mark.'
Little more than a month after the wedding, a child was born to Clare; a
little girl, baptized Anna Maria. Mrs. Clare for a while remained at her
father's house; but as soon as she was able to move, went to live with
her husband, at the humble dwelling of his parents at Helpston, which,
though scarcely large enough to contain the aged couple, had now to
accommodate two families. Yet Clare felt happy in this narrow cottage,
for, humble as it was, it presented to him a thousand cherished
associations, and now became dearer than ever to his heart, as sheltering
not only his beloved parents, but his dear wife and child. All his life
long the Helpston cottage was to Clare his 'home of homes.'
Before removing with his young wife to his native village, the poet had
to go through some exciting adventures in a journey to London. When one
day at the house of Mr. Gilchrist, at Stamford, there arrived a letter
from Mr. John Taylor, speaking in high terms of the success of the 'Poems
of Rural Life,' which brought about the question, addressed to Clare:
'Should you like to go with me on a short visit to London?' John Clare
was delighted at the idea, and eagerly expressed his wish to go;
whereupon it was arranged that he and Mr. Gilchrist should set out on the
journey at the end of a week. Patty cried when the news was brought to
her; and old Parker Clare and his wife cried still more. In a few hours,
the report spread like wildfire through Helpston that John Clare was
going to London. There was but one man in the village who had ever been
to the big town far away, and his account of it had filled the hearts of
all the Helpston people with terror. This man, an old farm-labourer
called James Burridge, as soon as he heard of Clare's intention to
undertake the dreaded journey, hurried up to entreat him to abandon the
plan. To enforce his advice, he gave a vivid description of the horrors
awaiting the unwary traveller in the great metropolis, and the fearful
dangers that beset his path on every side. One half the houses of London,
he said, were inhabited by swindlers, thieves, and murderers, and a good
part of the other half by their helpers and confederates, all on the
look-out for the good people from the country. To catch their victims
with the greater certainty, there were trap-doors in the pavement of the
most frequented streets, which, when touched, let the wayfarer down into
a deep cellar, and into a kettle of boiling water, surrounded by
cut-throats who made all escape from the kettle impossible. The
assassins, having killed the unhappy victim, and taken all his property,
to the very shirt on his back, finally--culmination of horrors!--sold the
body to the doctors. Such was the account which James Burridge gave of
London, with the effect of striking terror into the hearts of his
hearers. Parker Clare and his wife, with bitter tears, entreated their
son not to leave them; and John himself, though slightly incredulous
about some of the items in the tales of his friend Burridge, began to be
seriously alarmed. But he was ashamed to confess his fears to Mr.
Gilchrist; the more so, as a mere casual mentioning of the street-traps
and the kettles of boiling water produced immoderate laughter. He
therefore made his mind up to start on his dangerous journey like a hero.
After bidding solemn farewell to wife and parents, and dressing, by the
advice of James Burridge, in his worst clothes, to be the less a mark for
thieves and cut-throats, John Clare very early one morning in April,
1820, started for Stamford, and having met Mr. Gilchrist took his seat
precisely at seven o'clock in the 'Regent,' a famous four-horse coach,
warranted to take passengers in thirteen hours to London. There was
little talk on the road; John Clare had enough to do to look out of the
window, marvelling at all the new sights open to his eyes. Thus the
travellers passed through Stilton, Huntingdon, St. Neot's, Temsford, and
Biggleswade, until at last, soon after dusk, the fiery glow of the
horizon announced the neighbourhood of the big city. On being told that
they were about to enter London, Clare became much excited; but there was
time for the excitement to cool, for more than two hours elapsed before
the heavy coach rumbled from the soft high road up to the hard-paved
streets. At last, at nine o'clock in the evening, the 'Regent' stopped in
front of the 'George and Blue Boar,' in Holborn, and John Clare alighted,
utterly bewildered with all that he had seen during the day in the
greatest journey he had ever made in his life.
Mr. Gilchrist took his friend to the house of his brother-in-law, a
German named Burkhardt, proprietor of a jeweller's and watchmaker's shop
in the Strand. Herr Burkhardt, a well-to-do tradesman, with a rubicund
face and an inexhaustible stock of good humour, was excessively fond of
showing strangers the sights of London; and his guests had no sooner
arrived, than he wanted to take them to Covent Garden theatre. John Clare
was very anxious to go, on hearing that Madam Vestris was reciting one of
his poems at this place of entertainment; but finding that Octavius
Gilchrist was disinclined to rise from his comfortable armchair, and with
secret apprehension of the trap-doors and vessels of boiling water, he
declared himself likewise in favour of the arm-chair, with hot whiskey
and water. Worthy Herr Burkhardt had his full share of satisfaction the
next day, when he had the pleasure of taking his brother-in-law and
friend to Westminster Abbey, the Tower, Smithfield market, Newgate, and
Vauxhall Gardens. John Clare was not so much astonished as disappointed
with all that his eyes beheld in the great metropolis. Standing upon
Westminster Bridge, he compared the River Thames with Whittlesea Mere,
and found it wanting; the sight of the Tower, of Newgate, and of
Smithfield, engendered not the least admiration; and as for the Poet's
Corner in the Abbey, he loudly declared that he could see no poetry
whatever about it. But what hurt the feelings of Herr Burkhardt most of
all, was the utter contempt Clare showed for the delights of Vauxhall.
The tinsel and the oil-lamps, the wooden bowers and paper flowers, struck
Clare as perfectly absurd, and he expressed his astonishment that people
should go and stare at such childish things, with a world of wonder and
of beauty lying all around it in the green fields. The worthy jeweller of
the Strand was amazed, and privately confided to his brother-in-law that
he thought his companion, 'a very stupid man from the country.'
John Clare stayed a week in London, and during the whole of this time
felt painfully uncomfortable in his threadbare suit of labourer's
clothes, patched top and bottom, with leather baffles and gaiters to
match. He fancied, when walking along the streets, that everybody was
staring and laughing at his smock frock; and the sound of his heavy
hob-nailed shoes startled him whenever he entered a house. What made
things worse was, that Mr. Gilchrist wanted to draw him into many fine
places and among high and wealthy people, for whose company Clare felt an
instinctive dislike. He knew that they could not look upon him otherwise
than in the light of a rustic curiosity, and being unwilling to play the
part of a newly-discovered monkey or hippopotamus, he absolutely refused
to go to parties and meetings to which he had been invited. However, a
few of the visits were indispensable, such as presentation to Messrs.
Taylor and Hessey, and their friends. Mr. John Taylor, on meeting Clare,
perceived at once that one reason of his excessive reluctance to show
himself was his scant stock of clothing, and mentioning the matter with
great frankness, he offered him a suitable dress. But Clare refused to
take anything, except an ancient overcoat somewhat too large for him, but
useful as hiding his whole figure from the top of the head down to the
heels. In this brigand-like mantle he henceforth made all his visits,
unwilling to take it off even at dinner, and in rooms hot to suffocation.
It made a deep impression upon Clare that, with all his awkwardness,
homely speech, and ragged clothes, he was, for the first time in his
life, treated as an equal by Mr. Taylor's friends, and other gentlemen
whom he visited at London. The example of his patrons in the country,
who, after praising his talents in the drawing-room, sent him down to the
kitchen for his dinner, had already pauperized him to such an extent that
he was quite startled when Mr. Taylor, on his second visit to the shop in
Fleet Street, asked him to meet several men of rank and talent, among
them Lord Radstock, at dinner the same evening. He would gladly have
declined, but was not allowed to do so, being told that it would be a
thorough breach of good manners to refuse to see his friends, the
admirers of his poems. Clare went, with much fear and trembling; but came
to be at ease before long. He sat next to Lord Radstock, and this
gentleman, with an extreme tact and knowledge of character, at once
succeeded in gaining his whole confidence. It proved the beginning of a
friendship which lasted for years, and spread its influence over Clare's
whole life. William Waldegrave, Baron Radstock, Admiral of the Red, was a
gentleman much known at this period in the literary and artistic circles
of London. A younger son of the third Earl of Waldegrave, born in 1758,
he was bred to the naval profession, became a captain at the age of
eighteen, and commander of a fine frigate soon after, so that the way to
fame and distinction was marked out for him clearly and forcibly. But not
content to be lifted in the world solely by reason of birth, he, from an
early age, devoted himself to independent pursuits, and became a scholar
and a poet even before he was a captain in the Royal Navy. The scientific
and literary tastes of the young nobleman were greatly fostered by his
marriage, in 1785, with the second daughter of David Van Lennep, chief of
the Dutch factory at Smyrna, a lady of most genial disposition and an
education very superior to her age. William Waldegrave was appointed
admiral in 1794; distinguishing himself at the naval fight off Cape
Lagos, in 1797; and having been advanced, three years after, to the
dignity of Baron Radstock, of Castletown, Queen's County, quietly settled
with his family in London, to give himself entirely up to his favourite
studies and pursuits. On the appearance of Clare's poems, he at once felt
greatly interested in the author, and being acquainted with Mr. John
Taylor, heard of his arrival in London, and arranged to meet him at
dinner. So it came that John Clare, in his smock frock, leather gaiters,
and brigand mantle, found himself sitting at the right hand of the Right
Honourable Lord Radstock, son of an earl, and admiral in the Royal Navy.
Lord Radstock's simple, sailor-like speech, distant alike from
condescension and studious politeness, had the effect of at once opening
the pent-up affections of John Clare. For the first time since his
arrival in London, he found somebody to whom he could speak in full
confidence, and he did so to his heart's desire, prattling like a child
about trees and flowers, fields and meadows, birds and sunshine, and not
at all disguising his dislike to the big town in which he now found
himself. As the dinner went on, Clare became still more communicative,
tenderly encouraged by the sympathising friend at his side. He spoke of
his struggles, his aims, and aspirations; his burning desire to soar
upward on the wings of poetry, and his constant battling for the barest
necessities of life, the mere daily bread. Lord Radstock was deeply
touched; he had seen many authors, writers of prose and of verse, in the
course of his life, but never such a poet as this. Clare did not in the
least complain of his existence; he merely described it, in simple,
graphic utterance, the truth of which was stamped on every word and look.
The admiral, before meeting John Clare, had admired him as a poet; he now
began to feel far deeper admiration for him as a man. He told him in a
few kind and affectionate words, speaking as a father would to his son,
that he intended to be his friend, and Clare warmly shook the hand
offered to him. It was late at night when the party broke up at Mr.
Taylor's, and Lord Radstock and John Clare were the last to leave the
house together.
During the few days that Clare remained in London, he was almost
constantly in Lord Radstock's company. The latter, anxious to introduce
his young friend to persons who he thought might be useful to him in
life, led him to a great number of places, one more uncomfortable than
the other. Clare suffered much, but had not the courage to confess it to
his noble patron, whose good intentions he fully understood. So he kept
on trotting from one drawing-room to the other, with his heavy
mud-bespattered shoes, his immense coat, a world too large for his thin,
short body, and his long unkempt hair, hanging down in wild confusion
over the shoulders. His friends soon got accustomed to the sight, and
thought no more of it, and strangers willingly excused the garb as born
of the 'eccentricity of genius;' but Clare himself, with his extreme
sensibility, felt daily mortification on contrasting his own appearance
with that of the people he met, and suffered tortures in thinking himself
an object of general ridicule. The feeling was aggravated by the fact
that he met but few persons he liked, and in whose conversation he took
an interest. Among these few was Mrs. Emmerson, an authoress of some
talent, and contributor to the 'London Magazine,' to whom he was
introduced by Lord Radstock. John Clare at the first interview was not at
all favourably impressed by this lady; for she assumed what he fancied to
be a theatrical air; burst out in bitter laments about what she termed
the 'desolate appearance' of her visitor, and wept that 'so much genius
and so much poverty' should go together. All this was very unpleasant to
Clare; particularly the 'desolate appearance,' which he took to be an
unmerited allusion to his great coat. In return, the poet, stung to the
quick, replied in a few cold and sarcastic words, which irritated Lord
Radstock so much that, on leaving the place, he reproached his companion
for his apparent want of feeling. Subsequent interviews greatly modified
Clare's first impression, for he found Mrs. Emmerson not only a most
amiable, kind-hearted lady, but a true and faithful friend, whose advice
and assistance often proved of the greatest service to him.
Having stayed a week in London, in a continual round of visits to dinner
parties, soirees, and theatrical entertainments--which latter did not
impress him very much--John Clare again went, in the company of Mr.
Gilchrist, to the 'George and Blue Boar,' Holborn, and took seat for the
return journey to Stamford. He was heartily glad to get away from the big
town, yearning for his old haunts, the quiet woods, streams, and meadows,
and the little cottage among the fields with his wife and darling baby.
It seemed to him an immense time since he had left these everyday scenes
of his existence; it was as if his whole life had changed in the
interval. He felt like one in a dream when the coach went rolling
northward along the high road, through fields in which labourers were
busy with plough and spade. It was not so very long ago that he had been
just such a labourer: how strange that he should now loll upon soft
cushions, in a coach drawn by four horses, while others like him kept on
digging and ploughing in the sweat of their brow. And would he be ever
content to dig and plough again, after having tasted the sweets of a more
genial existence, treading upon carpeted floors and dining with lords?
Such were the thoughts and questions that arose tumultuously in his mind,
in the long ride from London to Stamford. He had not the courage to face
them and think them out, feeling his brain begin to ache, and his heart
to throb in wild excitement. Then there flickered before his eye the
vision of wife and babe in the little cottage at home, and the tumult of
his soul changed into bliss. He determined to be happy, as of yore, in
the green fields among his former friends, and to dismiss all thoughts of
changing his old course of life. It was late at night when the coach
rattled into Stamford; but John Clare would not hear of stopping at his
friend's house, even for a few minutes. The clouds were dark overhead,
and no lights visible anywhere; yet through night and darkness he groped
his way home, and bursting into his little hut, clasped wife and babe in
his arms.