The two 'real gentlemen,' who were waiting at the little cottage, wishing
to see John Clare, were Mr. Edward Drury, bookseller, of Stamford, and
Mr. R. Newcomb, a friend of the latter, proprietor of the _Stamford
Mercury_. Mr. Drury, who had not been long established in business,
having but a short time before bought the 'New Public Library' in the
High Street, from a Mr. Thompson, had heard of John Clare in a rather
singular manner. One day, while still in treaty about the business, there
came into the 'New Public Library,' a gaunt, awkward-looking man, in the
garb of a labourer, yet with somewhat of the bearing of a country squire.
Addressing Mr. Thompson, he told him, in a haughty manner, that there
would be 'no debts paid at present,' and 'not until the poems are out.'
The man who said this was Mr. Thomas Porter, of Ashton, the friend of
John Clare, and propounder of the awful question concerning grammar and
the spelling-book. Though severe upon his young poetical friend, he
nevertheless remained attached to him with true devotion, and latterly
had assisted him in the distribution of prospectuses and other errands
relating thereto. It was on one of these excursions that he came to the
'New Public Library,' in Stamford High Street. John Clare had been so
extravagant, while burning lime at Pickworth, as to take in a number of
periodical publications, among them the _Boston Inquirer_, and getting
into debt on this account, to the amount of fifteen shillings, which he
was unable to pay after his dismissal from the lime-kiln, Mr. Thompson
had written several urgent letters demanding payment. In reply to one of
these, Clare despatched his friend Thomas Porter to Stamford, instructing
him to pacify his angry creditor, and to deliver to him some prospectuses
of the 'Original Trifles.' It was in order to be the more effective that
Thomas Porter adopted a haughty tone, quite in keeping with his tall
gaunt figure; and, talking in a lofty manner of his friend the poet,
almost repudiated the right of the bookseller to ask for payment of his
little debt. The proprietor of the 'New Public Library,' a quick-tempered
man, got exceedingly irritated on hearing this language. Speaking of John
Clare in the most offensive terms, he took the prospectuses and threw
them on the floor, at the same time ordering Thomas Porter out of his
shop. The long wiry arms of John Clare's tall friend were about reaching
across the counter and pulling the little shopkeeper from his seat, when
Mr. Drury interfered. He had listened to the dialogue with intense
astonishment, being quite bewildered as to the meaning of the terms poet,
lime-burner, and swindler, all applied to one person, of whom it was
clear only that he was a friend of the gaunt man. When the latter had
taken his leave, pacified by much politeness and many kind words from Mr.
Drury, an explanation was sought and obtained. Mr. Thompson, still
trembling with rage, informed his successor in the business, that the
lime-burning rogue had pretensions to be a poet, and wanted to swindle
people out of their money under pretext of publishing a volume of verses.
Picking up one of the prospectuses, Mr. Drury saw that this, in a sense,
was the case. But examining the 'Address to the Public,' he could not
help thinking that it was a prospectus singularly free from all
indications of puffing, and less still of roguery. Indeed, he thought
that he had never seen a more modest invitation to subscribe to a book;
or one which, in his own opinion, was more unfit to attain the object
with which it was written. The writer evidently depreciated his work
throughout, and took the lowliest and humblest view of his own doings.
That such a very unbusiness-like address could not possibly secure a
dozen subscribers, Mr. Drury knew but too well; but this made him the
more anxious to get some further knowledge of the modest author. He
accordingly paid the debt of fifteen shillings to the delighted Mr.
Thompson, and put Clare's prospectus in his pocket-book; and, having got
somewhat at home in his new business, settling the most urgent matters
connected with the transferment, started on a visit to Helpston, in
company with a friend.
Entering the little cottage, the two visitors, though they expected to
see poverty, were greatly surprised at the look of extreme destitution
visible everywhere. Old Parker Clare, now a cripple scarcely able to
move, was crouched in a corner, on what appeared to be a log of wood,
covered with rags; while his wife, pale and haggard in the extreme, was
warming her thin hands before a little fire of dry sticks. It was Sunday;
but there was no Sunday meal on the table, nor preparations for any
visible in the low, narrow room, the whole furniture of which consisted
of but a rickety table and a few broken-down chairs. The astonishment of
Mr. Drury and his friend rose when John Clare appeared on the threshold
of his humble dwelling. A man of short stature, with keen, eager eyes,
high forehead, long hair, falling down in wild and almost grotesque
fashion over his shoulders, and garments tattered and torn, altogether
little removed from rags--the figure thus presented to view was
strikingly unlike the picture of the rural poet which the Stamford
bookseller had formed in his own mind. John Clare, shy and awkward as
ever, remained standing in the doorway, without uttering a word; while
Mr. Drury, on his part, did not know how to address this singular being.
The oppressive silence was broken at last by the remark of Drury's
friend, that they had come to subscribe to the 'Original Trifles,' a few
manuscript specimens of which, he said, they would be glad to see. John
Clare did not like the remark, nor the patronizing tone in which it was
uttered, and bluntly informed the inquirer that nearly all his verses
were in the possession of Mr. Henson, of Market-Deeping, who had agreed
to print them. The further question as to how many subscribers he had for
his poems, irritated Clare still more, eliciting the answer that this was
a matter between him and Mr. Henson. Mr. Drury, with superior tact, now
saw that it was high time to change the conversation, which he did by
asking leave to sit down, and exchange a few words with 'Mr. Clare' and
his parents. Addressing old Parker Clare and his wife in a friendly
manner, stroking the cat on the hearth, and sending a little boy,
lounging about the door, for a bottle of ale, he at last succeeded in
breaking the ice.
To win confidence, Mr. Drury began giving an account of himself. He told
John Clare that he had taken the shop of Mr. Thompson, at Stamford, and
having found among the papers some prospectuses of a book of poetry, with
a specimen sonnet, he had felt anxious to pay a visit to the author.
After awarding some high praise to the sonnet of the 'Setting Sun,' he
next asked Clare whether the publication of the poems had been definitely
agreed upon between him and Mr. Henson, of Market-Deeping.
'No,' answered John Clare, beginning to be won over by the frankness of
his visitor. To further questions, carefully worded, he replied, that as
yet he had only seven subscribers--nominally seven; in reality only one,
the Rev. Mr. Mounsey, of the Stamford Grammar-school--and that Mr. Henson
refused to commence printing the poems, unless the sum of fifteen pounds
was advanced to him.
There now was a moment's pause, broken by Mr. Drury, who said, addressing
Clare, 'Well, if you have made no agreement with Mr. Henson, and will
entrust me with your poems, I will undertake to print them without any
advance of money, and leave you the profits, after deducting my
expenses.'
John Clare's heart rose within him when he heard these words, and but for
the pompous man at Mr. Drury's side, he would have run up and pressed the
good bookseller to his heart. 'Yes, you shall have all my papers,' he
eagerly exclaimed; 'shall have them as soon as I get them back from
Market-Deeping. And I can show you a few verses at once.' Which saying,
he left the room, returning in a few minutes with a queer bundle of
odd-sized scraps of paper, tied round with a thick rope, and scribbled
over, in an almost illegible manner, in all directions. At the top of the
bundle was a poem, beginning, 'My love, thou art a nosegay sweet,' which
Mr. Drury had no sooner deciphered, than he shook Clare warmly by the
hand.
'I think that will do,' he exclaimed, with some enthusiasm, looking at
his companion.
The latter fancied he ought to say something. 'Mr. Clare, I shall be
happy to see you to dinner, any of these days,' he exclaimed, with a
dignified nod and gracious smile. Thereupon, both Mr. Drury and Mr.
Newcomb took their farewell, Clare once more promising that he would take
his papers to the 'New Public Library,' as soon as obtained from
Market-Deeping.
On the threshold, Mr. Newcomb was seized with a new idea. 'If you get the
manuscripts from Deeping, Mr. Clare, we shall be glad to see you,' he
exclaimed; 'if not, we can say nothing further about the matter.' Thus
the friendly visitor got rid of the overwhelming fear of giving a dinner
to a poor man for nothing. However, John Clare never in his life troubled
Mr. Newcomb of Stamford for a dinner.
Disagreeable, and almost offensive, as the conversation of one of his
visitors had been to John Clare, he was very much pleased with that of
the other. For Mr. Edward Drury he felt a real liking, and deeming the
proposition which the latter had made exceedingly liberal, he at once set
to work carrying the proposal into execution. Fearing that Mr. Henson
might, possibly, put obstacles in his way, John persuaded his mother to
go to Market-Deeping and fetch his poems. The good old dame gladly
fulfilled her son's wish, and the next morning trudged over to the
neighbouring town. Clever diplomatist, like all ladies, young or old, she
managed to get, with some difficulty, her son's bundle of many-coloured
papers, in the midst of which stuck, like the hard kernel in a soft plum,
a stout, linen-bound book. John, over-anxious now to possess his verses,
awaited the result of the journey half-way between Deeping and Helpston,
near the village of Maxey. Here both mother and son sat down in a field,
the latter examining his paper bundle with great care. It was all right;
nothing was missing, not even the pitch-sealed document containing the
prospectus of the 'Original Trifles.' Joyful at heart, the two went back
to the little cottage, already expanded, in John's imagination, into a
large comfortable house. The first difficulty of getting them printed
overcome, the success of his poems was to John Clare a matter of no doubt
whatever. His fancy painted to him, in glowing colours, what honour they
would bring him, what friends, and what, worldly reward. He would be
enabled to get a nice dwelling for his old parents, abundance of good
cheer for them, and abundance of good books for himself. And then--his
heart swelled at the thought--he would be able to carry home his beloved
mistress, his 'Patty of the Vale.' The idea made him dance along the
road; and he kissed his mother, and the good old dame began dancing, too,
all through the green fields, in which the birds wore singing, and the
flowers bending their faces in the wind.
On the following morning, John Clare walked to Stamford with his papers,
handing them over to Mr. Drury. The latter presented him with a guinea,
as a sort of purchase-money 'on hand,' encouraging him, at the same time,
to write more verses, and to complete all the remaining manuscript poetry
in his possession, John went home elated with joy, promising to return to
Stamford at the end of a week. To John Clare it was a week of joy, while
Mr. Edward Drury, on his part, felt somewhat uneasy in his mind. He was a
man of good education, a relative of Mr. John Taylor--head of the
formerly eminent publishing firm of Taylor and Hessey, Fleet Street,
London--but, though with fair natural gifts, and a lover of poetry, was
not exactly a judge of literary productions. John Clare's sonnet 'To the
Setting Sun,' which had first attracted his attention, looked well in its
printed and corrected form; but the rest of the manuscript poems, when he
came to look over them, appeared to him to possess little or no value.
Written on dirty bits of coarse paper, ill-spelt, full of grammatical
blunders, and without any punctuation whatever, it required, indeed, a
judge of more than ordinary capacity to pronounce on the intrinsic
poetical value of these productions. Mr. Drury, having spent a day in
scanning over the uncouth papers, began to feel very uneasy, doubting
whether he had not promised too much in agreeing that he would print
them, and also whether he had not paid too dear for them already in
giving John Clare a guinea. Full of these doubts, yet not wishing to make
a mistake in the matter, he resolved to submit the question to a higher
tribunal. One of his customers, the Rev. Mr Twopenny, incumbent of Little
Casterton, had the reputation of a most learned critic, having published
various theological and other treatises; and he being the only literary
man known to Mr. Drury in or near Stamford, the owner of the 'New Public
Library' resolved to make his appeal to him. Clare's rough bundle of
verses accordingly found its way to Little Casterton parsonage, to the
great surprise of the learned minister, who, though deep in theology,
Hebrew, and Greek, knew, probably, much less of the value of English
verse than even Mr. Drury. This, however, did not prevent the learned man
from giving an opinion, for having examined the blurred and somewhat
unclean MSS. submitted to him, and finding them full of many blunders in
grammar and spelling, he expressed himself in a decisive manner to the
effect that the so-called poetry was a mere mass of useless rubbish. Mr.
Edward Drury felt much downcast when he received this oracular note,
which happened to come in on the very morning of the day arranged for the
second visit of the poet of Helpston.
When John Clare came into the shop in High Street, joyful and excited,
with another large bundle of rope-tied poetry under his arm, Mr. Drury
received him with a somewhat elongated face. Instead of expressing a wish
to see the new manuscripts, he told his visitor, after some hesitation,
that unexpected circumstances prevented him from carrying out the
promised publication of the poems at the moment, and that he would have
to postpone it for some time. John Clare was ready to burst out crying;
the blow came so unexpectedly that he did not know what to think of it.
Although with little experience of the world, he saw perfectly well, from
Mr. Drury's manner, that something unfavourable had occurred to produce a
change respecting the poems. After a short pause, summoning up courage,
he pressed his patron to explain the matter. Thereupon the letter of the
Rev. Mr. Twopenny was handed to Clare. He read it over; read it once,
twice; and then grasped the counter to prevent himself from falling to
the ground. It was the first harsh literary criticism the poor poet had
to submit to in his life. The blood rushed to his face; his hands
clinched the fatal letter, as if to annihilate its existence. After a
while, he could not contain himself any longer, but bursting into tears,
ran out of the shop. Good-natured Mr. Drury saw that he had made a
mistake--perhaps a great, and certainly a cruel mistake. He rushed after
his humble friend, and brought him back to the shop, and into the parlour
behind, there soothing him as best he could. It was easy to persuade John
Clare that the Rev. Mr. Twopenny's opinion was, after all, but the
opinion of one man; that men differed much in almost everything, and in
nothing less than the value they set upon poetry. The remarks were so
evidently true, that the much-humbled poet brightened up visibly;
brightened up still more when Mr. Drury got a bottle of old ale from the
cupboard and began filling two glasses. Viewed through this medium, the
future looked much more cheery to John Clare; the world, there seemed no
doubt, would appreciate good poetry, though the Rev. Mr. Twopenny did
not. Having got his poetical friend into this happy mood, Mr. Drury
talked to him seriously and sensibly. He advised John Clare to seek work
immediately, either as a farm-labourer or lime-burner, and to devote only
his spare time to the writing of verses. As to the verses already
written, he promised to lay them before other judges, and to publish
them, at any rate, more or less corrected and altered. This, too, sounded
hopeful, and when John Clare shook hands with the owner of the 'New
Public Library' in the High Street of Stamford, he thought he was a good
deal nearer his long cherished object than he had ever been before.