During the summer of 1821, Clare gave up his agricultural labours almost
entirely. The greater part of the time he spent in roaming through woods
and fields, planning new poems, and correcting those already made. Visits
to Stamford, also, were frequent and of some duration, and he not
unfrequently stayed three or four days together at the house of Mr.
Gilchrist, or of Mr. Drury. The stream of visitors to Helpston had
ceased, to a great extent, and the few that dropped in now and then were
mostly of the better class, or at least not belonging to the
vulgar-curious element. Among the number was Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend,
a dandyfied poet of some note, particularly gifted in madrigals and
pastorals. He came all the way from London to see Clare, and having taken
a guide from Stamford to Helpston, was utterly amazed, on his arrival, to
find that the cottage, beautifully depicted in the 'Village Minstrel,'
was not visible anywhere. His romantic scheme had been to seek Clare in
his home, which he thought easy with the picture in his pocket; and
having stepped over the flower-clad porch, to rush inside, with
tenderly-dignified air, and drop into the arms of the brother poet.
However, the scheme threatened to be frustrated, for though the village
could easily be surveyed at a glance, such a cottage as that delineated
in the 'Minstrel,' with more regard to the ideal than the real, was
nowhere to be seen. In his perplexity, Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend
inquired of a passer-by the way to Clare's house. The individual whom he
addressed was a short, thick-set man, and, as Mr. Hare Townsend thought,
decidedly ferocious-looking; he was bespattered with mud all over, and a
thick knotted stick, which he carried in his hands, gave him something of
the air of a highwayman. To the intense surprise of Mr. Chauncey Hare
Townsend, this very vulgar person, when addressed, declared that he
himself was John Clare, and offered to show the way to his house. Of
course, the gentleman from London was too shrewd to be taken in by such a
palpable device for being robbed; so declining the offer with thanks, and
recovering from his fright by inhaling the perfume of his pocket
handkerchief, he retreated on his path, seeking refuge in the 'Blue Bell'
public house. The landlord's little girl was ready to show the way to
Clare's cottage, and did so, leaving the stranger at the door. Mr.
Townsend, now fairly prepared to fall into the arms of the brother poet,
though not liking the look of his residence, cautiously opened the door;
but started back immediately on beholding the highwayman in the middle of
the room, sipping a basin of broth. There seemed a horrible conspiracy
for the destruction of a literary gentleman from London in this
Northamptonshire village. Mrs. Clare, fortunately, intervened at the nick
of time to keep Mr. Townsend from fainting. Patty, always neatly
dressed--save and except on washing days,--approached the visitor; and
her gentle looks re-assured Mr. Chauncey Hare Townsend. He wiped his hot
brow with his scented handkerchief, and, not without emotion, introduced
himself to the owner of the house and the neat little wife. The
conversation which followed was short, and somewhat unsatisfactory on
both sides, and the London poet, in the course of a short half an hour,
quitted the Helpston minstrel, leaving a sonnet, wrapped in a one-pound
note, behind him. Clare frowned when discovering the nature of the
envelope; but he liked the sonnet, and for the sake of it, and on Patty's
petition, consented not to send it back to the giver.
Shortly after this curious visit, there came another, which gave Clare
much more pleasure. Mr. John Taylor, of London, having been on an
excursion to his native place, Retford, in Nottinghamshire, on his return
spent a few days at Stamford, with Mr. Drury; and, while here, could not
help looking-in at the home of his 'Northamptonshire Peasant.' His survey
of Helpston, Mr. Taylor described in the 'London Magazine' of November,
1821, in a letter 'to the Editor,'--that is, to himself. The sketch thus
given furnishes an interesting glimpse of the poet and his quiet home
life at this period. Mr. Taylor's letter, dated Oct. 12, 1821, set out as
follows:--'I have just returned from visiting your friend Clare at
Helpston, and one of the pleasantest days I ever spent, was passed in
wandering with him among the scenes which are the subject of his poems. A
flatter country than the immediate neighbourhood can scarcely be
imagined, but the grounds rise in the distance clothed with woods, and
their gently swelling summits are crowned with village churches; nor can
it be called an uninteresting country, even without the poetic spirit
which now breathes about the names of many of its most prominent objects,
for the ground bears all the traces of having been the residence of some
famous people in early days. "The deep sunk moat, the stony mound," are
visible in places where modern taste would shrink at erecting a temporary
cottage, much less a castellated mansion; fragments of Roman brick are
readily found on ridges which still hint the unrecorded history of a far
distant period, and the Saxon rampart and the Roman camp are in some
places seen mingled together in one common ruin. On the line of a Roman
road, which passes within a few hundred yards of the village of Helpston,
I met Clare, about a mile from home. He was going to receive his
quarter's salary from the steward of the Marquis of Exeter. His wife
Patty, and her sister were with him, and it was the intention of the
party, I learned, to proceed to their father's house at Casterton, there
to meet such of the family as were out in service, on their annual
re-assembling together at Michaelmas. I was very unwilling to disturb
this arrangement, but Clare insisted on remaining with me, and the two
cheerful girls left their companion with a "good bye, John!" which made
the plains echo again.'
Walking along the road, Mr. Taylor, under the guidance of Clare, came to
Lolham Brigs, a place sketched in the second volume of the 'Village
Minstrel,' in a poem entitled 'The last of March.' The curious publisher
and editor, anxious to gather facts for his 'London Magazine,' wanted to
know the origin of the poem, and got a full account of it, which,
accompanied by some lofty criticisms, he communicated to his readers.
'John Clare,' Mr. Taylor reported, 'was walking in this direction on the
last day of March, 1821, when he saw an old acquaintance fishing on the
lee side of the bridge. He went to the nearest place for a bottle of ale,
and they then sat beneath the screen which the parapet afforded, while a
hasty storm passed over, refreshing themselves with the liquor, and
moralizing somewhat in the strain of the poem. I question whether
Wordsworth's pedlar could have spoken more to the purpose. But all these
excitations would, I confess, have spent their artillery in vain against
the woolpack of my imagination; and after well considering the scene, I
could not help looking at my companion with surprise: to me, the triumph
of true genius seemed never more conspicuous, than in the construction of
so interesting a poem out of such common-place materials. With your own
eyes you see nothing but a dull line of ponds, or rather one continued
marsh, over which a succession of arches carries the narrow highway: look
again, with the poem in your mind, and the wand of a necromancer seems to
have been employed in conjuring up a host of beautiful accompaniments,
making the whole waste populous with life, and shedding all around the
rich image of a grand and appropriate sentiment. Imagination has, in my
opinion, done wonders here.'
From Lolham Brigs, the poet and his publisher turned towards Helpston,
passing by 'Langley Bush,' also sung in the 'Village Minstrel.' The Bush
furnished an opportunity for some moralizings on the part of Mr. Taylor,
interesting as giving the impressions of an eye-witness as to Clare's
character and the working of his mind. Says Mr. Taylor:--'The discretion
which makes Clare hesitate to receive as canonical all the accounts he
has heard of the former honours of Langley Bush, is in singular contrast
with the enthusiasm of his poetical faith. As a man, he cannot bear to be
imposed upon,--his good sense revolts at the least attempt to abuse
it;--but as a poet, he surrenders his imagination with most happy ease to
the allusions which crowd upon it from stories of fairies and ghosts. The
effect of this distinction is soon felt in a conversation with him. From
not considering it, many persons express their surprise that Clare should
be so weak on some topics and so wise on others. But a willing indulgence
of what they deem weakness is the evidence of a strong mind. He feels
safe there, and luxuriates in the abandonment of his sober sense for a
time, to be the sport of all the tricks and fantasies that have been
attributed to preternatural agency. Let them address him on other
subjects, and unless they entrench themselves in forms of language to
which he is unaccustomed, or take no pains to understand him according to
the sense rather than the letter of his speech, they will confess, that
to keep fairly on a level with him in the depth and tenour of their
remarks, is an exercise requiring more than common effort. He may not
have read the books which they are familiar with, but let them try him on
such as he has read,--and the number is not few, especially of the modern
poets,--and they will find no reason to undervalue his judgment. His
language, it is true, is provincial, and his choice of words in ordinary
conversation is indifferent, because Clare is an unpretending man, and he
speaks in the idiom of his neighbours, who would ridicule and despise him
for using more or better terms than they are familiar with. But the
philosophic mind will strive to read his thoughts, rather than catch at
the manner of their utterance; and will delight to trace the native
nobleness, strength, and beauty of his conceptions, under the tattered
garb of what may, perhaps, be deemed uncouth and scanty expressions.'
Arrived at Helpston with his companion, Mr. Taylor was somewhat surprised
at the outer aspect of Clare's humble home. Of the inside, he furnished
the following neat sketch:--'On a projecting wall in the inside of the
cottage, which is white-washed, are hung some well engraved portraits, in
gilt frames, with a neat drawing of Helpston Church, and a sketch of
Clare's head which Hilton copied in water colours, from the large
painting, and sent as a present to Clare's father. I think that no act of
kindness ever touched him more than this; and I have remarked, on several
occasions, that the thought of what would be his father's feelings on any
fortunate circumstance occurring, has given him more visible
satisfaction, than all the commendations which have been bestowed on his
genius. I believe we must go into low life to know how very much parents
can be beloved by their children. Perhaps it may be that they do more for
them, or that the affection of the child is concentrated on them the
more, from having no other friend on whom it may fall. I saw Clare's
father in the garden: it was a fine day, and his rheumatism allowed him
just to move about, but with the aid of two sticks, he could scarcely
drag his feet along; he can neither kneel nor stoop. The father, though
so infirm, is only fifty-six years of age; the mother is about seven
years older. While I was talking to the old man, Clare had prepared some
refreshment within, and with the appetite of a thresher we went to our
luncheon of bread and cheese, and capital beer from the Bell. In the
midst of our operations, his little girl awoke: a fine lively pretty
creature, with a forehead like her father's, of ample promise. She
tottered along the floor, and her father looked after her with the
fondest affection, and with a careful twitch of his eyebrow when she
seemed in danger. Our meal ended, Clare opened an old oak bookcase, and
showed me his library. It contains a very good collection of modern
poems, chiefly presents made him since the publication of his first
volume; among them the works of Burns, Cowper, Wordsworth, Coleridge,
Keats, Crabbe, and other poets. To see so many books handsomely bound,
and "flash'd about with golden letters," as he describes it, in so poor a
place as Clare's cottage, gave it almost a romantic air, for, except in
cleanliness, it is no whit superior to the habitations of the poorest of
the peasantry. The hearth has no fire-place on it, which to one
accustomed to coal fires looked comfortless, but Clare found it
otherwise.'
The idea of a man being happy without a regular fire-place evidently
staggered Mr. John Taylor. However, he recovered from his surprise, and
having sent his servant--a stately domestic from town, introduced as 'my
man'--in front, to prepare the way, the great publisher of Fleet Street
solemnly took farewell from his poet, accompanied a proper distance along
the road. This duty fulfilled, Clare buttoned up his smock-frock, and
trotted away in great haste to meet Patty, and 'such of the family as
were out on service.' Very likely, in the company of these 'cheerful
girls,' John, for the rest of the evening, felt a great deal more at ease
than in the presence of the learned and inquisitive gentleman, his editor
and publisher.