than ever, both for writing verses and love-making. To reconcile
these opposite wants, he took to night-work, in addition to daily labour,
risking his health and almost his life to gain a few shillings and to
have an occasional glimpse at his sweet mistress. His love prospects did
not appear to be very promising, at first. As for Martha Turner herself,
she rather encouraged than otherwise the attentions of the young
lime-burner; her parents, however, were strongly and energetically
opposed to the courtship. Dignified cottage-farmers, renting their
half-a-dozen acres of land, with a cow on the common, and a pig or two,
they thought their pretty daughter might look higher in the world than to
a mere lime-burner with nine shillings a week. Besides, there was another
lover in the wind, of decidedly better prospects, who had already gained
the ear of the parents, and was backed by all their influence. It was a
young shoemaker from Stamford, with a shop of his own; a townsman dressed
in spotless broadcloth on all his visits to Walkherd Lodge, and of
manners considered aristocratic. Martha herself wavered slightly between
the shoemaker and the lime-burner; the former was not only well-dressed
but good-looking, to neither of which externals John Clare could lay any
pretensions. The only advantage possessed by him over his rival was that
he pleaded his cause with all the zeal and ardour of a man deeply
enamoured, and this, as always, so here, carried the day finally. There
was some languid indifference in the addresses of the loving shoemaker,
to punish which Martha Turner threw herself into the arms of John Clare.
So far, things were looking prosperous at the Pickworth lime-kiln, during
the first months of 1818.
Meanwhile, the poetical aspirations of John Clare had made little
progress. Mr. Henson, of Market Deeping, insisted that the poet should
write his own prospectus, or 'Invitation to Subscribers,' and Clare
trembled at the bare idea of undertaking such a formidable work. Easy as
it was to him to compose scores of verses every day, in the intervals of
the hardest manual labour, he had never attempted, in his whole life, to
write a single line in prose, and therefore could not bring himself, by
any exertion, to go through the new task. Day after day he tormented his
head to find words how to begin the required prospectus, but invariably
with the same negative result. Often it happened that, when trying to
write down the first line of the 'Invitation,' his thoughts involuntarily
lost themselves in rhyme, till finally, instead of the desired 'Address
to the Public,' there stood on paper, much to his own surprise, an
address to the primrose or the nightingale. Thus, one morning, when going
to his work, in deep thoughts of poetry, prospectuses, love, and
lime-burning, the reflection escaped his lips, 'What is life?' and, as if
driven by inspiration, he instantly sat down in a field, and, on a scrap
of coarse paper, wrote the first two verses of the poem, subsequently
published under the same title. Clare's poetical genius threatened to
master even his own will.
At length, however, after infinite trouble and exertion, he managed to
get the dreaded prospectus ready. Having saved the pound with which to
pay the printer, he firmly determined to make a final attempt to write
prose, in some form or other, and to send it off to Market Deeping, in
whatever shape it might turn. At this time he was in the habit of
working, sometimes at Mr. Clerk's lime-kiln at Pickworth, and sometimes
at a branch establishment of the same owner, situated at Ryhall, three
miles nearer towards Stamford. Firm in his determination to produce a
prospectus, he started one morning for Ryhall, and, arrived at his place
of labour, sat down on a lime-scuttle, pencil in hand, with the hat as
ever-ready writing-desk. For once, the prose thoughts flowed a little
more freely, and after a strong inward effort, the following came to
stand upon paper:--
'Proposals for publishing by Subscription a Collection of Original
Trifles on miscellaneous subjects, religious and moral, in Verse, by John
Clare of Helpston. The Public are requested to observe that the Trifles
humbly offered for their candid perusal can lay no claim to eloquence of
poetical composition; whoever thinks so will be deceived, the greater
part of them being Juvenile productions, and those of later date
offsprings of those leisure intervals which the short remittance from
hard and manual labour sparingly afforded to compose them. It is hoped
that the humble situation which distinguishes their author will be some
excuse in their favour, and serve to make an atonement for the many
inaccuracies and imperfections that will be found in them. The least
touch from the iron hand of Criticism is able to crush them to nothing,
and sink them at once to utter oblivion. May they be allowed to live
their little day and give satisfaction to those who may choose to honour
them with a perusal, they will gain the end for which they were designed
and their author's wishes will be gratified. Meeting with this
encouragement it will induce him to publish a similar collection of which
this is offered as a specimen.'
The writing of this paper--presented here as originally written, with the
correction only of the spelling, and the insertion of a few stops and
commas--took Clare above three hours, and having finished it, and read it
over several times, he thought he had reason to be pleased with his
performance. A third reading increased this satisfaction, in the fulness
of which he determined to send the prospectus at once to the printer.
Accordingly, he sat down upon his lime-scuttle, fastened the paper
together with a piece of pitch, scraped from an old barrel, and directed
it, in pencil, to 'Mr. Henson, bookseller, Market Deeping.' This
accomplished, he started off in a trot to the post-office at Stamford. On
the road, new doubts and scruples came fluttering through his mind. Was
it not a foolish act, after all, that he, a poor labourer, the son of a
pauper, should risk a pound of his hard earnings in the attempt to
publish a book? Would not the people laugh at him? Would they not blame
him for spending the money on such an object, instead of giving it to his
half-starving parents? Such were the doubts that crossed his mind. But,
on the other hand, he considered that success might possibly attend his
efforts; that, if so, it would be the means of raising his parents, as
well as himself, from their low situation; and that, whatever the result,
it would show the world's estimate of his own doings--either encourage
him in writing more verses, or cure him of a silly propensity. This last
reflection, and a thought of the fair girl he loved, decided the matter
in his own mind. He sprang up from the stone heap, where he had sat
buried in reflections, and pursued his way to Stamford. His face was
burning with excitement, and, entering the town, he fancied everybody was
looking at him, with a full knowledge of his vainglorious errand. The
post-office was closed, and the clerk at the wicket demanded one penny as
a fee for taking in the late letter. John Clare fumbled in his pockets,
and found that he had not so much as a farthing in his possession. In a
rueful voice he asked the man at the wicket to take the letter without
the penny. The clerk glanced at the singular piece of paper handed to
him, the pencilled, ill-spelt address, the coarse pitch, instead of
sealing-wax, at the back, and with a contemptuous smile, threw the letter
into a box at his side. Without uttering another word, he then shut the
door in Clare's face. And the poor poet hurried home, burying his face in
his hands.