There now was a moment"s pause, broken by Mr. Drury, who said, addressing Clare, "Well, if you have made no agreement with Mr. Henson, and will entrust me with your poems, I will undertake to print them without any advance of money, and leave you the profits, after deducting my expenses."
John Clare"s heart rose within him when he heard these words, and but for the pompous man at Mr. Drury"s side, he would have run up and pressed the good bookseller to his heart. "Yes, you shall have all my papers," he eagerly exclaimed; "shall have them as soon as I get them back from Market-Deeping. And I can show you a few verses at once." Which saying, he left the room, returning in a few minutes with a queer bundle of odd-sized sc.r.a.ps of paper, tied round with a thick rope, and scribbled over, in an almost illegible manner, in all directions. At the top of the bundle was a poem, beginning, "My love, thou art a nosegay sweet," which Mr. Drury had no sooner deciphered, than he shook Clare warmly by the hand.
"I think that will do," he exclaimed, with some enthusiasm, looking at his companion.
The latter fancied he ought to say something. "Mr. Clare, I shall be happy to see you to dinner, any of these days," he exclaimed, with a dignified nod and gracious smile. Thereupon, both Mr. Drury and Mr.
Newcomb took their farewell, Clare once more promising that he would take his papers to the "New Public Library," as soon as obtained from Market-Deeping.
On the threshold, Mr. Newcomb was seized with a new idea. "If you get the ma.n.u.scripts from Deeping, Mr. Clare, we shall be glad to see you," he exclaimed; "if not, we can say nothing further about the matter." Thus the friendly visitor got rid of the overwhelming fear of giving a dinner to a poor man for nothing. However, John Clare never in his life troubled Mr. Newcomb of Stamford for a dinner.
Disagreeable, and almost offensive, as the conversation of one of his visitors had been to John Clare, he was very much pleased with that of the other. For Mr. Edward Drury he felt a real liking, and deeming the proposition which the latter had made exceedingly liberal, he at once set to work carrying the proposal into execution. Fearing that Mr. Henson might, possibly, put obstacles in his way, John persuaded his mother to go to Market-Deeping and fetch his poems. The good old dame gladly fulfilled her son"s wish, and the next morning trudged over to the neighbouring town. Clever diplomatist, like all ladies, young or old, she managed to get, with some difficulty, her son"s bundle of many-coloured papers, in the midst of which stuck, like the hard kernel in a soft plum, a stout, linen-bound book. John, over-anxious now to possess his verses, awaited the result of the journey half-way between Deeping and Helpston, near the village of Maxey. Here both mother and son sat down in a field, the latter examining his paper bundle with great care. It was all right; nothing was missing, not even the pitch-sealed doc.u.ment containing the prospectus of the "Original Trifles." Joyful at heart, the two went back to the little cottage, already expanded, in John"s imagination, into a large comfortable house. The first difficulty of getting them printed overcome, the success of his poems was to John Clare a matter of no doubt whatever. His fancy painted to him, in glowing colours, what honour they would bring him, what friends, and what, worldly reward. He would be enabled to get a nice dwelling for his old parents, abundance of good cheer for them, and abundance of good books for himself. And then--his heart swelled at the thought--he would be able to carry home his beloved mistress, his "Patty of the Vale." The idea made him dance along the road; and he kissed his mother, and the good old dame began dancing, too, all through the green fields, in which the birds wore singing, and the flowers bending their faces in the wind.
On the following morning, John Clare walked to Stamford with his papers, handing them over to Mr. Drury. The latter presented him with a guinea, as a sort of purchase-money "on hand," encouraging him, at the same time, to write more verses, and to complete all the remaining ma.n.u.script poetry in his possession, John went home elated with joy, promising to return to Stamford at the end of a week. To John Clare it was a week of joy, while Mr. Edward Drury, on his part, felt somewhat uneasy in his mind. He was a man of good education, a relative of Mr. John Taylor--head of the formerly eminent publishing firm of Taylor and Hessey, Fleet Street, London--but, though with fair natural gifts, and a lover of poetry, was not exactly a judge of literary productions. John Clare"s sonnet "To the Setting Sun," which had first attracted his attention, looked well in its printed and corrected form; but the rest of the ma.n.u.script poems, when he came to look over them, appeared to him to possess little or no value.
Written on dirty bits of coa.r.s.e paper, ill-spelt, full of grammatical blunders, and without any punctuation whatever, it required, indeed, a judge of more than ordinary capacity to p.r.o.nounce on the intrinsic poetical value of these productions. Mr. Drury, having spent a day in scanning over the uncouth papers, began to feel very uneasy, doubting whether he had not promised too much in agreeing that he would print them, and also whether he had not paid too dear for them already in giving John Clare a guinea. Full of these doubts, yet not wishing to make a mistake in the matter, he resolved to submit the question to a higher tribunal. One of his customers, the Rev. Mr Twopenny, inc.u.mbent of Little Casterton, had the reputation of a most learned critic, having published various theological and other treatises; and he being the only literary man known to Mr. Drury in or near Stamford, the owner of the "New Public Library" resolved to make his appeal to him. Clare"s rough bundle of verses accordingly found its way to Little Casterton parsonage, to the great surprise of the learned minister, who, though deep in theology, Hebrew, and Greek, knew, probably, much less of the value of English verse than even Mr. Drury. This, however, did not prevent the learned man from giving an opinion, for having examined the blurred and somewhat unclean MSS. submitted to him, and finding them full of many blunders in grammar and spelling, he expressed himself in a decisive manner to the effect that the so-called poetry was a mere ma.s.s of useless rubbish. Mr.
Edward Drury felt much downcast when he received this oracular note, which happened to come in on the very morning of the day arranged for the second visit of the poet of Helpston.
When John Clare came into the shop in High Street, joyful and excited, with another large bundle of rope-tied poetry under his arm, Mr. Drury received him with a somewhat elongated face. Instead of expressing a wish to see the new ma.n.u.scripts, he told his visitor, after some hesitation, that unexpected circ.u.mstances prevented him from carrying out the promised publication of the poems at the moment, and that he would have to postpone it for some time. John Clare was ready to burst out crying; the blow came so unexpectedly that he did not know what to think of it.
Although with little experience of the world, he saw perfectly well, from Mr. Drury"s manner, that something unfavourable had occurred to produce a change respecting the poems. After a short pause, summoning up courage, he pressed his patron to explain the matter. Thereupon the letter of the Rev. Mr. Twopenny was handed to Clare. He read it over; read it once, twice; and then grasped the counter to prevent himself from falling to the ground. It was the first harsh literary criticism the poor poet had to submit to in his life. The blood rushed to his face; his hands clinched the fatal letter, as if to annihilate its existence. After a while, he could not contain himself any longer, but bursting into tears, ran out of the shop. Good-natured Mr. Drury saw that he had made a mistake--perhaps a great, and certainly a cruel mistake. He rushed after his humble friend, and brought him back to the shop, and into the parlour behind, there soothing him as best he could. It was easy to persuade John Clare that the Rev. Mr. Twopenny"s opinion was, after all, but the opinion of one man; that men differed much in almost everything, and in nothing less than the value they set upon poetry. The remarks were so evidently true, that the much-humbled poet brightened up visibly; brightened up still more when Mr. Drury got a bottle of old ale from the cupboard and began filling two gla.s.ses. Viewed through this medium, the future looked much more cheery to John Clare; the world, there seemed no doubt, would appreciate good poetry, though the Rev. Mr. Twopenny did not. Having got his poetical friend into this happy mood, Mr. Drury talked to him seriously and sensibly. He advised John Clare to seek work immediately, either as a farm-labourer or lime-burner, and to devote only his spare time to the writing of verses. As to the verses already written, he promised to lay them before other judges, and to publish them, at any rate, more or less corrected and altered. This, too, sounded hopeful, and when John Clare shook hands with the owner of the "New Public Library" in the High Street of Stamford, he thought he was a good deal nearer his long cherished object than he had ever been before.
PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION.
Acting upon Mr. Drury"s advice, John Clare, at the end of a few days, visited his former employer, Mr. Wilders, at Bridge Casterton, who, upon his earnest application, set him to work at once, first as a gardener, and, after a while, as labourer in one of his lime-kilns. Here John stayed the whole of the spring and summer of 1819; in many respects one of the most pleasing periods of his whole life. At the end of each day"s hard work, he visited his beloved mistress at Walkherd Lodge, with whom he was becoming very intimate--too intimate, alas!--while the spare hours of morning, noon, and evening were devoted to poetry, and the whole of Sunday to reading and music. Mr. Drury, beginning to feel more and more sympathy with his young friend, invited him to spend every Sunday at the shop in the High Street, unrestrained by any forms and ceremonies whatever, and acting entirely as his own master. John Clare accepted the first invitation with some shyness; but before long felt himself fully at home at his friend"s house, examining the books, maps, and pictures spread out before him with a blissful enjoyment never before known. The Sunday visits to Stamford, after a while, became to him such an intense delight that he could scarcely await the happy day, and even neglected his love affairs in its expectation. There were no visits to Walkherd Lodge on Sat.u.r.day evenings, when John went early to bed, in order to rise earlier the next morning. The Sunday found him awake hours before the c.o.c.k had sounded the alarm, and many a time he had got over the two miles of road from Casterton to Stamford, and stood in front of the "New Public Library," before even the sun had risen. Good-natured Mr. Drury now had to get out of bed, let his friend into the shop, and compose himself as best he could, to sleep again. John now read for an hour or two; but when he thought his friend had slept long enough, he took up his fiddle, safely kept among the books, and began playing a merry gypsy tune. This had the invariable effect of bringing Mr. Edward Drury, pa.s.sionately fond of music, down to his books and his friend, and, coffee having been prepared, the long day of talking, reading, and fiddling set in for both.
While these proceedings were going on, the fate of Clare"s poems had been decided; unknown, however, to the poet. Mr. Drury, after the very unfavourable judgment of the Rev. Mr. Twopenny, resolved upon sending his odd bundle of verses to London, to get the final opinion of his experienced relative, Mr. John Taylor, the publisher of Fleet Street. Mr.
Taylor, a talented author as well as bookseller, at a glance perceived the true poetic nature of John Clare. He saw that, under an uncouth garb, there were nameless beauties in the verses submitted to him; a wealth of feeling, and a depth of imagination seldom found in poetic descriptions of the external aspects of nature. Mr. Taylor saw--perhaps somewhat dimly, but still he saw--that Clare was one of the born poets of the earth; a man who could no more help singing, than birds can keep from pouring forth their own harmonious melodies. But he saw also that John Clare"s works were diamonds which wanted polishing, and this labour he resolved to undertake. He informed Mr. Drury of his intention to bring out the poems under his own editorship and supervision, telling him to encourage John Clare to devote himself more and more to the study of style and grammar, as well as to the improvement of his general education. Mr. Drury, who, by this time, knew his young friend intimately, hesitated to communicate Mr. Taylor"s advice and directions.
Thoroughly acquainted with the excitable nature of the poet, he feared that, in launching him again on a sea of expectations, which, after all, might remain unfulfilled, he would do far more harm than good, and he therefore resolved to keep his imagination in leading-strings. He told John Clare that Messrs. Taylor and Hessey were willing to publish his poems, Mr. Taylor himself making the necessary grammatical and other corrections; but that the success of the publication, as of all other books, being doubtful, he must not, for the present, indulge in too sanguine hopes of gaining either fame or fortune through his book. John was quite content with this information, and kept on steadily in his course; reading and fiddling the first day, and making love and burning lime the other six days of the week.
The love-making, after a while, took a turn not entirely creditable to the interested parties. Having re-established his confidential intercourse with Martha Turner, yet not won the good graces of her parents, who more than ever favoured the suit of the rival shoemaker, John induced his sweetheart to meet him at places where she should not have gone, and made proposals to which she should not have listened. Poor Patty, loving not wisely but too well, did go and did listen to her lover, with the ordinary sad consequences. The sequel was as usual. She got sad and he got cold; and her complaints becoming numerous and frequent, he left her and began flirting with other girls, trying to persuade himself that he was the injured party, inasmuch as Patty"s parents treated him with scorn and contempt. An accidental occurrence, in the summer of 1819, contributed much to make him forgetful of his moral obligations. At a convivial meeting of lime-burners, held at a Stamford tavern, Martha Turner, who was present, frequently danced with another man, which so irritated John Clare that he, in his turn, paid his attentions to a young damsel of the neighbourhood, known as Betty Sell, the daughter of a labourer at Southorp. Betty was a la.s.s of sixteen, pretty and unaffected, with dark hair and hazel eyes; and her prattle about green fields, flowers, and sunshine, of which she seemed pa.s.sionately fond, so intoxicated John that he got enamoured of her on the spot. It was a mere pa.s.sing fancy; but to revenge himself upon Patty for coquetting, as he thought, with others, he did not go near her, and, at the end of the entertainment, accompanied Betty Sell to her home, some three miles distant The quarrel, thus commenced, did not end soon. Patty was angry with John; and John, in consequence, renewed his attentions to Betty Sell. Not long, and his first liking increased to a feeling akin to real love. Betty was so sweet and artless in her doings and sayings, and, above all, hung with such evident fondness on every word of her admirer about his life and his struggles, his intense admiration of nature, his poetry, and his hopes of rising in the world through his poetry, that the susceptible heart of John Clare soon got inflamed to ardent devotion of his new mistress. His infatuation rose to such a height that he neglected even his visits to Mr. Drury, preferring, for once in his life, glowing eyes and lips to verses, music, and books. The Stamford bookseller was somewhat surprised on missing his young friend and his fiddle on several subsequent Sundays, and on inquiring the cause, was met by replies more or less unsatisfactory. Taking a real interest in John"s welfare, Mr.
Drury thereupon determined to get at the bottom of the affair, and succeeded in discovering the secret one evening, after a merry supper.
Having taken an unusual quant.i.ty of drink, John Clare became confidential, and his friend learnt all that was to be learnt respecting Martha Turner and Betty Sell. Like an honourable man, Mr. Drury was not slow in catechising John, telling him in a severe tone that unless he returned to his old love and gave up all acquaintance with the new, he would withdraw his friendship from him, as a creature unworthy of it.
This had a deep effect upon Clare, and though the immediate promise of reform made by him, was not fulfilled to the letter, his life, for the next seven or eight months, was a constant struggle between duty and affection, in which duty at last got the upper hand.
After the severe admonition of his friend and patron, John renewed his frequent visits to the "New Public Library," spending not only his Sundays, but many evenings of the week at the shop in Stamford. It was on one of these evenings that he was startled by the appearance of a sedate-looking gentleman, in spectacles, who went up to him with much ceremony, inquiring whether he had the pleasure to address Mr. John Clare. John, very confused, scarcely knew what to answer, until Mr. Drury came up, introducing the visitor as Mr. John Taylor, of London, the editor and publisher of his poems. A lengthened conversation followed, which, though it seemed to delight Mr. Taylor, was not by any means pleasant to the shy and awkward poet. Deeply conscious, as always, of his defective education, his rustic mode of expressing his thoughts, and, most of all, his tattered and dirty garments, he had scarcely the courage to look Mr. Taylor in the face, but kept hiding himself in a corner, looking for an opportunity to escape from the room. The opportunity, however, did not come, and worse afflictions remained behind. After Mr.
Taylor was gone, and John had settled down to his favourite books, a servant appeared in the shop, inviting Clare to visit the house of Mr.
Octavius Gilchrist, a few doors from the "New Public Library." John was fairly inclined to run away, as soon as he heard the message; but found that escape was not so easy. Mr. Drury told him that it was a matter, not of pleasure, but of duty; that Mr. Gilchrist was a very influential man in the literary world; that at the house of Mr. Gilchrist he would meet Mr. Taylor, and that the success of his first volume of poems depended, to a certain extent, upon this interview. This ended all opposition on the part of Clare. He allowed himself to be dragged, like a lamb, into Mr. Gilchrist"s house, which, though it was but a grocer"s shop on the ground-floor, seemed to him a most magnificent dwelling. The drawing-room was lighted with wax candles, and was full of gilded paintings, carpets and fine furniture, amidst which his dirty clothes, fresh from the lime-kiln, appeared entirely out of place. Nevertheless, he was graciously received by Mr. and Mrs. Gilchrist, and warmly welcomed by his previous acquaintance, Mr. John Taylor.
Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, in whose house John Clare now found himself, and who came to exercise a considerable influence over his future career, was a literary man of some note in his day. He was born in 1779, the son of a gentleman settled at Twickenham, who had served during the German war as lieutenant and surgeon in the third regiment of Dragoon Guards. Octavius was destined by his parents to be a clergyman, and went to Magdalene College, Oxford; but before taking his degree, or entering holy orders, his means began to fail, upon which he went to Stamford, to a.s.sist a well-to-do uncle in the grocery business The change from the study of the cla.s.sics at Magdalene College to the weighing-out of halfpenny worths" of soap and sugar to the rustics of Lincolnshire, amounted to a melancholy fall in life; however, Octavius Gilchrist bore it gaily, softening the drudgery by a continuation of his studies in spare hours, and frequent attempts to contribute to the periodical literature of the day. The Stamford Mercury having inserted several of his articles, he got bolder, and sent essays to several London Magazines, which met with, a like fortunate fate. In 1803, the Stamford uncle died, after willing all his property, including the profitable grocery business, to his nephew. This induced Mr. Gilchrist to devote himself more than ever to literature, leaving the shop to his a.s.sistants, and taking to the scales only on Fair days and other solemn occasions. Having married, in 1804, the daughter of Mr. James Nowlan, of London, he was drawn still more into literary society, got acquainted with William Gifford, and became a contributor to the "Quarterly Review." He a.s.sisted Gifford in his edition of Ben Jonson"s works, and in 1808 published a book of his own, ent.i.tled "Examination of the charges of Ben Jonson"s enmity towards Shakspeare."
This was followed, in the same year, by "Poems of Richard Corbet, Bishop of Norwich, with notes, and a life of the author;" and in 1811, by a "Letter to William Gifford, Esq., on a late edition of Ford"s plays." On one of his periodical visits to London, Mr. Gilchrist made the casual acquaintance of Mr. John Taylor. The acquaintance soon ripened into friendship, leading to much personal intercourse and a variety of literary schemes. Mr. Gilchrist first started a proposal to publish a "Select collection of Old Plays," in fifteen volumes, and on the failure of this scheme, owing to the sudden appearance of a flimsy kind of work called "Old Plays," Mr. Taylor and he agreed to launch a new monthly publication, under the revived t.i.tle of "The London Magazine." The negotiations for carrying out this work were pending between writer and publisher, when the first instalment of Clare"s ma.n.u.scripts was sent by Mr. Drury to his relative Mr. John Taylor. The latter read and liked the verses, and being desirous to know something of the writer, requested information from Mr. Gilchrist. "I know nothing whatever of your poet,"
was the reply; "never heard his name in my life." This somewhat surprised the cautious publisher; he thought that Stamford being so near to Helpston, and poets being not quite as plentiful as blackberries in the fen-country, John Clare and his prospectuses ought to be of at least local fame. To clear the matter up, as well as to make some further arrangements respecting the early issue of the "London Magazine," Mr.
Taylor went down to Stamford, called upon his relative at the "New Public Library," where, as accident would have it, he met John Clare, and then went to take up his quarters at the house of Mr. Gilchrist. The latter saw John Clare for the first time when introduced to him in his drawing-room over the grocery shop.
Clare was more than ever shy and awkward when ushered into this drawing-room, and it took a considerable time to make him feel at his ease. To do so, Mr. Gilchrist engaged him in conversation, and with the aid of Mr. Taylor and sundry bottles of wine, succeeded in getting from him a rough account of his life and struggles. Wine and spirits were temptations which John Clare was totally unable to withstand, indulging, on most occasions, far more freely in drink than was warranted by propriety and good sense. Perhaps, at Mr. Gilchrist"s house, the host was as much to blame as the guest; the former encouraging Clare"s weakness for the purpose of overcoming his extreme shyness and getting at the desired autobiographical information. By the time this was extracted, the poet had taken decidedly too much wine, and when a young lady in the room sat down to the piano and sang "Auld Robin Gray," he began crying. The sight was somewhat ludicrous, and Mr. Gilchrist sought to annul it by reading an antiquarian paper on Woodcroft Castle, which had the effect of driving John Clare out of the room and back to his bookshop. Here he sat down, and, still under the influence of the entertainment, wrote some doggerel verses called "The Invitation," which Mr. Gilchrist had the cruelty to print in number one of the "London Magazine," in which the English public received the first information of the existence of "John Clare, an agricultural labourer and poet."
It seems somewhat doubtful whether at this time either Mr. Gilchrist or Mr. John Taylor thoroughly appreciated John Clare. Both, although encouraging his poetical talent, never did justice to the n.o.ble and manly, nay lofty heart that beat under the ragged lime-burner"s dress.
Mr. Taylor, on his part, wanted a hero for his forthcoming monthly magazine, and he seemed to think that John Clare was the best that could be had. He therefore induced Mr. Gilchrist to limn the rustic novelty to the greatest advantage, which was done accordingly in the first number of the "London Magazine." A paper headed, "Some account of John Clare, an agricultural labourer and poet," intended evidently as a preliminary puff of the poems, and consisting of a rather pompous description of the visit of Clare to Mr. Gilchrist"s house, was, on the whole, in the tone in which a _parvenu_ might speak of a pauper. The chief fact dwelt upon was the extreme kindness of "the person who has generously undertaken the charge of giving a selection of Clare"s poems to the press," thus trying to make the world believe that a London publisher should so far forget himself as to neglect his own interest in favour of that of a poor author. Though perhaps well-meant in the first instance, this patronizing manner in speaking of Clare, and attracting public attention to him, less as a poetical genius, but as happening to be a poor man, did infinite mischief in the end. It did more than this--it killed John Clare.
After his first interview with Mr. Gilchrist, John continued to visit at the house, and was openly taken under the great literary man"s protection. By his desire, William Hilton, R.A., happening to pa.s.s through Stamford, consented to paint Clare"s portrait for exhibition in London. The poet was delighted; and all went on well, until one day when Mr. Gilchrist, desirous of aiding to his utmost power the success of the forthcoming volume, asked, or ordered, Clare to write to Viscount Milton, eldest son of the Earl Fitzwilliam, humbly requesting permission to dedicate the poems to his lordship. John Clare, remembering his former visit to Milton Park, in company with the nimble parish clerk of Helpston, refused the demand, to the great annoyance of Mr. Gilchrist. At length, however, giving way to Mr. Drury"s importunities, Clare sat down and penned his humble epistle, which was duly despatched by Mr.
Gilchrist. But there never came an answer from Viscount Milton, who, probably, at the time, held it to be a vile conspiracy to extract a five-pound note from his pocket. Mr. Gilchrist was mortified; but John Clare was rather pleased than otherwise. He was more pleased when, a few weeks after, Mr. Drury showed him an advertis.e.m.e.nt in a London paper, announcing, "Poems descriptive of rural life and scenery, by John Clare, a Northamptonshire peasant." It was stated, in capital letters, that the book was "preparing for publication."
SUCCESS.
In October, 1819, Clare left the lime-kiln at Bridge-Casterton, where he had been working during the greater part of the year, and returned to Helpston. He did so partly on account of a new reduction of wages, but partly also because suffering from constant ill-health. His old enemy, the fever of the fens, continued its attacks at intervals, and he found that he was less able to withstand the foe in the lime-kiln than when working in the open air. This time he was fortunate enough to find regular work as a farm labourer in the neighbourhood of Helpston, and having got somewhat better, he set with new energy to thrashing and ploughing. His visits to Mr. Drury and Mr. Gilchrist henceforth became somewhat more scarce. Though conscious of being deeply indebted to both these friends, he could not bear being constantly reminded of this indebtedness in the patronizing air which they a.s.sumed, and the high tone of superiority which they arrogated to themselves in their intercourse with him. With Mr. Gilchrist, especially, he found fault for attempting to guide him in a manner which, he held, this gentleman had no right to do. John Clare had become acquainted, in the spring of 1819, with the Rev. Mr. Holland, minister of the congregational church at Market-Deeping. Mr. Holland, a well-educated man, with a fine appreciation of poetry, happened to see Clare"s prospectus, with the sonnet to the "Setting Sun," at a farm-house near Northborough, and being struck with the verses, as well as with the account which the farmer, who knew Clare, gave of the author, he at once went in search of the poet.
After some trouble, he discovered him in the lime-kiln at Bridge-Casterton, just while Clare was resting from his work, and scribbling poems upon the usual shreds of paper spread out on the crown of his hat. Mr. Holland, much astonished at the sight, forthwith entered into conversation, and being a simple man, with nothing of the patron about him, at once won Clare"s affection. The acquaintance thus begun soon ripened into friendship, with, however, but scant personal intercourse, owing to the many occupations of the active dissenting minister, and the distance of his place of residence from Casterton. But John Clare did not fail to lay most of the verses he was writing before his clerical friend, and was delighted to meet always with hearty encouragement. "If this kind of poetry does not succeed," Mr. Holland said on one occasion, looking over Clare"s shoulder, while the latter was writing the "Village Funeral;" "if this kind of poetry does not succeed, the world deserves a worse opinion than I am inclined to give it." These words made a deep impression upon Clare, and he kept on repeating them to himself whenever his mind was fluttered with doubts of success and apprehensions of failure. Very naturally, upon the man who had cheered him with such hearty and well-timed approval, Clare looked as one of his best friends, and lost no occasion to proclaim the fact.
He told the story of his acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Holland, as at many other times, so at the first interview with Mr. Gilchrist. The latter seemed rather displeased when he heard that the young rustic, presented to his patronage, was acquainted with a dissenting minister, although professing to be a member of the Church of England. Mr.
Gilchrist took at once occasion of rebuking him for this conduct, and in the account given of Clare in the "London Magazine," alluded to the subject at some length, explaining that "Mr. Holland, a Calvinistic preacher in an adjoining hamlet, had paid him some attention, but his means of aiding the needy youth was small, whatever might have been his wish, and he has now quitted his charge." The statement was untrue in several respects; for Mr. Holland was neither a "Calvinistic preacher,"
nor stationed in a "hamlet," nor had he "quitted his charge," that is, given up his friendship with Clare. To make at least the ultimate a.s.sertion true, Mr. Gilchrist, after having been acquainted for some time with John, insisted that he should cease all communication with the "Calvinistic preacher." This Clare refused at once, looking upon his intercourse with Mr. Holland as an entirely private matter, not in the least connected with religious opinions. The refusal brought about a great coldness on the part of Mr. Gilchrist, which Clare no sooner perceived than he absented himself from his house. This was very unfortunate; but could scarcely be helped for the moment. John Clare was totally unable to understand the orthodox high-church principles of the former student of Magdalene College, while Mr. Gilchrist, on his part, was incapacitated from appreciating the lofty feeling of independence that existed in the breast of the poor lime-burner and farm labourer. In his account in the "London Magazine," Mr. Gilchrist"s estimate of the poet"s character was expressed in the words:--"Nothing could exceed the meekness, and simplicity, and diffidence with which he answered the various inquiries concerning his life and habits;" and it was upon this supposed "meekness" that all subsequent treatment of Clare by him and other friends and patrons was based. But it was an estimate of character entirely false. Though meek and humble outwardly, the consequence of early training and later habit, John Clare had all the towering pride of genius--more than this, of genius misunderstood.
The year of 1820 broke dull and gloomy upon Clare. He had expected his poems to be published in the month of November, or the beginning of December previous; but was without any information whatever, either from Stamford or London, and did not know when the long-expected book would appear, or whether it would appear at all. The little money he had received from Mr. Drury at various periods--some twenty pounds altogether--had been spent by this time, and, being out of work, he was once more face to face with grim poverty. Day after day pa.s.sed, yet no news, till, in the last week of January, the smiling face of a friend suddenly lighted up the gloom. It was a rainy day, and Clare was unable to take his usual ramble through the fields, when the clattering of hoofs was heard outside the little cottage. A man on horseback alighted at the door, and shaking off the dripping wet, rushed into the room, where Clare and his father and mother were sitting round the little fire. It was the Rev. Mr. Holland. "Am I not a good prophet?" he cried, running towards John, and shaking him warmly by the hand. John looked up in astonishment; he had not the slightest notion of what his friend meant or alluded to.
But Mr. Holland kept on laughing and dancing, shaking himself like a wet poodle. "Am I not a good prophet?" he repeated, again and again. The long face of his melancholy young friend at last brought him to a sense of the actual state of affairs. "You have had no letter from your publishers?"
he inquired. "None whatever," was the reply. "Then let me be the first herald of good news," cried Mr. Holland; "I can a.s.sure you that your utmost expectations have been realized. I have had a letter from a friend in London, this morning, telling me that your poems are talked of by everybody; in fact, are a great success." How the words cheered the heart of John Clare! He fancied he had a slight touch of the ague in the morning; but it seemed to fall like scales off his body, and he thought he had never been so well all his life. Mr. Holland was about getting into his wet saddle again. "Oh, do stop a little longer," said John, imploringly; "have something to eat and drink." And he looked at his father and mother; and father and mother looked at him. Alas! they all knew too well that there was nothing in the house to eat; and no money wherewith to purchase food. Good Mr. Holland, at a glance, perceived the actual state of affairs. "Well," he exclaimed, "I intended having some dinner at the inn round the corner; but if you will allow me, I will have it sent here, and take it in your company." And in a twinkling of the eye, he was out of doors, leading his horse, which had been tied to a post, towards the "Blue Bell." He was back in ten minutes; and in another ten minutes there appeared the potboy from the "Blue Bell" carrying a huge tray, smoking hot. Thrice the messenger from the "Blue Bell" came and returned, each time carrying something heavy in his fat, red hands, and going away with empty trays. When he had turned his back for the third and last time, they all sat down around the little ricketty table, the Rev. Mr. Holland, John, his father and mother. "Every good gift, and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights," said the minister. "Amen!" fervently exclaimed John.
The good news of which the Rev. Mr. Holland had been the bearer was soon confirmed on all sides. Early the next morning there came a messenger from Stamford, asking Clare to visit Mr. Drury as well as Mr. Gilchrist.
He called first at the house of the latter, and was very graciously received, being informed that his poems were published, and that Mr.
William Gifford, editor of the "Quarterly Review" had taken a great interest in him and his book. John Clare, who had never heard either of Mr. Gifford, or the "Quarterly," listened to the news with much indifference, to the evident surprise of his friend. Leaving Mr.
Gilchrist, he went next door, to Mr. Drury, and, entering the shop, fell back with astonishment on hearing a tall aristocratic-looking elderly gentleman inquire for "John Clare"s Poems." It sounded like sweet music to his ear, the cracked voice of the old gentleman. Mr. Drury, not noticing the entrance of Clare, took a small octavo volume from the top of a parcel of similar books lying on his counter, and handed it to the gentleman, informing his customer at the same time that the poems were "universally applauded both by the critics of London and the public."
John kept firm in his corner near the door; he thought his friend Drury the most eloquent speaker he had ever heard. "And, pray, who is this John Clare?" asked the tall aristocratic-looking gentleman. "He is ..." began Mr. Drury, but suddenly stopped short, seeing a whole row of his books tumble to the ground. John Clare, in his terrible excitement, had pressed too close towards an overhanging shelf of heavily-bound folios and quartos, which came down with a tremendous crash. It seemed as if an earthquake was overturning the "New Public Library;" and the astonishment of the owner did not subside when he saw his poetical friend creeping out from under the ruins of five-score dictionaries, gazetteers, and account-books. Having somewhat recovered his composure, Mr. Drury, with a grave mien, turned towards the tall gentleman, exclaiming, "I beg to introduce to you Mr. Clare, the poet." The gentleman burst out laughing at the intensely ludicrous scene before him; yet checked himself instantly, seeing the colour mount into Clare"s face. "I beg you a thousand pardons, Mr. Clare," he exclaimed; "I hope you have not been hurt." And as if to compensate for his rude hilarity, the tall gentleman entered into a conversation with Clare, ending by an invitation to visit him at his residence on the following day: "Mr. Drury will give you my address; good morning." John Clare made no reply, and only bowed; he did not feel much liking for his new acquaintance. However, when Mr. Drury told him that the stranger was General Birch Reynardson, a gentleman of large property, residing near Stamford, on an estate called Holywell Park, and that his acquaintance might be of the greatest benefit for the success of his book, if not for himself, Clare consented to pay the desired visit. The allusion to his published poems by Mr. Drury was pleasant to his ears, and Clare eagerly sat down to examine _his_ book.
It was not by any means a handsome volume in outward appearance, being bound in thick blue cardboard, with a small piece of coa.r.s.e linen on the back. But the coa.r.s.eness of the material was relieved by the inscription, "Clare"s Poems," printed on the back in large letters; and the plain appearance of the book was forgotten over the t.i.tle-page, "Poems descriptive of rural life and scenery, by John Clare, a Northamptonshire peasant." He eagerly ran his eye over the poems, and was more than ever pleased with them in their new dress, with slightly altered spelling, and all the signs of punctuation added. There was only one part of the book with which he was not pleased, which was the part headed "introduction."
It gave an untrue account of his life, and, what was still more galling to the pride of the poet, spoke of his poverty as the main point deserving public attention. All this deeply hurt his feelings; nevertheless the predominating sentiment of joy and satisfaction prevented him saying anything on the subject to Mr. Drury. He stayed some hours at the shop, and it was arranged that early on the next morning he should call again to get ready for the important visit to General Reynardson. When on the point of leaving, Mr. Drury put a letter in Clare"s hands. "I had almost forgotten it," he said; "it has been lying at the shop for several days. I suppose it is from your sweetheart."
The letter was from the "sweetheart;" but a very melancholy letter it was nevertheless. Poor Martha Turner told her lover, what he knew long ago, that she was about becoming a mother before being a wife; that her situation was known to her parents; that her father and mother refused to forgive her frailty; and that she was cruelly treated and on the point of being expelled from under their roof. John Clare read the letter on the roadside, between Stamford and Helpston; he read it over again and again, and his burning tears fell upon the little sheet of paper. A fierce conflict of pa.s.sions and desires arose within his soul. He fancied that he did not love Martha Turner half so well as the pretty little la.s.s of Southorp; he fancied that since his first overwhelming affection for "Mary," he had never been devoted, heart and soul, so much to any one as to Betty Sell. Yet to Martha Turner, once his sweet "Patty of the Vale,"
he knew he was bound by even stronger ties than those of affection and love--he trembled thinking thus, yet held firm to the n.o.bler element in his breast. The secret struggle, short and intense, ended with a firm resolve that duty should conquer pa.s.sion.
Early on the day following, John Clare made his appearance at Mr. Drury"s shop. The busy tradesman had already provided an outfit for his friend, whom he meant to patronize more than ever, now that his poems promised to be successful. In the course of half an hour, John found himself clothed in garments such as he had never before worn. He had a black coat, waistcoat, and trousers, a silk necktie, and a n.o.ble, though very uncomfortable, high hat; while his heavy shoes seemed changed by a covering of brilliant polish. Surveying his figure, thus altered, in a looking-gla.s.s, John was greatly satisfied with himself, and with a proud step marched off towards Holywell Park. General Birch Reynardson received him with great affability; at once took him by the hand, and led him into the library. It was the finest collection of books Clare had ever seen, and he warmly expressed his admiration of it. After a while, the General took a small quarto, bound in red morocco, from the shelves, and showing it to his guest, asked him what he thought of the contents. They were poems written by the general"s father; and Clare, seeing the fact stated on the t.i.tle-page, was polite enough to declare them to be very beautiful. Another red-morocco volume thereupon came down from the shelves, full of ma.n.u.script poetry of the General"s own composition. John Clare began to see that genius was hereditary in the family, and expressing as much to his host, earned a grateful smile, and a warm pressure of the hand. He was asked next to promenade in the gardens till dinner was ready.
The gardens of Holywell Park were laid out with great taste, and John Clare soon lost himself in admiration of the many beautiful views opened before him. While wandering along the banks of an artificial lake, fed by a cascade at the upper end, he was joined by a young lady of extraordinary beauty. He believed it was the wife of the General; yet, though showing the deepest respect to the lady who addressed him while walking at his side, he could not help looking up into her face now and then, in mute admiration of her exquisite loveliness. The General, after a while, joined the promenaders, when John, somewhat to his surprise, learnt that his fair companion was not the hostess of the establishment, but the governess. Notwithstanding the presence of the master of the house, the young lady continued speaking to Clare in the freest and most unrestrained manner, bewitching him alike by the tones of her voice and the soft words of flattering praise she poured into his ear. She told him that she had read twice through the volume of poetry which the General had brought home the preceding evening, having sat up for this purpose the greater part of the night. Clare"s face got scarlet when he heard these bewitching words; never before had praise sounded so sweet to his ear; never before had it come to him from such honeyed lips. He was beside himself for joy, when, as a proof of her good memory, she began reciting one of his poems: "My love, thou art a nosegay sweet." And when she came to the last line, "And everlasting love thee," Clare"s eyes and those of the beautiful girl met, and he felt her glances burning into his very soul. The general did not seem to take much notice of his companions, being busy picking up stones in the footpath, and examining the state of the gra.s.s on the borders of his flower beds. On returning towards the house, he informed Clare that the servants were about sitting down to their dinner, and told him to join them in the hall. The young governess appeared intensely surprised at the words; she looked up, first at the General and then at Clare. Probably it seemed to her a gross insult that a poet should be sent to take his meal with the footmen and scullery-maids. But Clare"s face looked bright and serene; to him, as much as to the master of the house, it appeared perfectly natural to be returned to his proper social sphere, after a momentary dream-like rise into higher social regions.
He walked into the hall, and humbly sat down at the lower end of the servants" table. The big lackeys whispered among themselves, looking with a haughty air upon the base intruder. John Clare heeded it not; his soul was far away in a world of bliss. Before him, in his imagination still hovered that sweet beautiful face which he had seen in the gardens; in his ear still sounded the soft tones of her voice: "And everlasting love thee." Thus he sat at the table, among the footmen and kitchen wenches, tasting neither food nor drink--an object of utter contempt to his neighbours. Before long, however, there came a message from the housekeeper"s room, inviting Clare to proceed to the select apartments of this potent lady. He followed the servant mechanically, careless where he was going; but was joyfully surprised on entering the room to see his dream changed into reality. There, opposite the table, sat his beautiful garden-companion, smiling more sweetly, and looking more exquisitely enchanting than ever. She stretched out her little white hand, and Clare sat down near her, utterly unmindful of the presence of the mistress of the apartment, the lady housekeeper. The latter felt somewhat offended in her dignity, yet overlooked it for the moment, being desirous to proffer a request. Having succeeded in rousing Clare"s attention, she informed her visitor, with becoming condescension, that she was very fond of poetry; also that she had a son who was very fond of poetry. But it so happened that, though very fond of reading verses, neither she nor her son was able to produce any. Now hearing, from her friend the governess, that there was a poet in the house, she had taken the liberty to send for him, to do some trifling work. What she wanted was an address of filial love, as touching and affectionate as possible; this she would send to her son, and her dear son would return it to her, signed by his own name.
She hoped it could be done at once, while she was getting the tea ready.
Could it be done at once? Clare started on hearing himself addressed a second time by the high-toned lady--he did not remember a word of all that had been said to him. But he bowed in silence, and the dignified elderly person left the room to make the tea, firmly persuaded that her poetry would be got ready in the meantime. When she was gone, Clare looked up, and found a pair of burning eyes fixed upon him. He tried to speak, but could not; the words, rising from his heart, seemed to perish on his tongue. After a long pause, the young governess, flushed with emotion, found courage to address her neighbour: "I hope to see you again, Mr. Clare; I hope you will write to me sometimes." He had no time to reply before the bell rang and a servant entered the room, reporting that General Birch Reynardson wished to see John Clare before leaving.
The intimation was understood. John went up to the library, bowed before his stately host, muttered a few words of thanks, he knew not exactly for what, and left the house. When the gate closed after him, he felt as if expelled from the garden of Eden.
Slowly he walked up the road, when suddenly a white figure started up on his path. The young governess again stood before Clare. "I could not hear of your going," cried the beautiful girl, her bright face suffused with blushes, and her long auburn hair fluttering in the wind; "I could not hear of your going, without saying good-bye." Clare again tried to speak, and again the words died upon his lips. But she continued addressing him; "Oh, do not forget to write to me," she said earnestly, with a tinge of melancholy in her soft voice. It thrilled through his soul, and opened his lips at last. "I will write," he answered, "and I will send you some new poems." Thus saying, he bent forward and took both her hands, and their eyes met, full of unspeakable pa.s.sion. But a sudden noise from the distance startled Clare and his fair companion. There was a man on horseback coming up with full speed, riding in the direction of Holywell Park. The young governess softly loosened her hands, turned a last fond look upon the poet, and fled away like a frightened hind into a neighbouring wood.
John Clare hurried forward, his face flushed, his head trembling; forgetful of all the things around him. At last, feeling exhausted, he sat down on a stone, at the turning of two roads. The one of the roads was leading to Stamford; the other to Bridge Casterton and Walkherd Lodge. Clare felt like one entranced. Joy unutterable was struggling in his bosom together with infinite sadness, and the wild pulsation of his heart seemed to drive his blood, like living fire, to his very soul. And he held his burning head in his hands, sitting at the corner of the two roads. The image of the beautiful girl he had just left, an image more perfect, more sweet and angelic than ever conceived by his imagination, appeared standing in one of the roads, and the picture of a sad, suffering woman, surrounded by angry parents, in the other. Lower sank the sun on the horizon; it was beginning to get dark; but Clare still kept sitting at the corner of the two roads, his throbbing head bent to his knees. The clouds in the west glowed with a fierce purple, when he started up at last. He started up and walked, swiftly and with firm step, towards Walkherd Lodge. The clouds in the west seemed to glow with an unearthly light.
"OPINIONS OF THE PRESS" AND CONSEQUENCES.
The London book-season of 1820 was a dull one. The number of books published was very small, and there were but few extraordinary good or extraordinary bad ones amongst them. All the "reviewers" were at their wits" end; for wit, sharp as a razor, must get dull over books undeserving of praise, yet incapable of being "cut up" with due brilliancy of style. Into this mournful critical desert, there fell like manna the "Poems descriptive of rural life and scenery." Mr. John Taylor and his literary coadjutors had taken great pains to spread the news far and wide that a new Burns had been discovered on the margin of the Lincolnshire fens, and was to be publicly exhibited before a most discerning public. There were low rumours, besides, that William Gifford intended to place the new Burns on the pedestal of the "Quarterly,"