The visit of worthy Monsieur Grill to Helpston had the good result that
henceforth Clare's diet and mode of living became greatly improved. Lady
Milton, hearing of the illness of the poet, sent him her physician,
while, better still, the chef de cuisine at Milton Park continued to
supply him with good broth. The physician, a man of sense, soon perceived
that his patient required not medicine but food. He told Clare that it
was absolutely necessary that he should adopt a most nourishing diet, and
even advised him to take some ale, or stout, in moderate quantities.
However, Clare refused the latter part of the advice, urging the promise
he had given to Dr. Darling. As to his general mode of living, he
consented to do as requested, although too proud to state the reasons
which had prevented him, and would, probably, continue to prevent him
fully adopting the counsel. The physician, being asked by Lady Milton
whether Clare seemed in want, stated that there were no signs of poverty
in Clare's home. Though but a narrow hut, the many handsome hooks on the
shelves, with a few good paintings, gave it the appearance of comfort,
and thus the informant of the noble lady, like many of the other
acquaintances of Clare, acquired very erroneous notions concerning his
real means. This was the more the case, as Clare always managed to let
his wife and children, as well as his aged parents, want none of the
necessaries of life, and frequently contrived to procure them even a few
luxuries. Nobody knew that while Clare's family had a good dinner, he
himself was munching dry bread in some corner in the fields. The fact was
not discovered till long afterwards--when discovery came too late.
In the autumn of 1825, the sad news reached Clare that his best friend
and patron, Lord Radstock, had succumbed to a stroke of apoplexy. Admiral
Lord Radstock died on the 20th of August, at his town residence in
Portland Place, in a very sudden manner, after but a few days' illness.
The loss of his noble patron would have been a deep affliction to Clare
at any time, but it was particularly so at this moment. During the whole
of the summer, the admiral had been in correspondence with Mr. Taylor,
trying to induce him to come to some distinct arrangement with his
client, in regard to the payment for his books and poetical contributions
to the 'London Magazine.' Hitherto, Mr. Taylor had not treated his
'Northamptonshire Peasant' on the same footing as other authors, but
looked upon him more in the light of a child under tutelage than of an
independent man, desirous of gaining a living by the exercise of his
talents or industry. When, therefore, Lord Radstock urged him to enter
into a regular business agreement with Clare, he felt somewhat offended.
Replying to his lordship, he stated that he had given much more to the
poet than was due to him, without even charging for his own labours as
editor, and that he had hitherto acted, not as a mere business agent, but
as a real friend to Clare. Lord Radstock was not satisfied with this
answer, but rejoined that, admitting Clare had received more than was due
to him, it yet would be better to furnish regular accounts to him, and,
by paying what was due, and no more, to foster his self-reliance, instead
of keeping him in the position of a dependent, living upon alms or
friendly gifts. The correspondence continued through several more
letters, with a prospect of Mr. Taylor yielding his point, when the death
of Lord Radstock brought it to an end. It was a sad misfortune to Clare,
affecting his whole life. In Lord Radstock he lost the truest and noblest
friend he possessed--the only one of all his patrons who might have been
willing as well as able to remove the darkening clouds already visible in
the future.
In the autumn of 1825, Clare was fortunate enough to find some employment
in harvesting, which continued till the end of October, when he was once
more thrown out of work. He now devoted himself with increased ardour to
poetry anxious to excel in the new volume which. Mr. Taylor had agreed to
publish. The chief poem of the work was to be a pastoral, in twelve
cantos, descriptive of the aspects of the months and seasons, tinder the
title, 'The Shepherd's Calendar.' The work required lengthened exertion,
which, though he devoted himself with the greatest energy to the task, he
could not always muster. Again and again the all-absorbing feeling of
poverty broke upon and crushed the mind of the poet. Turn as he might,
dire want stared him in the face, and his spirit kept chafing and
fretting under the constant exertion of making his small income suffice
for the ever-growing wants of his family. Some regular work to perform,
or the consciousness of being seated on a few acres of his own ground,
with the pleasure of growing his corn and vegetables, would have been
sufficient to destroy all these petty cares; but the chance of entering
upon such happy existence seemed to grow less and less every year.
Liberty, the greatest boon which he desired, he was never able to obtain.
To spend half the day in hard out-door work, and the other half in
wanderings and poetical musings, would have made him completely happy, as
well as, in all likelihood, physically strong; yet this simple wish of
his heart not all his great and noble patrons were willing to grant him.
They gave him alms, sufficient to lift him from the sphere of labour, but
not enough for subsistence, and thus left him in a position as false as
hopelessly ruinous. Working at intervals, almost beyond his strength, as
a farm labourer, and then again remaining for a long time in forced
idleness, writing too much, thinking too much, and ever and ever with the
grim phantom of poverty before him, was a form of existence necessarily
fatal. It was a life too hard, too cold, too angular, too crystallized--a
life which would have broken the heart of any poet under the sun.
In the preparation of his new volume, Clare adopted the sensible plan of
correcting and revising his writings constantly, so as to reach the
greatest perfection in form. The uninterrupted study of the best poets
began to have effect upon his mind by more and more developing his taste,
and destroying his former notion that his verses came flowing by a sort
of inspiration, and, as such, were not liable to further artificial
improvement. Mr. Taylor was much pleased with the new verses which Clare
sent him, far more polished than most of the previous ones, and
encouraged him by many praises to persevere in the new course. Praise, as
to all poets, was sweet to Clare, and he kept on writing with great
eagerness during the whole of winter and the coming spring. He expected
that his new book would be published early in the summer of 1826, but was
disappointed in his expectation. There were poems enough in Mr. Taylor's
hands to make at least two volumes; but the careful publisher was not
over-anxious to print them. A shrewd man of business, he was fully aware
that the tide was running strong against pastorals, or, indeed, against
any form of good poetry, the fashion being all for jingling rhyme,
embodying the least possible amount of sense. It was the period when
annuals began to flourish, with all merit concentrated in 'toned' paper,
gilded leaves, and morocco bindings. Mr. Taylor liked John Clare, and
held his talent in fair estimation from the fact that the 'Poems
descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery' had gone through four editions.
But against this fact there was the terrible set-off that the 'Village
Minstrel' had only risen to the second edition, with the larger part of
the second issue still on the shelves in Fleet Street. Mr. Taylor,
therefore, like a sound man of business, resolved to manipulate his
'Northamptonshire Peasant' with great caution, for fear of accidents.
John Clare got into a very excited state when he learnt that his new
volume was not to be published in the summer of 1826, nor during the
remaining part of the same year. He felt the delay as a scorn of his
poetical fame; and he felt it, moreover, as a sad ruin of his financial
prospects. The money which he expected to receive was anxiously awaited
to pay off pressing debts, and its man-arrival involved not only scanty
clothing and short rations, but cares of a peculiarly tender nature.
'Patty' brought her husband a third child, a little boy, who was
christened John on the 18th of June, 1826; and though there arrived much
timely assistance from Milton Park, the baby, as well as his mother;
wanted many things not to be met with in the little hut at Helpston.
Always a tender and most affectionate father, Clare's heart was ready to
break when he found his poor little son suffering from the absence of
those comforts which a few pounds might have purchased. He wrote a
pathetic letter to Mr. Taylor, entreating him to send his poems to press;
but received a cold answer in return. The sound business man of Fleet
Street told his client that it was the wrong time for bringing out the
'Shepherds' Calendar.' He informed him, moreover, that the annuals had
got the upper hand, and advised him strongly to write for the annuals.
Clare answered that he preferred breaking stones at the workhouse.
But when Clare said so, he was in an angry mood. The baby continued
crying, in want of milk and a few yards of flannel, and the mother
commenced crying, too; and at length things came to such a pass that
Clare determined to write for the annuals. He heard that he should get
five shillings per poem, and from some publishers even as much as seven
and sixpence. In great haste, therefore, he penned as many verses as he
could, sitting up night after night, and on getting a bundle ready
despatched them to London. But here again there was terrible
disappointment. The annuals, it turned out, did not pay annually, but
remunerated their contributors at uncertain periods, varying from two
years to ten. When Clare found he could get no payment from the
proprietors of the splendid morocco-bound volumes, he complained to Mr.
Taylor. The busy publisher was vexed at this, as naturally he might be.
He answered that he did not, and could not, hold himself responsible for
the liabilities of others, and that it was unfair; after having tendered
some general advice, to burthen him with the consequences. Here the
matter ended, leaving both parties very dissatisfied. For some time to
come there was a great coldness between them, and their correspondence
almost entirely ceased.
The failure of his attempt to make money by contributing poems to the
gold-edged toy-books had the good result of inciting Clare to renewed
exertions to return to his old sphere of labour. He was after a while
fortunate enough to find employment at Upton, a village on the southern
border of Helpston Heath, where he continued at work during the autumn
and winter, and far into the spring of 1827. The labour had the most
beneficial effect upon his health, and brought on a fresh desire to leave
the allurements of writing, or at least of printing, poetry, and devote
himself more to out-door occupation. The great difficulty in carrying eat
this plan was to find regular employment of a nature suited to his bodily
strength, and his somewhat erratic habits. After much pondering on the
subject, Clare resolved to try a little farming on his own account, with
the help of his friends, and on a very limited scale. A visit to Milton
Park settled the matter. The two head servants of Earl Fitzwilliam, the
antiquarian and the botanist, were both ready and willing to assist the
poet to become a farmer, though they told him frankly that they had small
hopes of his success. Like in all agricultural districts, the owners of
land at Helpston and throughout the neighbourhood were opposed to small
tenants and 'spade husbandry,' and Clare's friends justly feared that
even if there were no other obstacles, this cause alone would prevent him
prospering. However, sanguine as he was, Clare held these fears to be
exaggerated, and having obtained a small loan from his friends, rented
several acres of barren soil at a rent four times as high as that paid by
the larger farmers for really good land. The result, not for a moment
doubtful from the commencement, did much to accelerate Clare's road to
ruin.
During the whole spring and summer of 1827, Clare was so busy and excited
in attending to his farming operations as almost to forget his new volume
of poems. He scarcely expected to see it published, and was somewhat
startled on receiving a copy of the book by post, unaccompanied however
by a single line from Mr. Taylor. At any other time, he would have keenly
felt the neglect; but as it was, the potatoes and cabbages on his farm
attracted his attention more than even his printed verses, and the slight
put upon him by his publisher. It was only when, the harvest was over--a
harvest very poor and unsatisfactory--that he bethought himself again of
his poetical doings. Conscious that he had been in the wrong, to a great
extent, in his quarrel with Mr. Taylor, he determined to be the first to
hold out the hand of friendship. Having made his resolutions to this
effect, he sat down to pen a long letter, dated, 'Helpston, November 17,
1827.' It ran:--'My dear Taylor,--I expect you will be surprised when you
open this to' see from whence it comes, so scarce has our correspondence
made itself. Ere it withers into nothing, I will kindle up the expiring
spark that remains, and make up a letter by its light, if I can. When you
sent me the poems in summer, you never sent a letter with them; I felt
the omission, but murmured not. It was not wont to be thus in days gone
by. So I will shake off this ague-warm feeling, and this dead-living
lethargy, and ask you how you are, and where you are, and how our friends
are.' And much more to the same effect.
Mr. Taylor replied in a bland, dignified manner. The 'friends,' he
reported to be well; but said nothing about what the poet was most
desirous of knowing, the fate of his new volume. The truth was, the
'Shepherd's Calendar' did not sell; and the volume having come into the
world almost unnoticed, was lying in the publisher's shop neglected and
forgotten. A few periodicals mentioned the book in terms of faint praise,
and one solitary critic, visibly behind his age, spoke of the verses as
'exquisite, and by far the most beautiful that have appeared for a long
time'; but the great majority of the representatives of public opinion
utterly ignored John Clare's new work. It soon became clear that, though
infinitely superior to the 'Poems of Rural Life and Scenery,' which
passed through four editions; and far better even than the 'Village
Minstrel,' issued twice! the 'Shepherd's Calendar' was entirely
overlooked by the public and the press. And it could not well be
otherwise. The book, instead of in morocco, was bound, or rather
stitched, in coarse blue cardboard; the paper was not only not 'toned,'
but rough and inelegant in the extreme; and the edges, which, ought to
have been smooth and gilded, were rugged and uneven like a ploughed
field. It was hopeless to expect that a most discerning public should pay
six shillings for a book of pastorals of such clownish appearance, when
the sweetest rhymes, jingling like silver bells, and descriptive of
angels and cupids, and the whole heaven of Greek and Roman mythology,
were offered for a lesser sum, in settings resplendent with all the
colours of the rainbow. There was no room for the 'Shepherd's Calendar'
at the side of all the--gorgeously beautiful annuals of the day, of the
Souvenir, Keepsake, and Forget-me-not family.
If this was one reason why the 'Village Minstrel' passed entirely
unnoticed, another and still more important cause was the negligent
manner in which it was published. Books, like all other earthly objects
requiring to be bought and sold, must undergo certain preparations, and
run through prescribed channels of trade in their way from the producer
to the consumer, and it is well known that the regulation and management
of this process may either greatly retard or accelerate the sale of a
work. It often happened, that really valuable works have met with very
little success, owing to want of energy or want of thought on the part of
the publishers; while, on the other hand, not a few bad or paltry books,
utterly unworthy of public, patronage, have, through active commercial
management, met with a considerable demand, and brought both profit and
fame to the writers. The truth of this was once more proved in the sale
of Clare's works. In the first published volume, the 'Poems descriptive
of Rural Life and Scenery,' Mr. Taylor took a very great interest, and
devoted the whole of his energy to ensure its success with the public. He
looked upon Clare's book as a personal property; for it was he who
enjoyed the honour of having discovered the poetical genius of the
'Northamptonshire Peasant;' he who brought him out in society; and he who
was not merely the publisher but the 'editor' of his works, and who as
such could fairly; claim a share of the renown accruing to the writer.
Accordingly, Mr. Taylor took the greatest trouble in ensuring a
favourable reception to Clare's works, and being a literary man of some
standing, as well as a bookseller--with the additional advantage of
gathering, at stated periods, the chieftains in the republic of letters
around his bachelor's table, to enjoy the most excellent dinners--he
succeeded in doing what perhaps no other London publisher could have
accomplished at the time. Long before the 'Poems of Rural Life' were
issued from the press their merit was discussed at Mr. Taylor's
dinner-table, under the cheering influence of exquisite port and madeira,
and the persuasive eloquence of the most charming of hosts. Thus it
happened in the most natural manner that the poems at their appearance
were received with a perfect storm of applause, in which even such stern
critics as William Gifford--carefully guided by Octavius Gilchrist--could
not help joining. Mr. Taylor's own periodical, the 'London Magazine,'
marched ahead as chief drummer, and behind came a long train of daily,
weekly, and monthly 'organs,' with the great 'Quarterly Review' as
commander-in-chief. The result proclaimed itself in four editions of the
poems of the 'Northamptonshire Peasant.'
It was in the nature of things that Mr. Taylor should attach due
importance to his own efforts in raising the unknown poet upon a pedestal
of fame. That he did so, and even reminded Clare of his exertions at a
subsequent period, when the poet did not show himself sufficiently
grateful, could scarcely be blamed, although it had the consequence of
leading to a gradual estrangement between author and publisher. John
Clare was not a grateful man, in the ordinary sense of the word. He
deeply felt kindness, but had an equally deep abhorrence of servility, or
what he fancied to be such; and, therefore, while humble as a child
towards those whose real benevolence he appreciated, he showed himself
stiff and proud against all who approached him as condescending patrons.
Upon Mr. Taylor he looked, rightly or wrongly, as a mere patron. That his
publisher refused throughout to give him any accounts, but treated all
payments to him as voluntary presents, was a real grief; and that his
whole demeanour, though very affable and courteous, was marked by an air
of proud superiority, was a fancied distress, but which not the less
irritated the sensitive poet. Thus there was, from the first, a want of
real attachment between Clare and his influential friend and protector,
which was looked upon by Mr. Taylor as a kind of ingratitude. He
gradually slackened in his endeavours to spread the fame of the hero he
had raised, when he perceived the hero's repugnance to be properly
saddled and harnessed. While using prodigal exertions for the success of
the first volume, he fell back upon the ordinary bookseller's routine
when issuing his second work. In the publication of the third, the
'Shepherd's Calendar,' there was not even this ordinary attention, owing
to circumstances of a peculiar kind. Mr. Taylor, in the year 1825,
dissolved partnership with his active coadjutor, Mr. Hessey, and, while
the latter remained at the old establishment in Fleet Street, he went to
set up a new but smaller publishing house at Waterloo Place. It was here
he issued the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' under conditions more than usually
unfavourable. Expecting to be appointed publisher to the new London
University--which expectation was realized not long afterwards--Mr.
Taylor had to devote the greater part of his time to preparations for his
new position, so as almost to be unable to attend to his bookselling
business. Thus Clare's new volume kept lying very quietly on the shelves
of the new shop at Waterloo Place.
The 'Shepherd's Calendar' was dedicated to 'the most noble the Marquis of
Exeter.' To previous counsel of putting the name of some great patron to
his poems, Clare had always leant a deaf ear; but he was persuaded in
this instance by his old friend, Dr. Bell, to act contrary to his own
judgment. Perhaps there was not much harm in the dedication; but there
came from it not much good either. The most noble the marquis, as
acknowledgment of the honour, condescended to order ten copies of the
'Shepherd's Calendar,' for which he paid the sum of three pounds, being
at the ordinary retail price of six shillings the volume. Clare asked no
further favours from his lordship; and his lordship, as a rule, did not
grant any favour unasked. Probably, the noble marquis might have broken
through his rule on this occasion, but that he was not altogether
satisfied with the 'Shepherd's Calendar.' The humble dedication on the
title-page was well enough; yet, considering that the poet was enjoying a
stipend of fifteen guineas a year, payable quarterly, it was thought that
he might have done something more. But there being not a page, nor even a
line, in the whole book in praise of the elder branch of the Cecils,
showed a deplorable want of feeling proper to a farm labourer living on
his lordship's estate. It was clear that the Helpston poet was, on the
whole, a silly, foolish man. Dwelling under the very shadow of Burghley
Castle, he should have known that by trimming his poetic course in the
right direction, he might have landed at almost any haven of
comfort--might have become under-gardener in the park, or, if less
ambitious, been sent to the House of Commons as member for Stamford. But
there was a deplorable want of worldly wisdom in John Clare. That he was
a real poet the noble marquis was ready to believe, not distrusting the
authority of the 'Quarterly Review.' At the same time, his lordship could
not close his eyes to the fact that the man was, all things considered,
unworthy of high patronage.
The bad news that his 'Shepherd's Calendar' had met with no success
whatever reached Clare in the first days of 1828. He did not learn it
from Mr. Taylor, who, as usual, did not think it worth while to give a
business account of his transaction to his 'Peasant,' but contented
himself in sending, now and then, a few pounds as a present to Helpston;
but became aware of the fact through a communication of his kind friend
Allan Cunningham. Honest Allan's admiration of Clare increased, as that
of the world decreased; and having gone into raptures about some of the
poems in the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' yet seeing that few others shared his
delight, or were aware even of the existence of the book, he went to the
publishing office in Waterloo Place to investigate the matter, and was
informed there of what sounded to him utterly strange, that the work did
not sell. Exasperated at this communication, he sat down to pen a long
epistle to Clare, seasoned with strong epithets, and winding-up with an
invitation to his friend to come to London. While consoling Clare about
the neglect of the public, to which, he said, 'poets must get
accustomed,' he told him at the same time that he was sure that some of
his verses in the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' such as 'The Dream,' and 'Life,
Death, and Eternity,' were worth more than all the sing-song of the age
put together, and, if not at once, could not fail being appreciated in
course of time. But in the meanwhile, Allan thought, Clare could not do
better than connect himself with the periodical literature of the day,
especially the fashionable annuals. John Clare hated the annuals; but he
dearly loved his kind and honest friend, and thereupon promised once more
to write verses for the pretty toy books, payable by the cubic foot, or
yard, or in any other desirable form. But he made it a stipulation that
he should be allowed to send his best productions to 'The Anniversary,'
an annual edited by Allan Cunningham himself. The proposition was
accepted, and Allan thereupon put his friend into communication with
proprietors of annuals who actually paid their contributors. Clare, on
his part, promised to visit London, at the beginning of February, to
conclude some necessary business arrangements.
Soon after Allan's letter, there came another from Mrs. Emmerson. The
lady, though a very indifferent writer of verses, had a keen appreciation
of sterling poetry, and warmly congratulated Clare on his new volume.
Having induced some two or three of her friends to purchase copies of the
'Shepherd's Calendar,' she lived under the impression that the book was a
great success, and could not fail bringing wealth and fame to the author.
In connexion with this, Mrs. Emmerson had planned a neat little project
of her own. Her apartments had become somewhat deserted since the death
of Lord Radstock, the chief leader of her literary assemblies, and
dreading the idea of being forgotten among the rising generation of
female sonneteers, she bethought herself of calling her old lion, the
'Northamptonshire Peasant,' to the rescue. John Clare accordingly got a
sweet little letter, fall of bewitching flattery, ending with an
invitation to Stratford Place. He trembled when he opened the note,
addressed in the old familiar handwriting, and trembled still more when
he read it. There was a time when poor John had been making Platonic love
to Mrs. Emmerson; when he wrote to her scores of letters, very passionate
and very ill-spelt; when he called her his Laura, and made verses in
imitation of Petrarch; and in the end had the courage to ask for her
portrait. Mrs. Emmerson graciously smiled upon the poor lover at her
feet, and while employing him to correct her verses, even granted his
request for her likeness, and sent him a beautiful painting by Behnes,
the sculptor. John revelled in an elysium of bliss, and, hanging the
picture on the place of honour over the mantelpiece, to the great disgust
of Patty, got more and more embedded in tenderness, until his letters
became sheer unreadable for passionate love, unassisted by grammar. The
thing getting tiresome now, and there being no more verses to correct,
Mrs. Emmerson thought fit to drop her Northamptonshire poet, and
accordingly wrote him a quiet little note asking for a return of her
portrait. John Clare fell from the clouds; but fell on his feet,
fortunately. He took the beautiful picture down from over his
mantelpiece, wrapped it in straw and brown paper, and sent it to
Stratford Place, Oxford Street, by the next carrier. The consciousness
came dawning on his mind that he was not quite up to the art of making
Platonic love.
But Clare trembled when he read the new letter from Mrs. Emmerson. He had
not heard from her for a long time, and could not for a moment understand
what brought her to renew a correspondence, broken off in the most abrupt
manner. His first impulse was to decline the invitation, which he did on
the instant in a very long letter. And when he had written the long
letter, he threw it into the fire, and indicted another shorter note,
informing Mrs. Emmerson that he had already arranged with Mr. Allan
Cunningham to visit London, and would be most happy to accept her
hospitality at Stratford Place. Having despatched this note, Clare felt
much pleased with himself. It would have been very rude, he thought, and
almost offensive, to refuse the invitation of an old friend, given in all
kindliness of heart. Perhaps it was he, after all, who was in fault
respecting that unhappy affair of the portrait, which he took to be a
gift, though it was meant only as a loan. He owed an apology to Mrs.
Emmerson, that was quite clear; and for this reason alone, if for no
other, ought to become her guest during his stay in town. Thus reasoned
the poet, and the more he reasoned, the more impatient he got to set out
on his journey. At last he started, earlier than he intended, taking the
road by Peterborough, to pay his respects to the inmates of the episcopal
palace.