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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 t.i.tle-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 tr.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 n.o.ble 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 a.s.semblies, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sionate love, una.s.sisted 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.
VISITS TO NEW AND OLD FRIENDS.
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 grat.i.tude 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 b.u.t.ter. 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 pa.s.sage, and the whole mansion appeared to be silent like the grave. Up another pa.s.sage, 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 b.u.t.ter. 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 gla.s.s 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 b.u.mp, 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, pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sengers 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 compa.s.sion, Allan offered his friend a.s.sistance; 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. "G.o.d knows," Allan exclaimed pa.s.sionately, "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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.blest 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, n.o.blest 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 G.o.d 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,
John Clare."
The day after writing this letter, Clare was on his way back to Helpston.
He rejoiced inwardly when pa.s.sing the bill of Highgate, looking back over the vast world of bricks and smoke behind, and beholding the sunny fields, fragrant with the first blossoms of spring, in front. More than ever he felt that he could not exist within the big metropolis, even its large intellectual life offering no compensation for the bounteous joys of nature. He almost shuddered when glancing at the huge black vault for the last time, at the turn of the Highgate Road. But he did not know it was the last time that his eyes rested upon London.
THE POET AS PEDLAR.
Returned to Helpston, Clare made immediate preparations for carrying out Mr. Taylor"s project to become a hawker. He sorted the little parcel of books which he had brought from London, and having divided the volumes into sets, each containing the "Rural Poems," "Village Minstrel," and "Shepherd"s Calendar," he set out in regular pedlar fashion. By dint of complex reasoning he had persuaded himself, to his own entire satisfaction, that the profession of selling would be fully as honourable as that of writing books; nay, that there was greater merit in being the distributor than the author, and consequently, that the highest vocation was that of being both together. He therefore resolved to devote himself with the greatest energy to his new business, and to leave no stone unturned to succeed in it. As to his attempt at farming, carried on during the past year, in a very unprofitable manner, he had already come to the conclusion to abandon it, by letting the land fall back to the original tenant. Though in reality more attached to field labour than any other kind of work, his love of it was for the moment all obscured by the vision of the brilliant prospects open in the new career as bookseller.
His sufferings from poverty had been so fearful, that the one all-absorbing aim to him now was that of ama.s.sing a small capital and getting out of debt.
It was on one of the first days in April when Clare commenced his trade as pedlar. With a dozen volumes of his poems in a canvas bag, slung by a strap over his shoulders, he bravely issued forth from his little hut, taking the road to Market Deeping. The people of the village, well acquainted with all his doings, peeped at him from out of doors and windows, shaking their heads in wonder at the strange sight. To his Helpston countrymen, Clare"s new calling did not seem at all degrading, but, on the contrary, too ambitious. They looked upon a bagman as a person of superior social rank--decidedly higher than a poet. Their conclusions were fully justified from their own point of view, in a material sense. The hawkers who pa.s.sed through Helpston were mostly men of substance, putting-up at the "Blue Bell," and ordering the best of everything from kitchen and cellar; while the poet among them was a starving wretch, over head and ears in debt, and with one foot in the workhouse. When Clare set out as a pedlar, therefore, they all declared that his ambition was carrying him too high. "Pride comes before the fall," said the old ones, tottering to, the door, and stretching their necks to get a sight of neighbour John. He took no heed of all the signs of curiosity, but walked briskly up the road towards the north. The sun shone bright when he started; but before long it began to rain heavily, so that he was wet all through when arrived at Market Deeping. According to his carefully-arranged plan, he first called upon the rector. The reverend gentleman was at home, and condescended to see the poet. But his brow darkened when learning the errand of his visitor. He told Clare sharply that he did not intend buying his poems, and that, moreover, he held it unbecoming to see them hawked about in this manner. Having said this, he bowed his visitor out of the room, perceiving that his clothes were dripping wet, and likely to spoil his carpet. The poor pedlar-poet left the house with, an ill-suppressed tear in his eye.
It still rained heavily, and Clare took refuge in a covered yard attached to an inn. There were some horse-dealers lolling about, talking of the state of the weather and the forthcoming races. One of them, a jolly-looking man with red hair and a red nose, after scanning Clare for a while, engaged him in conversation. "You have got something to sell there: what is it?" The answer was, "Books."--"Whose books?"--"My own."--"Yes, I know they are your own; or at least I suppose so. But what kind of books, and by what author?"--"Poems, written by myself." The horse-dealer stared. He looked fixedly at Clare, who was sitting on a stone, utterly dejected, and scarcely noticing his interlocutor. The latter seemed to feel stirred by sympathy, and in a more respectful tone than before exclaimed, "May I ask your name?"--"My name is John Clare,"
was the reply, p.r.o.nounced in a faint voice. But the words were no sooner uttered, when the jolly man with the red nose seized Clare by both hands.
"Well, I am really glad to meet you," he cried; "I often heard of you, and many a time thought of calling at Helpston, but couldn"t manage it."
Then, shouting at the top of his voice to some friends at the farther end of the yard, he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "Here"s John Clare: I"ve got John Clare." The appeal brought a score of horse-jobbers up in a moment. They took hold of the poet without ceremony, dragged him off his stone, and round the yard into the back entrance of the inn. "Brandy hot, or cold?" inquired the eldest of Clare"s friends. There was a refusal under both heads, coupled with the remark that a cup of tea would be acceptable. An order for it was given at once, and after a good breakfast, and a long conversation with his new acquaintances, Clare left the inn, delighted with the reception he had met with. He had sold all his books, and received for them more than the full price, several of his customers refusing to take change. It altogether seemed a good beginning of a good trade.
Nevertheless Clare was uneasy in his mind. Not all the kindness of his friends at the inn could compensate him for the harsh words he had heard at the rectory. Clare asked himself whether, supposing Market Deeping to be a fair sample of the towns which he was going to visit, he would be able to bear such treatment. And then the words of Allan Cunningham recurred to his mind, and his n.o.ble scorn of the career in which he was embarking. However, it seemed too late now to repent, having gone beyond the starting point. The next day, therefore, Clare once more slung his pack across his shoulders, and sallied forth towards Stamford. He did not expect to sell any of his books within the town, the market having been abundantly supplied by Mr. Drury; but he had hopes to meet with some success among the residents in the neighbourhood, to many of whom he was personally known. But his hopes were doomed to entire disappointment. He went to numerous farmhouses, mansions, and parsonages, and everywhere encountered refusal to purchase his ware. Some persons upon whom he called treated him politely; others with marked rudeness; and the great majority with indifference. Nearly all knew him by name, and had heard of his poems; and nearly all, too, like the rector of Market Deeping, expressed their surprise that an author should retail his own productions. One irascible old gentleman, living close to the village of Easton, told Clare, after some conversation, that he ought to be ashamed to go through the country with a bundle on his back The poet mildly suggested that to go with a bundle might be better than to go to the workhouse--the possible other alternative. There was huge astonishment depicted in the countenance of the old gentleman, and he furtively left the room, evidently frightened at having talked with a man likely to go to the workhouse.
It was late at night when Clare arrived home. He felt footsore, and fainting almost from hunger and thirst, not one of all the persons whom he had seen during sixteen hours having offered him as much as a crust of bread or a gla.s.s of water. The next day and the day after he was too ill to leave home, and remained on his couch, pondering on the subject uppermost in his mind. A fresh resolve to make still greater efforts to succeed was the result, come to after anxious consideration. As soon as recovered, he started again, this time to Peterborough. Though somewhat afraid of the inmates of the episcopal palace, he was in hopes of discovering a few friends in the city, having met with several people who knew his name and admired his writings during his previous short stay at the "Red Lion." Clare, therefore, once more visited this hospitable tavern, as well as the "Angel," but with no result whatever, as far as the sale of his books was concerned. The people were quite willing to talk with him for whole hours, and were willing even to pay for such slight refreshments as he might require; but they would not buy his books. They did not want poetry, they said; or they did not care for poetry; or they were, not in the habit of reading poetry. Clare felt very depressed and sad at heart when starting on his homeward journey, after a day"s ineffectual labour. He had left the "Angel" inn, and was pa.s.sing near the western front of the cathedral, when all on a sudden he found himself face to face with Mrs. Marsh. The active lady was bustling along in great haste, but recognised her poet at once. Escape being utterly impossible, he awaited his fate with resignation. But contrary to his antic.i.p.ation, the bishop"s wife was not in the least angry or resentful; she smiled upon him as benignly as if he had never escaped from her custody at a most trying moment. Clare did not know it at the time, but discovered afterwards, that Mrs. Marsh was pleased to allow him the privilege of unlimited eccentricity. That a poet should be playing fantastic tricks seemed to her the most natural thing in the world; perhaps she would not have held a man to be a true poet unless invested with this peculiar gift. Therefore, when Clare ran away in fear of her grand party, she did not wonder much; only she blamed her servants for permitting him to run away. That he had taken the coach to London she knew an hour after he had started; but it was too late to follow him, and too difficult to look for a single eccentric poet in the streets of the metropolis. Great now was the joy of Mrs. Marsh that accident threw him again into her way.
Being questioned as to his present movements, Clare was simple enough, from a feeling of both diffidence and pride, to hide his actual occupation. It was the greatest fault he committed in his whole career of perambulating bookseller, and fatal, in a sense, to his future prospects.
With a better acquaintance of the world and the human heart, he might have known that Mrs. Marsh would have a.s.sisted him in sailing ten times as many books as he could ever hope to do in his whole life; that she would have spread his "Shepherd"s Calendar," like the Catechism, through the whole diocese of Peterborough, and would have made every clerk in holy orders, down to the lowest curate, buy the "Village Minstrel." But Clare had no idea how active a friend he possessed in Mrs. Marsh, and thereby lost the finest opportunity he ever had of succeeding in his career as a bagman. He left the bishop"s wife somewhat abruptly, on her renewed invitation to pay a visit to the palace, and stay a week or two in the chamber of genius. Hurrying home, very low in spirits, Clare found the inmates of his little hut all in trouble and consternation. A doctor was urgently needed to attend to Patty, she having been suddenly seized with the pains of labour. Though fearfully tired with his day"s march, he trotted back to Peterborough to fetch the medical man. His a.s.sistance proved to be superfluous, for when Clare returned he found that another member had meanwhile been added to his household: a little son, who was christened William Parker on the 4th of May, 1828. The poet"s family was increasing rapidly--too rapidly, alas, for his slender means. Little William Parker was the third son and fifth child, and there were now nine living beings within the narrow hut depending upon Clare for bread. His head throbbed in terrible anxiety when thinking that he might not always be able to give them bread.
There was not much progress made in the bookselling business during the next six months. Clare tried all possible means to secure a sale of his works, walking not unfrequently twenty and even thirty miles a day in all directions, through Northamptonshire, Lincolnshire, and Rutland; but meeting with scarcely any success whatever. Sometimes, when most fortunate, he sold two or three volumes a week, but oftener did not find a single purchaser. Kindness, too, he met but little, most of the people treating him as a pauper or a vagrant. Many advised him to try the sale of trinkets and drapery, or of pills and "patent medicines," instead of poetry; while others went so far as to recommend him to become an itinerant musician. Having traversed the country in all directions, suffering from want and fatigue, and, more still, from insults, and not gaining enough, to purchase the coa.r.s.est food, he at last began to see the utter uselessness of persevering further in his new occupation.
However, as a last attempt to succeed, he inserted a few advertis.e.m.e.nts in the "Stamford News," informing the public that he was selling his own poems at his cottage at Helpston. This step was taken by Mr. Taylor"s advice, Clare having informed his publisher of the failure of all his former operations. The announcement in the "Stamford News" did not remain altogether without result, though its immediate effect was rather unprofitable, the poet being visited by a number of strangers, chiefly elderly ladies from the neighbouring towns, who were kind enough to take his books upon credit, and never ceased being creditors.
However, in spite of these constant disappointments, Clare did not give up all hope of ultimately prospering as a hawker of books. "Though I have not as yet opened any prospect of success respecting my becoming a bookseller," he wrote to Mr. Taylor, under date August 3d, 1828, "yet I still think there is some hopes of selling an odd set now and then, and as you are so kind as to let me have them at a reduced rate, when I do sell them I shall make something, if only a trifle. I thought of more in my days of better dreams, but now even trifles are acceptable. For I do a.s.sure you I have been in great difficulties, and though I remained silent under them, I felt them oppress my spirits to such a degree that I almost sunk under them. Those two fellows of Peterborough in the character of doctors have annoyed and dunned me most horribly, and though their claims are unjust, I cannot get over them by any other method than paying." The "two fellows from Peterborough in the character of doctors"
were quacks into whose hands Clare, or rather his old father, had unfortunately fallen. They promised to cure the poor invalid of his lameness and all other ailings, and after nearly killing him with noxious drugs, made an exorbitant demand for "professional a.s.sistance." The demand was reduced ultimately, when they became aware of the utter poverty of Clare, to less than a tenth, which they extracted in small instalments, often taking the last penny from his pocket. For the present, Clare had hopes to pay "those two fellows" out of the income from "annuals" to which he was contributing. "I am going to write for the Spirit of the Age," he informed Mr. Taylor, "for which I am to have a pound a page, and more when it becomes established. But promises, though they produce a good seedtime, generally turn out a bad harvest. Yet be it as it will, I am prepared for the worst. I have long felt a dislike to these things, but necessity leaves no choice." Considering what Clare got for his other writings, the "pound a page" from the "Spirit of the Age"
was no bad pay. But the poet"s unqualified disgust of "these things," the annuals, was so great as often to counterbalance even his desire to gain a living by his pen. He not unfrequently refused to write for the "Souvenir" and "Keepsake" family, and the only annual to which he contributed with real pleasure was that under the editorship of Allan Cunningham.
The advertis.e.m.e.nt in the "Stamford News" brought some curious letters to Helpston at the beginning of the autumn. A few of the papers having been wafted into the eastern parts of Lincolnshire, there came invitations from several places for John Clare to show himself to the natives.
Feeling naturally dull in the Fens, they thought the sight of a live poet, being a pedlar in the bargain, might be productive of a mild kind of excitement, highly moral, and very cheap. The mayor of Boston was the first to be struck with this idea, which he communicated to the more distinguished of his townsmen, and finally embodied in a most polite note of invitation. Clare felt exceedingly flattered by the compliments of the mayor of Boston, and in reply stated that he would be happy to pay a visit to the ancient borough. The answer had no sooner been sent when there came summonses from other places within the counties of Lincolnshire and Norfolk. At Grantham, too, they wanted to see John Clare, as well as at Tattershall, at Spalding, and at Lynn Regis. There seemed to be a slow poetic fever raging among the people of the Fens.
Clare sent polite replies to all the courteous invitations, and having procured a small parcel of books from Mr. Taylor, started for Boston at the end of September. He walked all the way, and arriving in the evening of a beautiful day, ascended the steeple of the old church, just when the sun was sending his last rays over the surging billows of the North Sea.
The view threw Clare into rapturous delight. He had never before seen the ocean, and felt completely overwhelmed at the majestic view which met his eyes. So deep was the impression left on his mind that it kept him awake all night; and when he fell asleep, towards the morning, the white-crested waves of the sea, stretching away into infinite s.p.a.ce, hovered in new images over his dreams.
The few days which he remained at Boston turned out a continual round of excitement. The worthy mayor called upon him at the "White Hart," the morning after his arrival, and insisted that he should be present at a grand dinner-party the same day. Finding all resistance useless, Clare submitted to his fate. The consequences he related to Mr. Taylor, in a letter written some time after. "The mayor of the town," Clare informed his publisher, "was a very jolly companion, and made me so welcome, while a lady at the table talked so sweetly of the poets, that I drank off my gla.s.s very often, almost without knowing it, and he as quickly filled it--but with no other intention than that of hospitality--that I felt rather queer. It was strong wine, and I was not used to it." After years of almost total abstinence from intoxicating drink, the effect was disastrous. For a whole day, the poet was confined to his little room at the inn, feeling very ill, and wishing himself back at Helpston. But the men of Boston had not yet done with him, and seemed determined to have as much lionizing as the occasion allowed. The mayor was preparing another dinner; and the lady who "talked so sweetly of the poets" made strong attempts to get up a poetical conversazione, with sandwiches and lemonade; while some lively youths went so far as to order a supper at Clare"s inn, thinking to make sure of their lion in this way. But he was not to be so easily caught, and, with some pride, let Mr. Taylor know how he escaped the ordeal. "Several young men," he informed his patron, "had made it up among themselves to give me a supper, when I was to have made a speech. But as soon as I heard of it, I declined it, telling them if they expected a speech from me they need prepare no supper, for that would serve me for everything. And so I got off." To which the pedlar-poet appended some moralizings, exclaiming, "Really this speechifying is a sore humbug, and the sooner it is out of fashion the better." It was strange how little John Clare understood the world in which he lived.
The visit to Boston was to have been followed by a trip to other places in the eastern counties, but Clare felt unequal to the task. A three days" sojourn at the "White Hart" gave him an insight into the nature of the work required from a travelling provincial lion, and he became conscious that he was not fitted for the calling. So he hurried home in great haste, after having sold his little stock of books. The "jolly mayor" was kind enough to purchase two sets of the poetical works, on the condition of getting the author"s autograph, together with his own name at full length, in every volume. But the lady who talked so sweetly of the poets, refused to buy anything, pleading that her bookcase was quite full already. The truly liberal among the people of Boston were the young men whose supper Clare refused. They made a collection among themselves, and, unknown to the poet, put ten pounds into his little wallet. He did not find the gift of his unknown friends till he returned to Helpston, and the discovery affected him to tears. For the first time in his life he regretted not having made a speech, even at the risk of breaking down in the middle of it.
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.