Although Clare's engagement to Martha Turner added to his
perplexities, it was really the immediate moving cause of his
determination to be up and doing. He resolved at length to publish a
collection of his poems, and consulted Mr. Henson, a printer, of
Market Deeping, on the subject. Mr. Henson offered to print three
hundred copies of a prospectus for a sovereign, but he firmly
declined the invitation of the poet to draw up that document. Clare
resolutely set to work to save the money for the printer, and soon
succeeded; but then there was the difficulty with regard to the
composition of the address to the public. He could write poetry; that
he knew; he had done so already, and he felt plenty more within; but
prose he had never yet attempted, and the task was a really grievous
one. This is his own account of his trouble, given in the
introduction to the "Village Minstrel:"--
"I have often dropped down five or six times, to plan an address. In
one of these musings my poor thoughts lost themselves in rhyme.
Taking a view, as I sat beneath the shelter of a woodland hedge, of
my parents' distresses at home, of my labouring so hard and so vainly
to get out of debt, and of my still added perplexities of ill-timed
love, striving to remedy all to no purpose, I burst out into an
exclamation of distress, 'What is life?' and instantly recollecting
that such a subject would be a good one for a poem, I hastily
scratted down the two first verses of it, as it stands, and continued
my journey to work." When he got to the limekiln he could not work
for thinking of the address which he had to write, "so I sat me down
on a lime scuttle," he says, "and out with my pencil, and when I had
finished I started off for Stamford with it." There he posted the
address to Mr. Henson. It ran as follows:--
"Proposals for publishing by subscription a Collection of Original
Trifles on Miscellaneous Subjects, Religious and Moral, in verse, by
John Clare, of Helpstone. The public are requested to observe that
the Trifles humbly offered for their candid perusal can lay no claim
to eloquence of composition: whoever thinks so will be deceived, the
greater part of them being juvenile productions, and those of later
date offsprings of those leisure intervals which the short remittance
from hard and manual labour sparingly afforded to compose them. It is
to be hoped that the humble situation which distinguishes their
author will be some excuse in their favour, and serve to make an
atonement for the many inaccuracies and imperfections that will be
found in them. The least touch from the iron hand of Criticism is
able to crush them to nothing, and sink them at once to utter
oblivion. May they be allowed to live their little day and give
satisfaction to those who may choose to honour them with a perusal,
they will gain the end for which they were designed and the author's
wishes will be gratified. Meeting with this encouragement it will
induce him to publish a similar collection of which this is offered
as a specimen."
The specimen was the "Sonnet to the Setting Sun," in which a
comparison is drawn between sunset and the death of a Christian. The
address was too artless, too honest, and the people of the Fens,
taking Clare at his word, subscribed for exactly seven copies! The
state of excitement, caused by mingled hopes and fears, in which
Clare was at this time may be seen from the following extract from a
letter to Mr. Henson:--"Good God! How great are my expectations! What
hopes do I cherish! As great as the unfortunate Chatterton's were, on
his first entrance into London, which is now pictured in my mind.
And, undoubtedly, like him I may be building castles in the air, but
time will prove it. Please to do all in your power to procure
subscribers, as your address will be looked upon better than that of
a clown. When two are got you may print it, if you please; so do your
best."