Following close upon the complimentary criticisms in the principal
monthlies, the condescension of the "Quarterly" completed the little
triumph, and Clare's verses became the fashion of the hour. One of
his poems was set to music by Mr. Henry Corri, and sung by Madame
Vestris at Covent Garden. Complimentary letters, frequently in rhyme,
flowed in upon him, presents of books were brought by nearly every
coach, [2] and influential friends set about devising plans (of which
more presently) to rescue him from poverty and enable him to devote
at all events a portion of his time to the Muses. On the other hand,
visitors from idle curiosity were far more numerous than was
agreeable, and he was pestered with applications for autographs and
poems for ladies' albums, with patronage and advice from total
strangers, with tracts from well-meaning clergymen, and with
invitations to lionizing parties. One of these communications was in
its way a unique production, and for the entertainment of the reader
a portion of it is here introduced:--
"The darksome daughter of Chaos has now enveloped our hemisphere
(which a short time since was enubilous of clouds) in the grossest
blackness. The drowsy god reigns predominantly, and the obstreperous
world is wrapped in profound silence. No sounds gliding through the
ambient air salute my attentive auricles, save the frightful notes
which at different intervals issue from that common marauder of
nocturnal peace--the lonesome, ruin-dwelling owl. Wearied rustics,
exhausted by the toils of the day, are enjoying a sweet and tranquil
repose. No direful visions appal their happy souls, nor terrific
ghosts of quondam hours stand arrayed before them. Every sense is
lost in the oblivious stream. Even those who on the light, fantastic
toe lately tripped through the tangled dance of mirth have sunk into
the arms of Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep. Meditation,
avaunt! Respected (tho' unknown) Sir,--Out of the abundant store of
your immutable condescension graciously deign to pardon the bold
assurance and presumptuous liberty of an animated mass of
undistinguished dust, whose fragile composition is most miraculously
composed of congenial atoms so promiscuously concentred as to
personify in an abstracted degree the beauteous form of man, to
convey by proxy to your brilliant opthalmic organs the sincere thanks
of a mild, gentle, and grateful heart for the delightful amusement I
have experienced and the instruction I have reaped by reading your
excellent poems, in (several of) which you have exquisitely given
dame nature her natural form, and delineated her in colours so
admirable that on the perusal of them I was led to exclaim with
extacy Clare everywhere excels in the descriptive. But your literary
prowess is too circuitously authenticated to admit of any punctilious
commendation from my debilitated pen, and under its umbrageous
recess, serenely segregated, from the malapert and hypochondriachal
vapours of myopic critics (as I am no acromatic philosopher) I trust
every solecism contained in this autographical epistle will find a
salvable retirement. Tho' no Solitaire, I am irreversibly resolved to
be on this occasion heteroclitical. I will not insult your good sense
by lamenting the exigencies of the present times, as doubtless it
always dictates to you to be (whilst travelling through the mazy
labyrinth of joy and sorrow) humble in the lucent days of prosperity
and omnific in the tenebricous moments of adversity."
Clare's claim to the title of poet having been established, his noble
neighbours at Milton and Burghley invited him to visit them. At
Milton Park he was graciously received by Earl Fitzwilliam and Lord
and Lady Milton, after he had dined with the servants. A long
conversation on his health, means, expectations, and principles was
held, and he was dismissed with a very handsome present--an earnest
of greater favours to come.
The visit to the Marquis of Exeter was equally gratifying. His
lordship made himself acquainted with the state of the poet's
affairs, and having read a number of unpublished effusions which
Clare had taken with him, told him that it was his intention to allow
him an annuity of fifteen pounds for life. The delight of the poor
bard may be imagined without difficulty, for now he doubted not he
could reconcile Patty's parents to the long hoped-for marriage, and
deliver his mistress from anxieties which had for some time made life
almost intolerable. He dined in the servants' hall. About the same
time Clare also visited by invitation General Birch Reynardson, of
Holywell Park--a visit full of romance, as narrated by Mr. Martin, a
beautiful young lady, governess to the General's children, having to
all appearances fallen desperately in love with the poet at first
sight. The only unromantic incident of the day was the customary
dinner at the servants' table. Clare's biographer, with excusable
warmth, says that his local patrons, however much they might differ
on other subjects, held that the true place of a poet was among
footmen and kitchen maids. But it should not be forgotten that the
noblemen named were life-long friends of Clare and his family, and it
would be unjust to reflect upon their memory because the relations of
"the hearty and generous Oxford," the Duke and Duchess of Queensbury,
and Lord Bolingbroke with the polite and scholarly Prior, Gay, and
Pope were not immediately established between the Marquis of Exeter
or Earl Fitzwilliam and the gifted but unlettered rustic who had
toiled in their fields.
Clare's proud spirit was almost always restive under the burden of
patronage, especially if bestowed on account of his poverty, but we
may feel sure that he did not expect to dine with these noblemen,
that no indignity was intended in sending him to the common hall, and
that it did not occur to him that he ought to feel insulted. Clare
was married to Martha Turner at Great Casterton Church on the 16th of
March, 1820, and for a time Mrs. Clare remained at her father's
house. She afterwards joined her husband at the house of his parents
in Helpstone, his "own old home of homes," as he fondly called the
lowly cottage in one of his most pathetic poems, and there they all
remained, with the offspring of the marriage, until the removal to
Northborough in 1832. Flushed with his recent good fortune, Clare
distributed bride cake among his friends, and received from all
hearty good wishes for his future happiness.