Lions were rare at Peterborough forty years ago. The wife of the Right
Reverend Dr. Herbert Marsh, an elderly lady of much energy, often felt
lonesome in her old mansion at the foot of the big cathedral, for which
suffering neither the sound doctrinal sermons of her husband nor the
saintly gossip of weekly tea-parties offered any remedy. There was a
little theatre at the episcopal city, at which performances were given
now and then; but the histrionic talent of the strolling players being of
the slightest, and the Right Reverend Dr. Marsh objecting, moreover, in a
subdued manner, to give his immediate patronage to the Punch and Judy of
the stage, the lady often felt time hanging heavy on her hands. In this
exigency, Mrs. Marsh heard of the Helpston poet, and lost no time in
making his acquaintance. Her kindly help and sympathy during his illness
was greatly appreciated by Clare, and left him full of gratitude ever
after. Nevertheless, though often invited to become a guest at the
episcopal palace, he could not summon resolution to do so. He was afraid,
not so much of the stiffness and ceremony which he would have to
encounter, as of the stern looks of the high dignitary of the Church,
who, when visiting him at home, had cross-questioned him in the most
awful manner on all subjects, in particular as to the state of his
religion. But pressed again and again to pay a short visit to
Peterborough, Clare at length consented, being told that Dr. Marsh would
be 'kept in his proper place,' and not be allowed to interfere with him.
It was on this understanding that Clare made his appearance at the
episcopal palace, at the commencement of February, 1828. Mrs. Marsh
rejoiced that her poet had come at last, and at once installed him in a
funereal little chamber overlooking the gardens, which she had long
selected as fittest for the habitation of genius. Before being led to
this room, Clare was informed by the lady that he would find several
reams of paper, with stores of pens and ink, for his poetic use, and
would be at liberty to write anything he liked, epics, madrigals,
pastorals, sonnets, and even tragedies. Strict orders were given to the
servants not to disturb the poet on any account, but to take whatever
food he might require--if requiring food at all--to an adjoining room.
The whole of these excellent measures having been executed with great
precision, Mrs. Marsh left the palace, to complete the further
arrangements in connexion with the exhibition of her new lion.
John Clare, being left alone in his little chamber, felt very dull. He
had no idea as to whether the way he was treated was a special honour, or
part of the general routine of episcopal existence. However, he concluded
that, special or general, his surroundings were of somewhat gloomy
aspect. There were certainly plenty of writing materials; but what he
wanted far more for the moment was a cup of tea, or coffee, with a slice
or two of bread and butter. After vainly trying to make himself heard, he
attempted to open the door of his chamber, and found that it was not
locked. But there was no soul in the next room, nor in the farther
passage, and the whole mansion appeared to be silent like the grave. Up
another passage, and down a pair of stairs did not lead him from the
regions of silence; a little maid-servant, visible far off, started away
like a frightened hind on beholding the poet. Mrs. Marsh evidently was
well obeyed in her own house. But Clare now began to feel rather
uncomfortable, and resolved to get somewhere, if not to human beings, at
least to bread and butter. So he marched down a final pair of stairs, and
through a small door out into the garden. There was a porter at the outer
garden gate; but he, too, bowed in silence, and in another minute Clare
found himself in the streets of Peterborough. The doors of the 'Red Lion'
stood hospitably open, and feeling nigh starved, he went in to get some
refreshments. No tea and coffee, however, were to be had at the 'Red
Lion;' only ale and porter, brandy and whiskey. Clare took some bread,
with a glass of ale, and felt very faint immediately after. Not having
tasted any alcoholic drink for a long time, the ale produced a sort of
stupefaction, from which he did not recover till late in the day. In the
meantime, Mrs. Marsh returned to the episcopal palace, and at once
inquired for her poet. He was not to be found anywhere, and it was
discovered at last that he had escaped into the city. Messengers were
despatched forthwith, and while they scoured the streets, John Clare ran
right against them, coming from the 'Red Lion,' and feeling still
somewhat drowsy. He was secured immediately, and taken in triumph before
Mrs. Marsh. The lady, against his expectation, received him most
graciously, ascribing his bewildered state to high poetic musings. She
was sorry only that he had not been able to make use of her paper and ink
in the chamber of genius; but trusted he would write all the more the
next day, which, as she hinted, would be a day of great importance.
Clare went to bed, with the 'day of great importance' tingling in his
ears. He could not go to sleep for reflections on the subject, and even
after shutting his eyes it hovered over him in ghastly dreams. There was
an immense table in an immense hall, with ten thousand parsons on the one
side, and ten thousand old maids on the other. At the head presided Mrs.
Marsh, with the bishop in waiting behind; while he himself was sitting in
an arm-chair, suspended by ropes from the ceiling. Then Mrs. Marsh called
upon him to make a speech, and while he was rising, down came the
arm-chair, ropes and all. It was a hard bump, and Clare felt aching all
over. Before he could rise, a man-servant rushed into the room. 'Good
heavens, Sir, you have fallen out of bed,' he cried; 'I hope you are not
hurt.' 'No, not much,' said Clare; 'but I should be glad to have a cup of
tea.' The tea was brought, and with it some useful information. They were
to have a grand party in the afternoon, said the man; he, that is, his
mistress, having invited all the notabilities of Peterborough, with the
dean, the archdeacon, and the canons. Clare shuddered. 'At what time will
the entertainment commence?' he inquired. 'At four,' was the reply.
Nothing more was said; Clare sipped his tea, and, the servant gone,
commenced making up his little bundle of clothes. Part of the contents he
was able to stuff into his pockets; the rest formed a parcel not much
larger than a couple of hooks. Once more he made his way down the broad
flight of stairs, passed the silent porter at the gate, and a minute
after stood in the High Street, opposite the Angel Inn. The coach for
London, he was told, would start in half an hour. Clare took his seat
inside, hiding his face, as best he could, under a handkerchief, and
drawing a long breath when the horses were whipped into a gallop and
sprang away southward. It was late at night when the Peterborough coach
discharged its passengers at the 'Bell and Crown,' Holborn. Clare hurried
up to Stratford Place, and was glad to find Mrs. Emmerson at home. The
lady shook hands with the greatest cordiality, called him her dearest
friend, and praised his verses in terms which made him blush. With all
his bitter experiences, he was once more ready to fall in love--Platonic
or otherwise.
One of Clare's first visits in London was to Allan Cunningham He was
received as a brother by the warm-hearted Scotchman, and encouraged to
unburthen his whole heart. Allan now heard for the first time that his
friend was in great pecuniary distress, and that his poetry, so far from
bringing him a competence, as he had been led to believe, met with but
the most trifling remuneration. Filled with compassion, Allan offered his
friend assistance; but this was proudly refused. He next advised Clare to
go to Mr. Taylor, and request, politely but firmly, a statement of the
whole of the transactions between them, including an account of the
profits made by the sale of the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' the 'Village
Minstrel,' and the 'Rural Poems.' Clare promised to do so, and the next
day went to Mr. Taylor's residence, Percy Street, near Rathbone Place.
The publisher received him in his ordinary friendly, though somewhat
stiff and formal manner. Clare was on the point of delivering his
preconcerted speech, when Mr. Taylor interrupted him with an unexpected
communication. He told him frankly that he had not been able hitherto to
give much attention to the sale of the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' and that
this, probably, was the reason why but few copies had been disposed of.
As a compensation, Mr. Taylor offered Clare to let him have as many
volumes of his new work as he liked at cost price, that he might sell
them in his own neighbourhood. The project of becoming a perambulating
bookseller, hawker of his own poetical ware, came upon Clare in a
startling manner. He did not know what to reply to the proposal made to
him, and asked time for reflection. Mr. Taylor had no objection to this,
and told his friend to come again in a few days. Thereupon Clare went
away, not saying a word on the financial subject which he had come to
discuss.
There was much fluctuating advice among Clare's friends as to the
propriety of his turning poetical bagman. Mrs. Emmerson at first was
greatly opposed to the scheme, but afterwards changed her opinion, on the
ground that the exercise and change of air might prove beneficial to his
health. Allan Cunningham, however, would not hear of Mr. Taylor's scheme
for a moment. He said it was disgraceful that such a proposal should have
been made, and exhorted his friend not to think for a moment of accepting
it. 'God knows,' Allan exclaimed passionately, 'poetry has sunk low
enough already; but do not you haul it lower still by dragging the muse
along the muddy roads in a pedlar's bag.' Clare was much impressed by
these words, and promised further reflection, which, however, tended only
to lead him in an opposite direction to that proposed by his noble friend
Allan. The thought of being able to acquire a little capital; of getting
out of debt; of purchasing a small farm; and of giving his children a
good education, carried everything before it, and he finally resolved to
risk all else, even obloquy, to gain these ends. Talking the subject over
once more with. Mrs. Emmerson, as happily ignorant as himself in the
matter, the conclusion was arrived at that it would be easy to gain five
hundred a year by the sale of his books. It seemed not necessary,
therefore, that he should continue his new occupation longer than a few
years, when he would be enabled to retire from business and spend the
rest of his days in comfort and ease. Thus the poet kept on building his
castles in the air, until they reached to the very clouds. When meeting
Mr. Taylor at the appointed time, Clare told him that he accepted his
kind offer, and would do his best to carry out the scheme with all
possible energy. Thereupon the poet and his publisher parted-parted never
to meet again, although to each life had scarce run half its course.
Clare remained in London till towards the end of March, lionising a
little and making a few new acquaintances. Frequently, when walking along
the streets, he found himself addressed by strangers, who recognised him
at once from Hilton's exceedingly faithful picture, which hung in Mr.
Taylor's parlour, and was reproduced in the portrait prefixed to the
'Village Minstrel.' Thus he ran one day in Russell Square against Alaric
Watts, who, though never having met him before, addressed him without
hesitation as a brother poet, and insisted upon remaining in his company
for some time. In the same manner, too, he met Henry Behnes, the
sculptor, who showed himself so delighted with his acquaintance that he
would not let him go till he had promised to sit for his bust. Clare did
sit, and Behnes produced an admirable work of art, which, like Hilton's
picture, was paid for and kept by Mr. Taylor.[1] Mrs. Emmerson took
advantage of the modelling of the bust by celebrating it as a notable
event, and inviting to her house a distinguished party of artists and
patrons of art, to whom she wished to present her poet, together with
'his painter,' and 'his sculptor.' As always on such occasions, Clare
felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and had no sooner entered the brilliantly
lighted-up saloon when he resolved to run away. He communicated his
intention to the other two heroes of the evening, who at once expressed
their wish to be the companions of his flight. William Hilton, like
Clare, was averse to lionship, and glad enough to escape from any crowd,
whether in satin or rags; and as for Henry Behnes, he had become so fond
of his 'Northamptonshire Peasant,' that he declared himself ready to
travel with him to the ends of the world. The friends did not go quite as
far on this occasion, but only to a neighbouring tavern. Here the happy
trio, poet, painter, and sculptor, sat down to a supper of bread and
cheese, seasoned with pale ale, and the flow of unrestrained thought.
They talked of all the noblest subjects that stir the human breast; of
all the unutterable longings that fill the heart of genius. At last they
talked of each other, their hopes, aims, and aspirations, building golden
castles high up into the clouds. They saw fame before them with
outstretched arms; wealth following in its course; and of love and
happiness a bountiful reward. These were lofty dreams: too lofty, alas!
for the flight of helpless genius--genius not understanding the first of
all earthly arts, that of making money. William Hilton, though a famous
painter and Royal Academician, was left to die in poverty, the greater
part of his pictures remaining on his hands unsold. Henry Behnes, noblest
of sculptors, went to perish in an hospital; and John Clare.... The
reader may fill the blank.
[1] Both, the bust by Behnes, and Hilton's oil-painting of Clare,
remained in Mr. Taylor's hands during his lifetime, and after his
death (1864) were sold by public auction, at Messrs. Christie,
Manson, and Woods, March 17, 1865, when they came into the possession
of the author of this work.
Mrs. Emmerson was very angry with her guest when he came back to her
house a little after midnight, having been kept so long in the delightful
interchange of thoughts with his two artist friends. Clare took very
little notice of the remarks of his fair host about want of courtesy and
the disappointment of distinguished visitors, his mind being full of
reflections engendered by the evening's conversation. He inwardly
resolved to enjoy, if possible, many more such evenings; but changed his
determination the next day. It was a beautiful day of spring, the warm
sunlit air wafting in soft breezes from over the green fields with its
first blossoms, into the crowded streets of the town. Clare took a long
walk through Regent's Park and past Primrose Hill towards Hampstead, on
the slopes of which he discovered some early violets. The sight fairly
made him home-sick. He ran back to Stratford Place, and quite startled
Mrs. Emmerson by crying, 'I must go!' And go he did, twenty hours after;
in such a haste as not even to find time to bid farewell to Allan
Cunningham, warmest of friends. But he left a letter for Allan, 'a shake
of the hand on paper,' which, coming down to the present time, may be
found still interesting. The letter ran:--
'_Stratford Place, March 21, 1828_.
My Dear Cunningham--I wholly intended to see you, but now I fear I
cannot, as my stay is grown so short; so, if I cannot, here is a "good
bye," and God bless you, and as you are aware of my ignorance in
travelling about your great Babel, being insufficient to do so in most
cases without a guide, which is not always to be procured, you must allow
me to make up for the omission by a shake of the hand on paper, as hearty
as your imagination can feel it. If you had not been a poet I would not
have made such a bull, but it is an English one; it has not a cold
meaning. Therefore accept it in lieu of a better. Pray give my kind
remembrances to Mrs. Cunningham, and if I could utter compliments as well
as I feel gratification in the society of kind and warm-hearted people, I
should grow eloquent in her praise. But you well know I am not Ovid, and
I as well know I am no orator, so if I am unable to pay ladies deserving
compliments, if she will accept the plain respects of a plain fellow, and
allow them as nothing more, it will please me much better. Once again,
"good bye."
Now I am going to say last what would have been a compliment to have said
first, perhaps, and that is that Mrs. Emmerson feels much gratified at
your commendation of her poem ["The Return," in Allan Cunningham's
Annual, "The Anniversary"], and much more so, as that commendation came
from a poet. Now comes the cut to my vanity, a sad confession, but
perhaps better "in the breach than the performance." (Allow me to
misquote to suit my purpose.) You ask me for a prose tale, and you
imagine I have written one. Good faith, my dear Allan, I have not,
neither dare I, for I know not what to say; excuses I might have for
writing it badly, but whether I could find excuses for writing it at all
I cannot say. I should be somewhat in the case of the lady, who excused
her faulty book before the rude Dr. Johnson by saying that she had so
many irons in the fire that she had not time to write it better. You may
know his reply from my inability in the like. "Then I advise you, madam,"
said he, "to put your book where your irons are." Such I fear would be
the deserving meed of a prose composition of mine, though your
proposition goes a good way to urge me, if I dare.--Farewell, my dear
Allan, and believe me your sincere friend and highly gratified brother in
the muses,