SUCCESS.

In October, 1819, Clare left the lime-kiln at Bridge-Casterton, where he

had been working during the greater part of the year, and returned to

Helpston. He did so partly on account of a new reduction of wages, but

partly also because suffering from constant ill-health. His old enemy,

the fever of the fens, continued its attacks at intervals, and he found

that he was less able to withstand the foe in the lime-kiln than when

working in the open air. This time he was fortunate enough to find

regular work as a farm labourer in the neighbourhood of Helpston, and

having got somewhat better, he set with new energy to thrashing and

ploughing. His visits to Mr. Drury and Mr. Gilchrist henceforth became

somewhat more scarce. Though conscious of being deeply indebted to both

these friends, he could not bear being constantly reminded of this

indebtedness in the patronizing air which they assumed, and the high tone

of superiority which they arrogated to themselves in their intercourse

with him. With Mr. Gilchrist, especially, he found fault for attempting

to guide him in a manner which, he held, this gentleman had no right to

do. John Clare had become acquainted, in the spring of 1819, with the

Rev. Mr. Holland, minister of the congregational church at

Market-Deeping. Mr. Holland, a well-educated man, with a fine

appreciation of poetry, happened to see Clare's prospectus, with the

sonnet to the 'Setting Sun,' at a farm-house near Northborough, and being

struck with the verses, as well as with the account which the farmer, who

knew Clare, gave of the author, he at once went in search of the poet.

After some trouble, he discovered him in the lime-kiln at

Bridge-Casterton, just while Clare was resting from his work, and

scribbling poems upon the usual shreds of paper spread out on the crown

of his hat. Mr. Holland, much astonished at the sight, forthwith entered

into conversation, and being a simple man, with nothing of the patron

about him, at once won Clare's affection. The acquaintance thus begun

soon ripened into friendship, with, however, but scant personal

intercourse, owing to the many occupations of the active dissenting

minister, and the distance of his place of residence from Casterton. But

John Clare did not fail to lay most of the verses he was writing before

his clerical friend, and was delighted to meet always with hearty

encouragement. 'If this kind of poetry does not succeed,' Mr. Holland

said on one occasion, looking over Clare's shoulder, while the latter was

writing the 'Village Funeral;' 'if this kind of poetry does not succeed,

the world deserves a worse opinion than I am inclined to give it.' These

words made a deep impression upon Clare, and he kept on repeating them to

himself whenever his mind was fluttered with doubts of success and

apprehensions of failure. Very naturally, upon the man who had cheered

him with such hearty and well-timed approval, Clare looked as one of his

best friends, and lost no occasion to proclaim the fact.

He told the story of his acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Holland, as at

many other times, so at the first interview with Mr. Gilchrist. The

latter seemed rather displeased when he heard that the young rustic,

presented to his patronage, was acquainted with a dissenting minister,

although professing to be a member of the Church of England. Mr.

Gilchrist took at once occasion of rebuking him for this conduct, and in

the account given of Clare in the 'London Magazine,' alluded to the

subject at some length, explaining that 'Mr. Holland, a Calvinistic

preacher in an adjoining hamlet, had paid him some attention, but his

means of aiding the needy youth was small, whatever might have been his

wish, and he has now quitted his charge.' The statement was untrue in

several respects; for Mr. Holland was neither a 'Calvinistic preacher,'

nor stationed in a 'hamlet,' nor had he 'quitted his charge,' that is,

given up his friendship with Clare. To make at least the ultimate

assertion true, Mr. Gilchrist, after having been acquainted for some time

with John, insisted that he should cease all communication with the

'Calvinistic preacher.' This Clare refused at once, looking upon his

intercourse with Mr. Holland as an entirely private matter, not in the

least connected with religious opinions. The refusal brought about a

great coldness on the part of Mr. Gilchrist, which Clare no sooner

perceived than he absented himself from his house. This was very

unfortunate; but could scarcely be helped for the moment. John Clare was

totally unable to understand the orthodox high-church principles of the

former student of Magdalene College, while Mr. Gilchrist, on his part,

was incapacitated from appreciating the lofty feeling of independence

that existed in the breast of the poor lime-burner and farm labourer. In

his account in the 'London Magazine,' Mr. Gilchrist's estimate of the

poet's character was expressed in the words:--'Nothing could exceed the

meekness, and simplicity, and diffidence with which he answered the

various inquiries concerning his life and habits;' and it was upon this

supposed 'meekness' that all subsequent treatment of Clare by him and

other friends and patrons was based. But it was an estimate of character

entirely false. Though meek and humble outwardly, the consequence of

early training and later habit, John Clare had all the towering pride of

genius--more than this, of genius misunderstood.

The year of 1820 broke dull and gloomy upon Clare. He had expected his

poems to be published in the month of November, or the beginning of

December previous; but was without any information whatever, either from

Stamford or London, and did not know when the long-expected book would

appear, or whether it would appear at all. The little money he had

received from Mr. Drury at various periods--some twenty pounds

altogether--had been spent by this time, and, being out of work, he was

once more face to face with grim poverty. Day after day passed, yet no

news, till, in the last week of January, the smiling face of a friend

suddenly lighted up the gloom. It was a rainy day, and Clare was unable

to take his usual ramble through the fields, when the clattering of hoofs

was heard outside the little cottage. A man on horseback alighted at the

door, and shaking off the dripping wet, rushed into the room, where Clare

and his father and mother were sitting round the little fire. It was the

Rev. Mr. Holland. 'Am I not a good prophet?' he cried, running towards

John, and shaking him warmly by the hand. John looked up in astonishment;

he had not the slightest notion of what his friend meant or alluded to.

But Mr. Holland kept on laughing and dancing, shaking himself like a wet

poodle. 'Am I not a good prophet?' he repeated, again and again. The long

face of his melancholy young friend at last brought him to a sense of the

actual state of affairs. 'You have had no letter from your publishers?'

he inquired. 'None whatever,' was the reply. 'Then let me be the first

herald of good news,' cried Mr. Holland; 'I can assure you that your

utmost expectations have been realized. I have had a letter from a friend

in London, this morning, telling me that your poems are talked of by

everybody; in fact, are a great success.' How the words cheered the heart

of John Clare! He fancied he had a slight touch of the ague in the

morning; but it seemed to fall like scales off his body, and he thought

he had never been so well all his life. Mr. Holland was about getting

into his wet saddle again. 'Oh, do stop a little longer,' said John,

imploringly; 'have something to eat and drink.' And he looked at his

father and mother; and father and mother looked at him. Alas! they all

knew too well that there was nothing in the house to eat; and no money

wherewith to purchase food. Good Mr. Holland, at a glance, perceived the

actual state of affairs. 'Well,' he exclaimed, 'I intended having some

dinner at the inn round the corner; but if you will allow me, I will have

it sent here, and take it in your company.' And in a twinkling of the

eye, he was out of doors, leading his horse, which had been tied to a

post, towards the 'Blue Bell.' He was back in ten minutes; and in another

ten minutes there appeared the potboy from the 'Blue Bell' carrying a

huge tray, smoking hot. Thrice the messenger from the 'Blue Bell' came

and returned, each time carrying something heavy in his fat, red hands,

and going away with empty trays. When he had turned his back for the

third and last time, they all sat down around the little ricketty table,

the Rev. Mr. Holland, John, his father and mother. 'Every good gift, and

every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of

lights,' said the minister. 'Amen!' fervently exclaimed John.

The good news of which the Rev. Mr. Holland had been the bearer was soon

confirmed on all sides. Early the next morning there came a messenger

from Stamford, asking Clare to visit Mr. Drury as well as Mr. Gilchrist.

He called first at the house of the latter, and was very graciously

received, being informed that his poems were published, and that Mr.

William Gifford, editor of the 'Quarterly Review' had taken a great

interest in him and his book. John Clare, who had never heard either of

Mr. Gifford, or the 'Quarterly,' listened to the news with much

indifference, to the evident surprise of his friend. Leaving Mr.

Gilchrist, he went next door, to Mr. Drury, and, entering the shop, fell

back with astonishment on hearing a tall aristocratic-looking elderly

gentleman inquire for 'John Clare's Poems.' It sounded like sweet music

to his ear, the cracked voice of the old gentleman. Mr. Drury, not

noticing the entrance of Clare, took a small octavo volume from the top

of a parcel of similar books lying on his counter, and handed it to the

gentleman, informing his customer at the same time that the poems were

'universally applauded both by the critics of London and the public.'

John kept firm in his corner near the door; he thought his friend Drury

the most eloquent speaker he had ever heard. 'And, pray, who is this John

Clare?' asked the tall aristocratic-looking gentleman. 'He is ...' began

Mr. Drury, but suddenly stopped short, seeing a whole row of his books

tumble to the ground. John Clare, in his terrible excitement, had pressed

too close towards an overhanging shelf of heavily-bound folios and

quartos, which came down with a tremendous crash. It seemed as if an

earthquake was overturning the 'New Public Library;' and the astonishment

of the owner did not subside when he saw his poetical friend creeping out

from under the ruins of five-score dictionaries, gazetteers, and

account-books. Having somewhat recovered his composure, Mr. Drury, with a

grave mien, turned towards the tall gentleman, exclaiming, 'I beg to

introduce to you Mr. Clare, the poet.' The gentleman burst out laughing

at the intensely ludicrous scene before him; yet checked himself

instantly, seeing the colour mount into Clare's face. 'I beg you a

thousand pardons, Mr. Clare,' he exclaimed; 'I hope you have not been

hurt.' And as if to compensate for his rude hilarity, the tall gentleman

entered into a conversation with Clare, ending by an invitation to visit

him at his residence on the following day: 'Mr. Drury will give you my

address; good morning.' John Clare made no reply, and only bowed; he did

not feel much liking for his new acquaintance. However, when Mr. Drury

told him that the stranger was General Birch Reynardson, a gentleman of

large property, residing near Stamford, on an estate called Holywell

Park, and that his acquaintance might be of the greatest benefit for the

success of his book, if not for himself, Clare consented to pay the

desired visit. The allusion to his published poems by Mr. Drury was

pleasant to his ears, and Clare eagerly sat down to examine _his_ book.

It was not by any means a handsome volume in outward appearance, being

bound in thick blue cardboard, with a small piece of coarse linen on the

back. But the coarseness of the material was relieved by the inscription,

'Clare's Poems,' printed on the back in large letters; and the plain

appearance of the book was forgotten over the title-page, 'Poems

descriptive of rural life and scenery, by John Clare, a Northamptonshire

peasant.' He eagerly ran his eye over the poems, and was more than ever

pleased with them in their new dress, with slightly altered spelling, and

all the signs of punctuation added. There was only one part of the book

with which he was not pleased, which was the part headed 'introduction.'

It gave an untrue account of his life, and, what was still more galling

to the pride of the poet, spoke of his poverty as the main point

deserving public attention. All this deeply hurt his feelings;

nevertheless the predominating sentiment of joy and satisfaction

prevented him saying anything on the subject to Mr. Drury. He stayed some

hours at the shop, and it was arranged that early on the next morning he

should call again to get ready for the important visit to General

Reynardson. When on the point of leaving, Mr. Drury put a letter in

Clare's hands. 'I had almost forgotten it,' he said; 'it has been lying

at the shop for several days. I suppose it is from your sweetheart.'

The letter was from the 'sweetheart;' but a very melancholy letter it was

nevertheless. Poor Martha Turner told her lover, what he knew long ago,

that she was about becoming a mother before being a wife; that her

situation was known to her parents; that her father and mother refused to

forgive her frailty; and that she was cruelly treated and on the point of

being expelled from under their roof. John Clare read the letter on the

roadside, between Stamford and Helpston; he read it over again and again,

and his burning tears fell upon the little sheet of paper. A fierce

conflict of passions and desires arose within his soul. He fancied that

he did not love Martha Turner half so well as the pretty little lass of

Southorp; he fancied that since his first overwhelming affection for

'Mary,' he had never been devoted, heart and soul, so much to any one as

to Betty Sell. Yet to Martha Turner, once his sweet 'Patty of the Vale,'

he knew he was bound by even stronger ties than those of affection and

love--he trembled thinking thus, yet held firm to the nobler element in

his breast. The secret struggle, short and intense, ended with a firm

resolve that duty should conquer passion.

Early on the day following, John Clare made his appearance at Mr. Drury's

shop. The busy tradesman had already provided an outfit for his friend,

whom he meant to patronize more than ever, now that his poems promised to

be successful. In the course of half an hour, John found himself clothed

in garments such as he had never before worn. He had a black coat,

waistcoat, and trousers, a silk necktie, and a noble, though very

uncomfortable, high hat; while his heavy shoes seemed changed by a

covering of brilliant polish. Surveying his figure, thus altered, in a

looking-glass, John was greatly satisfied with himself, and with a proud

step marched off towards Holywell Park. General Birch Reynardson received

him with great affability; at once took him by the hand, and led him into

the library. It was the finest collection of books Clare had ever seen,

and he warmly expressed his admiration of it. After a while, the General

took a small quarto, bound in red morocco, from the shelves, and showing

it to his guest, asked him what he thought of the contents. They were

poems written by the general's father; and Clare, seeing the fact stated

on the title-page, was polite enough to declare them to be very

beautiful. Another red-morocco volume thereupon came down from the

shelves, full of manuscript poetry of the General's own composition. John

Clare began to see that genius was hereditary in the family, and

expressing as much to his host, earned a grateful smile, and a warm

pressure of the hand. He was asked next to promenade in the gardens till

dinner was ready.

The gardens of Holywell Park were laid out with great taste, and John

Clare soon lost himself in admiration of the many beautiful views opened

before him. While wandering along the banks of an artificial lake, fed by

a cascade at the upper end, he was joined by a young lady of

extraordinary beauty. He believed it was the wife of the General; yet,

though showing the deepest respect to the lady who addressed him while

walking at his side, he could not help looking up into her face now and

then, in mute admiration of her exquisite loveliness. The General, after

a while, joined the promenaders, when John, somewhat to his surprise,

learnt that his fair companion was not the hostess of the establishment,

but the governess. Notwithstanding the presence of the master of the

house, the young lady continued speaking to Clare in the freest and most

unrestrained manner, bewitching him alike by the tones of her voice and

the soft words of flattering praise she poured into his ear. She told him

that she had read twice through the volume of poetry which the General

had brought home the preceding evening, having sat up for this purpose

the greater part of the night. Clare's face got scarlet when he heard

these bewitching words; never before had praise sounded so sweet to his

ear; never before had it come to him from such honeyed lips. He was

beside himself for joy, when, as a proof of her good memory, she began

reciting one of his poems: 'My love, thou art a nosegay sweet.' And when

she came to the last line, 'And everlasting love thee,' Clare's eyes and

those of the beautiful girl met, and he felt her glances burning into his

very soul. The general did not seem to take much notice of his

companions, being busy picking up stones in the footpath, and examining

the state of the grass on the borders of his flower beds. On returning

towards the house, he informed Clare that the servants were about sitting

down to their dinner, and told him to join them in the hall. The young

governess appeared intensely surprised at the words; she looked up, first

at the General and then at Clare. Probably it seemed to her a gross

insult that a poet should be sent to take his meal with the footmen and

scullery-maids. But Clare's face looked bright and serene; to him, as

much as to the master of the house, it appeared perfectly natural to be

returned to his proper social sphere, after a momentary dream-like rise

into higher social regions.

He walked into the hall, and humbly sat down at the lower end of the

servants' table. The big lackeys whispered among themselves, looking with

a haughty air upon the base intruder. John Clare heeded it not; his soul

was far away in a world of bliss. Before him, in his imagination still

hovered that sweet beautiful face which he had seen in the gardens; in

his ear still sounded the soft tones of her voice: 'And everlasting love

thee.' Thus he sat at the table, among the footmen and kitchen wenches,

tasting neither food nor drink--an object of utter contempt to his

neighbours. Before long, however, there came a message from the

housekeeper's room, inviting Clare to proceed to the select apartments of

this potent lady. He followed the servant mechanically, careless where he

was going; but was joyfully surprised on entering the room to see his

dream changed into reality. There, opposite the table, sat his beautiful

garden-companion, smiling more sweetly, and looking more exquisitely

enchanting than ever. She stretched out her little white hand, and Clare

sat down near her, utterly unmindful of the presence of the mistress of

the apartment, the lady housekeeper. The latter felt somewhat offended in

her dignity, yet overlooked it for the moment, being desirous to proffer

a request. Having succeeded in rousing Clare's attention, she informed

her visitor, with becoming condescension, that she was very fond of

poetry; also that she had a son who was very fond of poetry. But it so

happened that, though very fond of reading verses, neither she nor her

son was able to produce any. Now hearing, from her friend the governess,

that there was a poet in the house, she had taken the liberty to send for

him, to do some trifling work. What she wanted was an address of filial

love, as touching and affectionate as possible; this she would send to

her son, and her dear son would return it to her, signed by his own name.

She hoped it could be done at once, while she was getting the tea ready.

Could it be done at once? Clare started on hearing himself addressed a

second time by the high-toned lady--he did not remember a word of all

that had been said to him. But he bowed in silence, and the dignified

elderly person left the room to make the tea, firmly persuaded that her

poetry would be got ready in the meantime. When she was gone, Clare

looked up, and found a pair of burning eyes fixed upon him. He tried to

speak, but could not; the words, rising from his heart, seemed to perish

on his tongue. After a long pause, the young governess, flushed with

emotion, found courage to address her neighbour: 'I hope to see you

again, Mr. Clare; I hope you will write to me sometimes.' He had no time

to reply before the bell rang and a servant entered the room, reporting

that General Birch Reynardson wished to see John Clare before leaving.

The intimation was understood. John went up to the library, bowed before

his stately host, muttered a few words of thanks, he knew not exactly for

what, and left the house. When the gate closed after him, he felt as if

expelled from the garden of Eden.

Slowly he walked up the road, when suddenly a white figure started up on

his path. The young governess again stood before Clare. 'I could not hear

of your going,' cried the beautiful girl, her bright face suffused with

blushes, and her long auburn hair fluttering in the wind; 'I could not

hear of your going, without saying good-bye.' Clare again tried to speak,

and again the words died upon his lips. But she continued addressing him;

'Oh, do not forget to write to me,' she said earnestly, with a tinge of

melancholy in her soft voice. It thrilled through his soul, and opened

his lips at last. 'I will write,' he answered, 'and I will send you some

new poems.' Thus saying, he bent forward and took both her hands, and

their eyes met, full of unspeakable passion. But a sudden noise from the

distance startled Clare and his fair companion. There was a man on

horseback coming up with full speed, riding in the direction of Holywell

Park. The young governess softly loosened her hands, turned a last fond

look upon the poet, and fled away like a frightened hind into a

neighbouring wood.

John Clare hurried forward, his face flushed, his head trembling;

forgetful of all the things around him. At last, feeling exhausted, he

sat down on a stone, at the turning of two roads. The one of the roads

was leading to Stamford; the other to Bridge Casterton and Walkherd

Lodge. Clare felt like one entranced. Joy unutterable was struggling in

his bosom together with infinite sadness, and the wild pulsation of his

heart seemed to drive his blood, like living fire, to his very soul. And

he held his burning head in his hands, sitting at the corner of the two

roads. The image of the beautiful girl he had just left, an image more

perfect, more sweet and angelic than ever conceived by his imagination,

appeared standing in one of the roads, and the picture of a sad,

suffering woman, surrounded by angry parents, in the other. Lower sank

the sun on the horizon; it was beginning to get dark; but Clare still

kept sitting at the corner of the two roads, his throbbing head bent to

his knees. The clouds in the west glowed with a fierce purple, when he

started up at last. He started up and walked, swiftly and with firm step,

towards Walkherd Lodge. The clouds in the west seemed to glow with an

unearthly light.

'OPINIONS OF THE PRESS' AND CONSEQUENCES.

The London book-season of 1820 was a dull one. The number of books

published was very small, and there were but few extraordinary good or

extraordinary bad ones amongst them. All the 'reviewers' were at their

wits' end; for wit, sharp as a razor, must get dull over books

undeserving of praise, yet incapable of being 'cut up' with due

brilliancy of style. Into this mournful critical desert, there fell like

manna the 'Poems descriptive of rural life and scenery.' Mr. John Taylor

and his literary coadjutors had taken great pains to spread the news far

and wide that a new Burns had been discovered on the margin of the

Lincolnshire fens, and was to be publicly exhibited before a most

discerning public. There were low rumours, besides, that William Gifford

intended to place the new Burns on the pedestal of the 'Quarterly,'

spreading the fame of the humble poet into the most distant regions.

Accordingly, when the first volume of Clare's poems was published, on the

16th of January, 1820, there was an immediate rush to the shop of Messrs.

Taylor and Hessey, in Fleet Street. Before many days were over, a first

edition was exhausted; and before many weeks were gone, all the critical

reviews began singing the praises of the book. The 'Gentleman's

Magazine,' leading the van, got, eloquent over 'the unmixed and

unadulterated impression of the loveliness of nature,' contrasting it

with 'the riches, rules, and prejudices of literature;' the latter being

in allusion to a quarrel which the learned editor had just had with some

learned fellow-editors. Next followed the 'New Monthly Magazine,' the

reviewer of which informed a discerning public that 'Clare is strictly a

descriptive poet, and his daily occupation in the fields has given him

manifest advantages.' This profound remark made great impression, and was

quoted by Messrs. Taylor and Hessey in all their prospectuses; not even

the deepest thinkers disputing the thesis that if Clare had been born and

lived all his life in a cellar in the Seven Dials, his rural poetry might

be less truthful. The 'London Magazine,' belonging to the publishers of

Clare's poems, came modestly behind in critical praise, contenting

itself, in a review of five pages, with giving plentiful extracts from

the book, putting forward, at the same time, a somewhat undignified

appeal to public charity. The demand for the pence and shillings of the

charitable was, as stated in the review, 'made by one who has counselled

and superintended this interesting publication,' and the same authority

piteously invoked the aid of the nobility and gentry for 'this poor young

man.' When Clare came to see this article, some months after its

publication, he burst into a fit of indignation, and wrote an angry

letter to Mr. Drury; but with the sole result of hearing, on his next

visit to the Stamford Public Library, that he was not only a very poor,

but a very ungrateful young man.

The 'Eclectic Review,' reviewed Clare in a very flattering article; and

the 'Antijacobin Review,' 'Baldwin's London Magazine,' and a host of

other periodicals, followed suit, all dwelling upon the luminous aspect

of the poems, with pauperism as dark background. Last in the list, but

greatest, came the 'Quarterly,' with William Gifford at the helm. The

'Quarterly Review' of May, 1820, actually devoted nine pages to a

description and praise of Clare's poems, speaking of them as the most

interesting literary production of the day. The review was supposed to be

written by Mr. Gilchrist; but it was generally understood that the editor

of the 'Quarterly' himself corrected and altered the article,

strengthening its praise, and putting in some hearty, honest words about

Clare as a man, as well as a poet. Perhaps of all living authors, William

Gifford best understood John Clare, and felt thorough, and entire

sympathy with the attempt of this noble soul to struggle into light,

through all the haze of printers, publishers, and reviewers. Very likely

he might have loved Clare as a brother--had the poet not been an author.

William Gifford, as Southey truly remarks, 'had a heart full of kindness

for all living creatures, except authors; _them_ he regarded as a

fishmonger regards eels, or as Izaak Walton did slugs, worms, and frogs.'

Nevertheless, the 'Quarterly Review' praised Clare in a way which quite

astonished the book-makers of the day. After comparing him with Burns and

Bloomfield, and dwelling upon the fact that his social position was far

lower than that of either these two poets, the writer in the

'Quarterly'--here Mr. Gifford himself--gave some sound advice to Clare.

'We entreat him,' the article ran, 'to continue something of his present

occupations; to attach himself to a few in the sincerity of whose

friendship he can confide, and to suffer no temptations of the idle and

the dissolute to seduce him from the quiet scenes of his youth to the

hollow and heartless society of cities; to the haunts of men who would

court and flatter him while his name was new, and who, when they had

contributed to distract his attention and impair his health, would cast

him off unceremoniously to seek some other novelty.' These words of true

advice proved almost prophetic in the life of the poet.

The article in the 'Quarterly Review' had the immediate effect of making

John Clare the lion of the day. Rossini set one of his songs to music;

Madame Vestris recited others before crowded audiences at Covent Garden,

and the chief talk of London for the season was about the verses of the

'Northamptonshire peasant.' His fame descended to Northamptonshire

itself, and far into the misty realm of the fen-bound regions. The Right

Honourable Charles William, Viscount Milton, was somewhat startled on the

waves of this fame reaching Milton Park. The idea that for one five-pound

note he might have secured part of this high renown to himself, figuring

in the 'Quarterly Review' as a noble patron of literature, and protector

of heaven-horn genius slumbering in obscurity, made him feel intensely

vexed with himself. Reflecting upon the subject, it struck his lordship

that it would be best to take Clare still under his protection, in view

of new editions open to dedication. Full of this idea, a messenger was

despatched at once to Helpston, with a gracious order that the poet

should present himself on the following morning before the noble

Viscount. John Clare, remembering but too keenly the past, was unwilling

to obey his lordship's command; but the tears of his father and mother

made him change his resolution. Consequently, on the morning appointed, a

Sunday, he went to Milton Park, and having had the honour of lunching

with the footmen in the kitchen, was ushered into the presence of his

lordship. Viscount Milton was exceedingly affable, took Clare by the

hand, sat him down on a stool, and at once explained to him why his

letter respecting the dedication of the poems had not been answered. His

lordship had been excessively busy at the time, making preparations for a

journey, and in the hurry of these labours had unfortunately forgotten to

send a reply. Now her ladyship entered the room, in turn addressing the

poet. After questioning him on all points, birth, parentage, weekly

income, religion, moral feelings, and state of health, Clare was finally

asked whether he had found already a patron. His vacant look expressed

that he did not know even the meaning of the word patron. To the plainer

question, whether some nobleman or gentleman of the neighbourhood had

promised him anything, Clare truthfully replied in the negative. There

was nobody who had made offers of assistance, except Mr. Edward Drury,

bookseller, of Stamford; and his promises, John was sorry to say, were

rather vague. Thereupon the noble viscount warned Clare to be on his

guard against all publishers and booksellers; not explaining, however,

how to protect himself, or how to do without them. Meanwhile the Earl

Fitzwilliam had entered the room, and added his voice to that of his son

in a warning against booksellers. After a little more conversation, Lord

Milton put his hand in his pocket, and withdrawing a quantity of gold,

threw it into Clare's lap. John was humbled and confused beyond measure.

His first impulse was to return the money instantaneously; but a moment's

thought convinced him that this would be excessively rude, and he

contented himself, therefore, with a feeble protest against his

lordship's kindness. He now left, making an awkward bow, his pockets

heavy under the weight of gold, and his brain heavier under a feeling of

deep humiliation, akin to shame. However, this feeling was dispelled in

the fresh outer air. He thought of his poor father and mother at home,

and the comfort all his gold would bring them; and getting almost joyful

at the thought, sat down at the roadside to count his golden sovereigns.

There were seventeen pieces, all bright and new, fresh from the Mint.

Clare had not had so much money in his possession in all his life, and he

got frightened almost in looking at the glittering treasure before him.

To secure it well, he took off his neck-tie, wrapped the sovereigns in

it, and ran home as fast as his legs would carry him. There were happy

faces that night in the little cottage at Helpston.

John Clare's invitation to Milton Park created much astonishment in the

village; but the wonder increased when, a few days after, another

liveried messenger inquired his way to Clare's dwelling. The new envoy

was of far more gorgeous aspect than the former one, being the

representative of the greatest lord in the county, the most noble the

Marquis of Exeter. His lordship had seen the 'Quarterly Review,' as well

as Viscount Milton; and his lordship had learnt, moreover, that Clare had

been called to Milton Park, for purposes easily imagined. The chief of

the elder line of the Cecils thereupon determined not to be outdone by

his petty Whig rivals, the Fitzwilliams, with which object in view he

summoned the poet in his turn. The gorgeous scarlet messenger who arrived

at Helpston, to the wonderment of the whole village, brought a letter

from the Hon. Mr. Pierrepont, brother-in-law of the marquis, desiring

Clare to make his appearance on the following morning, precisely at

eleven o'clock, at Burghley Hall. To this summons there was no opposition

on the part of Clare, for to resist the will of the Marquis of Exeter,

within twenty miles of Stamford, was deemed nothing less than treason by

any inhabitant of the district. John was ready to go to Burghley Hall the

next morning; but it rained heavily, and the cobbler had not returned the

shoes entrusted to him for mending. Could John present himself without

shoes on a rainy morning, before the most noble the Marquis of Exeter?

That was the question gravely debated between Parker Clare, his wife, and

his son. It was decided that John could not go without shoes; and the

village cobbler refusing to return his trust, because engaged in

threshing, the important visit to Burghley Hall had to be postponed till

the day after. John went quite early, trembling inwardly to show himself

before the great lord, whose very valet was looked upon in the country as

a man of high estate. His fears increased a thousandfold when arrived at

the gate of the palatial residence, and being told, on giving his name to

the porter, that he ought to have come the day before. On Clare making

his excuse on account of the state of the weather, the high functionary

got very angry. 'The weather?' he exclaimed, excitedly; 'you mean to say

that you have not obeyed his lordship's commands simply because it was a

wet day! I tell you, you ought to have come if it rained knives and

forks.' This frightened Clare beyond measure; he turned round upon his

heels and was about running away, when he was stopped by a footman. The

arrival of Clare had just been announced to the marquis, and there was an

order to admit him instantaneously to the presence of his lordship. So

the tall footman, without further ceremony, took Clare by the arm, and

hurried him up a marble staircase, through innumerable passages, and a

maze of halls and corridors which quite bewildered the poor poet. The

sound of his heavy hob-nailed shoes on the polished floor made him

tremble, no less than the sight of his mud-bespattered garments among all

the splendid upholstery, through which the gorgeous lackey was guiding

his steps. At last, after a transit through painted halls which seemed

endless, Clare stood before the noble marquis. His lordship received the

humble visitor in a quiet, unaffected manner; and the mind of the poet

was relieved of an immense burthen when he found the great lord to be a

decidedly amiable and cheerful young man of his own age, with manners

pleasantly contrasting with those of the aristocratic porter at the gate,

and the splendid footman who had shown him the way. The marquis, with

great tact, questioned Clare as to his antecedents; asked to see some of

his manuscript verses--which the Hon. Mr. Pierrepont, in his summons, had

ordered him to bring--and, having inspected these, informed the

astonished poet that he would grant him an annuity of fifteen guineas for

life. John Clare scarcely believed his own ears; the announcement of this

liberality came so unexpected, and appeared to him so extraordinary, that

he did not know what to say, or how to express his thanks. Quitting his

lordship in utter confusion, he felt almost giddy on finding himself in

the hall outside. There were immense passages stretching away to right

and left, leading into unknown realms of magnificence, into which the

poor poet was trembling to venture. The marquis, who, with great

politeness, had accompanied his visitor to the door, on seeing his

embarrassment undertook the part of guide, leading Clare to the outskirts

of the palatial labyrinth, and here handing him over to a valet, with

instructions to let his guest partake of the common dinner in the

servants' hall. It was the third dinner in the hall of noble patrons to

which Clare was ushered--clearly showing that, however much differing on

other subjects, the admirers of high literature in Northamptonshire held

that the true place of a rural poet was among the footmen and

kitchen-maids.