In about a week after the despatch of the pitch-sealed letter, there came
a reply from Mr. Henson, of Market Deeping. It intimated that the
prospectuses, with appended specimen poem, were nearly ready, and would
be handed over to John Clare, on a given day, at the Dolphin inn,
Stamford. Accordingly, on the day named, Clare went over to Stamford, his
heart fluttering high with expectations. When Mr. Henson handed him the
'Address to the Public,' with the 'Sonnet to the Setting Sun' on the
other side, both neatly corrected and printed in large type, he was
beside himself for joy. In its new dress, his poetry looked so charmingly
beautiful, that he scarcely knew it again. His hopes rose to the highest
pitch when he found that the admiration of his printed verses was shared
by others. While they were sitting in the parlour of the Dolphin inn,
drinking and talking, there came in a clerical-looking gentleman, who,
after having listened a while to the conversation about the forthcoming
volume of poetry, politely inquired for the title of the book. Mr.
Henson, with business-like anxiety, at once came forward, explaining all
the circumstances of the case, not forgetting to praise the verses and
the writer to the skies. The gentleman, evidently touched by the recital,
at once told Mr. Henson to put his name down as a subscriber, giving his
address as the Rev. Mr. Mounsey, Master of the Stamford Grammar-school.
John Clare was ready to fall on the neck of the kind subscriber, first
admirer of his poetry; but prudently restraining himself, he only mumbled
his thanks, with an ill-suppressed tear in his eye. After having made
arrangements for the circulation of the prospectuses, boldly undertaking
to distribute a hundred himself, John Clare then went back to his
lodgings at Pickworth, dancing more than walking.
The first bright vision of fame and happiness thus engendered was as
short as it was intense. It was followed, for a time, by a long array of
troubles and misfortune, making the poor poet more wretched than he had
ever been before. Soon after his meeting with Mr. Henson at the Dolphin
inn, he had a quarrel with his mistress, and a more serious disagreement
with her parents, followed by a harsh interdict to set his foot again
within the confines of Walkherd Lodge. A few weeks subsequently, his
master discharged him, under the probably well-justified accusation that
he was neglecting his work, scribbling verses all day long, and running
about to distribute his prospectuses. This discharge came in the autumn
of 1818, and put Clare to the severest distress. The expenses connected
with his poetical speculation had swallowed up all his hoardings, and
left him absolutely without a penny in the world. After several
ineffectual efforts to find work as a lime-burner either at Pickworth or
Casterton, he bethought himself to seek again employment as a
farm-labourer, and for this purpose went back to Helpston. His parents,
now quite reduced to the mercies of the workhouse, and subsisting
entirely upon parish relief, received him with joy; but nearly all other
doors were shut against him. The wide-spread rumour that he was going to
publish a book, had created a great sensation in the village, but, so far
from gaining him any friends, had raised up a host of jealous detractors
and enemies. Among the most ignorant of the villagers, the cry prevailed
that he was a schemer and impostor; while the better-informed people,
including the small farmers of the neighbourhood, set him down as a man
who had taken up pursuits incompatible with his position. Perhaps the
latter view was not an altogether unjust one; at any rate, the farmers,
all of them people of small means, acted upon good precedent in refusing
John Clare work, after he had been discharged, by his last employer, for
gross neglect of duty. It was in vain that Clare offered to do 'jobs,' or
work by contract; his very anxiety to get into employment, of whatever
kind it might be, was held to be presumptuous, and all his offers and
promises met with nothing but distrust. In this frightful state of
things, there was only one resource remaining to John Clare, to escape
starvation--to do as his parents, and beg a dry loaf of bread from the
tender mercies of the parish. His name, accordingly, was enrolled in the
list of paupers.
But as if the cup of his distress was not yet full enough, John Clare,
while reduced to this lowest state of misery, got a note from Mr. Henson,
of Market-Deeping, informing him that the distributed prospectuses had
only brought seven subscribers, and that the scheme of printing the poems
would have to be dropped entirely, unless he could advance fifteen pounds
to meet the necessary expenses. To Clare, this information sounded like
mockery. To ask him, while in absolute want of food, to raise fifteen
pounds, appeared to him an insult--which probably it was not meant to be.
Mr. Henson, the printer and bookseller, had very little knowledge of the
actual state of his correspondent, and looking upon the whole scheme of
publishing poetry as the driest matter of business, addressed Clare as he
would have any other customer. This, however, was not the way in which
the deeply-distressed poet viewed the proceedings. He gave way to his
feelings in a very angry letter, after despatching which he sank into
deep despondency. It seemed to him as if he had now made shipwreck of his
life and all his hopes.
Recovering from this sudden access of grief, he made a fresh resolve. At
twenty-five, men seldom die of despondency--not even poets. John Clare,
too, decided not to give up the battle of life at once, but prolong it a
short while by becoming a soldier. However, he was afraid to add to the
distress of his father and mother by informing them of this plan, and,
therefore, left home under the pretence that he was going to seek work.
It was a fine spring morning--year 1819--when he took once more the road
to Stamford. Passing by Burghley Park, he was strongly reminded of that
other sunny day in spring when he came the same way with Thomson's
'Seasons' in hand; when he was seized with the sudden passion for poetry,
and when he wrote his first verses under the hedge of the gardens, fall
of joy and happiness. And he pondered upon the sad change which had taken
place in these ten years. He had written many more verses--far better
verses, he fully believed; and yet was poorer than ever, and more
wretched and miserable than he had imagined he could possibly be. Thus
ran the flow of his thoughts: sad and gloomy, though not without an
undercurrent of more hopeful nature. There was a deep-rooted belief in
his heart that the poems he had written were not entirely worthless, and
that notwithstanding the coldness and antipathy of the world,
notwithstanding his own poverty and wretchedness, the day would come when
their value would be appreciated. The new sanguine spirit took more and
more hold of him while looking over the hedge into the park, and around
on the fields, smiling in their first green of new-born loveliness, and
enlivened with the melodious song of birds. Once more, his heart was
warmed as of old, and he sat down under a tree, to compose another song.
It was a poem in praise of nature, gradually changing into a love-song;
and while writing down the lines, his heart grew melancholy in thoughts
of his absent mistress, his sweet 'Patty of the Vale,' separated from
him, perhaps, for ever. To see her once more, before enlisting as a
soldier, now came to be the most ardent desire of his heart.
The shades of evening were sinking fast, when John Clare reached Bridge
Casterton, on his way to Walkherd Cottage. He was just in view of the
smiling little garden in front of the house, when a figure, but too well
known, crossed has path. It was Patty. She wanted to speak, and she
wanted to fly; her lips moved, but she did not utter a word. Clare, too,
was lost, for a minute, in mute embarrassment; but, recovering himself,
he rushed towards her, and with fervent passion pressed her to his heart.
Patty was too much a child of nature not to respond to this burst of
affection, and for some minutes the lovers held each other in sweet
embrace. They might have prolonged their embrace for hours, but were
disturbed by calls from the neighbouring lodge. The anxious parent within
heard words, and sounds, and stifled kisses, and doubting whether they
came from the shoemaker, sent forth shrill cries for Martha to come in
without delay. But darkness made Patty bold; she assured her mother that
there was 'nobody,' accompanying the word by another kiss. Then, with
loving caress, she tore herself from Clare's arms, flying up the narrow
path to the cottage. John Clare was transfixed to the spot for a few
minutes, and, having gazed again and again at the rose-embowered
dwelling, made his way back to Stamford, joyful, yet sad at heart. On the
road, close to Casterton, he met some old acquaintances of the lime-kiln,
going to the same destination, intent on an evening's drinking bout. John
was asked to join, and after some reluctance, consented. The lime-burners
had their pockets well-filled for the night, and the jug of ale went
round with much rapidity. When gaiety was at the culminating point, a
tall gentleman, in the uniform of the Royal Artillery, joined the merry
company. The jug passed to him, and he returned the compliment by
ordering a fresh supply of good old ale. Now the talk grew fast and loud,
opening the sluices of mutual confidence. John Clare loudly proclaimed
his intention of becoming a soldier, ready to fight his way up to
generalship.
'Do you mean it?' inquired the tall gentleman in uniform.
'Of course I do,' retorted John, somewhat nettled at the incredulity of
his neighbour.
'Well, if you really mean it,' resumed the artilleryman, 'take that
shilling.'
John, without hesitation, took the shilling. After which, he fell fast
asleep.
When he awoke, the next morning, he found that he was lying on a bench,
behind a long table, strewn with jugs, bottles, and glasses. The room was
filled with fumes of tobacco and stale beer, through which the sun shone
with a dull uncertain light. Rubbing his eyes, Clare jumped from his hard
couch, and in a moment was out of doors. The first person he met in the
passage was the military gentleman of the previous evening. John Clare
was astonished; and so was the man in uniform. John was surprised to find
the gentleman so very tall, and the gentleman was surprised to find John
so very small--two facts observed by neither of them at the convivial
table the evening before. The man in uniform was the first to recover his
astonishment, and, approaching Clare with a cordial shake of the hand,
expressed his regret that, in the excitement of the previous night,
things should have happened which would not have occurred otherwise. But
it was not likely that one of his Majesty's officers in the artillery
would take an advantage of such an accident, keeping as a recruit a
friend who, he was sure, meant the whole only a joke. A burden fell from
John's heavily-oppressed heart when he heard these words. Of course, it
was only a joke, he muttered forth; and the proof of it was that he kept
the shilling intact, just as it had been given to him. With which he
handed the potent coin back to the tall gentleman. It was the identical
shilling he had received; there could he no mistake, inasmuch as it was
the only shilling he had had in his possession for many a day. The man in
uniform smiled; smiled still more when John Clare searched in his
pockets, withdrawing a much-creased, dirty-looking piece of paper.
'Original Trifles,' exclaimed the tall gentleman; reading the paper; 'Ah,
I thank you, thank you very much. Not in my line.' Which saying, he
vanished behind the counter of the tap-room. John Clare was lost, as to
many other things, so to the Royal Artillery.
In a very uncertain mood, his head still somewhat heavy, John Clare took
his way back to Helpston. He congratulated himself of having had a very
lucky escape from a kind of servitude for which, of all others, he was
most unfit; and yet, notwithstanding this piece of good fortune, he felt
by no means easy in his mind. What to do next? was the great question he
was unable to solve, and which got more intricate the more he thought of
it. While giving the spur to his reflections for the hundredth time, he
ran against an old fellow-labourer from Helpston, a man named Coblee. The
latter was exactly in the same position as John Clare. He had no work,
and wanted very much to get a living; but did not know how to get it.
Talking the matter over, the two agreed temporarily to join their
efforts, under the supposition that such a partnership might possibly be
useful to both--as, indeed, it could not make their position worse. This
matter settled, plans came to be proposed on both sides. To leave
Helpston, and leave it immediately, was a point at once agreed upon; but
next came the more difficult matter, as to subsequent proceedings. John
Clare was in favour of going northward, into Yorkshire, which county he
had heard spoken of as one of milk and honey; while friend Coblee was
anxious to seek work in an easterly direction, in the fen-country, where
he had some friends and acquaintances. There was great waste of good
arguments on both sides, until friend Coblee's experience suggested to
decide the matter by a toss. Being the fortunate possessor of a
halfpenny, he produced it forthwith, and chance was called upon for an
answer. It declared in favour of John, whereupon Coblee--a man seemingly
born to be a lawyer--raised various minor questions. He argued that as
the subject was one of high importance, it ought not to be left to the
decision of a single toss; and, moreover, chance itself, and not the
winner, ought to declare in which direction they ought to go. After
protracted discussion, the final settlement of the question was postponed
to the following day, a Sunday--a very important Sunday in the life of
John Clare.
Early on the Sunday morning, the two friends met, as agreed upon, at
Bachelors' Hall, the general club and meeting place of the young men of
Helpston. The news that Clare and Coblee were on the point of leaving the
village together, to seek fortune in distant places, had spread rapidly,
and attracted a large number of old friends and acquaintances. Clare was
not a popular man, but Coblee was; and to honour the latter, various
bottles were brought in from the neighbouring public-house. Due justice
having been done to the contents of these flasks, the discussion
respecting the final consultation of Dame Fortune was renewed, and
happily brought to an end. It was proposed by the brothers Billing,
tenants of the Hall, and adopted by a majority of votes, that a stick
should be put firmly in the ground, in the middle of the room, and that
they should dance around it in a ring till it fell from its erect
position. The way in which it fell was to indicate the direction in which
the two emigrants were to go. John Clare and Coblee both promised to
abide by this award, the latter specially agreeing not to raise any minor
questions afterwards. All this having been duly arranged, the stick was
put into the clay, the circle was formed, and the visitors at Bachelors'
Hall began their dance. They danced fast and furiously; danced like men
with a great object before them, and empty bottles behind. Suddenly a
loud knocking was heard at the gate. The stick stood still upright, and
there was a moment's pause in the dance. 'John Clare must come home at
once,' said a shrill little voice outside; 'there are two gentlemen
waiting for him: two real gentlemen.' 'Shall I go?' inquired John. 'Go,
by all means,' dictated the elder of the Bachelor Brothers, 'we will wait
for you.' They waited long, but John did not return.