Chapter 17

There were more lions at a 'London Magazine' dinner which Mr. Taylor gave at the end of another week. It was a kind of state reception, and Clare was put for the occasion in pumps and dress-coat. He would have gladly kept away from the table, but was not allowed to do so, the occasion being deemed favourable as an advertisement of the 'Northamptonshire Peasant.' About three-fourths of the guests were patrons of literature, titled and untitled, and the remaining visitors were called for the purpose of being exhibited. Samuel Taylor Coleridge was the chief lion of the evening. Clare was once more surprised on finding the great philosopher a heavy, stout, phlegmatic-looking man, instead of the pale dreamer pictured by his imagination. He was slightly annoyed, too, on hearing the famous sage talk incessantly, to the exclusion of every one else, notably of William Hazlitt, who sat close to him, and of Charles Elton, the translator of the 'Hesiod,' whom Clare had at his right hand, and whose quiet, sensible conversation he greatly enjoyed. Coleridge left, after having spoken, with little interruption, for nearly three hours, and at his departure the talk became general, and, Clare fancied, much more pleasant. The leader of the conversation was William Reynolds, whose sparkling wit, keen as a sword, extinguished even that of Charles Lamb. He attacked everybody in turn, in a good-humoured manner; and by setting his brother wits against himself and each other, produced endless fun and amusement. Even William Hazlitt, who at first appeared low-spirited and ill at ease, began to laugh and talk; and at length Clare himself was drawn into the whirlpool of conversation. When he began to speak, in his broad Northamptonshire dialect, there was a sudden stillness in the room, the whole of the guests feeling startled at the sound of the strange voice, which seemed to come as from another world. Though nerved by sundry glasses of wine, Clare was almost terrified at the sudden quiet around him, his intention having been merely to address his neighbour, and not the entire assembly. He therefore relapsed at once, and somewhat abruptly, into silence, and, not long after, with a nod to his patron at the head of the table, and a quiet 'good bye' to Mr. Elton, quitted the room. It was an immense feeling of relief when, creeping upstairs to his little chamber, he was able to divest himself of his pumps and dress-coat, and march forth, in solid boots and jacket, for a saunter along the Fleet pavement, reflecting, in the cool of the summer evening, on all that he had heard and seen, in the shape of lions, poets, philosophers, wits, booksellers, unfortunate Anns of the Street, and more unfortunate opium-eaters.

Clare's visit to London was now drawing to a close. Dr. Darling counselled that he should quit the town, as soon as possible, fearing that the 'London Magazine' entertainments might undo all the good gained by his former exertions. However, Clare felt unwilling to leave before having met his old friend and patron, Admiral Lord Radstock, who was retained at his country seat by a rather serious illness. He waited, week after week, but his lordship did not arrive. Instead of the admiral, there came friend Rippingille, the painter, rushing wildly into Clare's arms, and declaring that he had left Bristol, and the best pale ale in the world, solely for the purpose of seeing him. Clare rejoiced; but Dr. Darling did not. The shrewd Scotch physician insisted upon his patient leaving London immediately, and it was arranged, finally, that Clare should start at the end of a week. Friend Rippingille, or 'Rip,' as his acquaintances used to call him, was instructed privately not to lead Clare into the old round of taverns and theatres, and, above all, not to tempt him to an undue indulgence in drink. The promise was made, and was kept, too; nevertheless, Clare and 'Rip,' while giving up evening visits, remained companions during the daytime. Clare was introduced by his friend to Sir Thomas Lawrence, and some other famous artists of the day, which led to much interchange of compliments, and many promises of support, but ended, as usual, in nothing. He was likewise taken to Mr. Deville, a noted professor of the art called phrenology, who felt his head, carefully measuring all its bumps, and, having learnt Clare's name, informed him that he possessed all the swellings necessary to make verses. This so delighted 'Rip,' that he insisted on getting a cast of his friend's cranium. Clare submitted in meekness of heart; but found the operation stifling to such a degree, that he ran away in the midst of it, with the loss of a portion of his skin. For the next few days the poet wandered in rather lonely mood through the streets of London, and in one of these excursions became the involuntary spectator of a striking scene, which he never forgot in his life.

It was on the 12th of July, a hot summer day, that Clare went down the Strand, towards Charing Cross, intending to have a stroll in the parks. When near Parliament Street, however, he found the way blocked by an immense crowd, and on inquiry learnt that a great funeral was coming up the street. Taking his place among the idlers, he did not know at first whose funeral it was, and only at the last moment learnt that the body of Lord Byron was being carried to its last resting-place. A fervent admirer of Byron, he yet had never heard of his death till this moment, when standing face to face with his mortal remains. He felt startled and almost bewildered at the sight, and when the gorgeous procession, with all its mutes, pages, cloakmen on horseback, and carriers of sable plumes, had come up, he reverently followed in the rear, amidst a confused mass of people in carriages and on foot. The slow and solemn train went up the Haymarket, Coventry Street, Princes Street, and Oxford Street, passing thence along into Tottenham Court Road. At the corner of the latter thoroughfare great confusion was created by another funeral train which came up in an opposite direction. In the tumult that ensued, many were thrown down, among them the unknown poet, who followed in the rear of the procession. Clare fell to the ground, and was pushed along by the crowd; but, fortunately, did not suffer much harm, beyond being rolled over and over in the mud, and spoiling the only suit of good clothes of which he was possessed. Mr. Taylor was surprised on seeing his guest come home in a state which made it almost impossible to recognise him. Clare smiled sadly, and in a somewhat serious tone told Mr. Taylor that he thought it was his fate, now as ever, to be a martyr to poetry.

Two days after Byron's funeral, John Clare left London. Previous to starting, he had a long conversation with Dr. Darling, who had come to rank among his most intimate friends. The kind-hearted and shrewd Scotch doctor volunteered some advice, to which Clare listened with great attention. He told him, in the first instance, that he ought to give up all expectations of acquiring either fame or wealth as a poet, but that it would be wisdom on his part to return forthwith to his old occupation as a farm-labourer, and write verses only during his leisure hours. This seemed hard to Clare; however, the doctor proceeded to explain the matter to him in his own prosaic fashion. It was Dr. Darling's opinion that, on the whole, there existed no real demand for verses among the public at large, but that only a few exalted minds were able to appreciate and enjoy true poetry. But the masses, he held, were carried along, now and then, by a kind of fashionable movement, engendered by the appearance of great authors, the renown of whose works was so vast as to spread from the closet of the student, upward and downward, through all ranks and classes. Such a poetical fashion, or poetical fever, Dr. Darling thought England had just gone through, stirred by the almost simultaneous productions of many first-class writers, such as Burns, Byron, and Sir Walter Scott. But as all excitement must be followed by reaction, so, the doctor explained, the reaction was setting in at that moment, proved by the fact that even the works of these famous poets were encumbering the booksellers' shelves, waiting for buyers which did not come. This was a fact which Clare knew to be true, and so far he fully acquiesced in the remarks of his wise Scotch friend. He, therefore, consented to follow the counsel thus tendered, and, at least for a time, return to his old occupation. But Dr. Darling had another piece of advice in store. Taking Clare by both hands, and looking him full in the face, he earnestly exhorted him not to take ale or spirits but in greatest moderation, and, if possible, leave off drinking entirely. Clare promised. An hour after he was on his return, to Helpston, feeling happier in his mind than he had been for a long time.

NEW STRUGGLES.

The promise made to Dr. Darling was faithfully kept. For several years to come, Clare never visited the public-house, and even at home drank little else but water, subsisting chiefly upon bread and vegetables, and such decoctions of weak tea and coffee as his wife was in the habit of distilling. The diet, probably, was not quite what Dr. Darling expected; at least, it did not prove very beneficial to Clare's health. For a long time, he felt weak and debilitated, so as scarcely to be able to do the simplest out-door work. This was very unfortunate, as it prevented him from carrying out the other part of the engagement undertaken towards his medical friend, that of devoting himself again to field labour. He earnestly sought work immediately after his return from London, and though sneered at by one or two farmers, who told him that he was too famous a man again to soil his hands, he at last secured employment near Helpston Heath, part of which was being enclosed for the benefit of the great landowners of the neighbourhood. For a few days, he kept working here with all the strength he could muster, which was not sufficient, however, for the demands of the overseer. There were drains and ditches to be made, which required the use of brawny arms and a body untouched by ague, and the work being done by contract, the foreman was exacting, and saw at once that he was not up to the mark. He, consequently, got his discharge, and went home in a very sad mood. Ever since his marriage, his debts had been accumulating, and though altogether small in amount, they now began to press heavily upon him, the more so as his expenditure kept gradually increasing, which was by no means the case with his income. He found that to maintain his aged parents, his wife, two children, and himself, he could not do with less than sixty-five or seventy pounds a year, and his annuity amounting to rather less than forty-five pounds, there was the absolute necessity of gaining the rest, either by his writings, or as a farm-labourer. It was the fear that both sources might fail, which threw him into a deep melancholy.

After a while, he roused himself to another effort in finding work, and this time submitted to what he fancied to be a deep humiliation. When applying for his quarterly pension to the steward of the Marquis of Exeter, he begged for some employment in the gardens, or, if no place should be vacant, as a labourer on any of the estates of his lordship. The steward promised to mention the subject to the marquis, but did not keep his word. Being overwhelmed with business, he probably forgot the matter entirely; otherwise the noble lord, who seemed to take a real interest in Clare, could not have failed to listen to a request the fulfilment of which would have cost him little or nothing, and been the means of securing the welfare of the poet for life. Indeed, a place as gardener at Burghley Hall, or some other similar employment, into which a mere whisper of the noble owner might have installed Clare, would have been greatly preferable to the pension of fifteen guineas granted to the poet, and the quarterly payments of which he never received but with inward humiliation. A place such as this would have removed at once the whole burthen of cares which weighed him to the ground, and, while giving him a maintenance for his family, with a comfortable home, would yet have left him abundant time to attend to the inspirations of the muse. Clare himself perceived this very clearly, and once or twice started with the intention of laying his case before the marquis in person, explaining his whole situation, his hopes, troubles, and fears. But each time he approached the stately gates of Burghley Hall, his courage failed him. He trembled to be looked upon as a beggar, and the apprehension of being refused was constantly before his eyes. There were faint hopes, moreover, that the steward, who seemed a friendly man, would succeed in getting him some employment, without personal application to his lordship. However, the promised message from Burghley Hall did not arrive, and Clare at last gave up all expectation of getting anything else but alms from his greatest patron, the Marquis of Exeter.

Having not much else to do, Clare kept up an active correspondence with his friends in London, during the latter part of the summer and the whole of the autumn of 1824. To Allan Cunningham in particular, with whom he had contracted a close friendship during his last visit to the metropolis, he sent long letters, discussing poetical and other topics. One of these letters, rather characteristic in its way, as showing Clare's opinion of Bloomfield, as well as of his own position in 'the fields of the Muses,' deserves to be given. It was sent to Allan Cunningham, together with an enclosure containing Bloomfield's short note to 'Neighbour John,' already given.

'To Allan Cunningham,

(Left at Messrs. Taylor and Hessey's)

93, Fleet Street,

London.

_Helpston, September 9th, 1824_.

Brother Bard And Fellow Labourer,

I beg your acceptance according to promise of this autograph of our English Theocritus, Bloomfield. He is in my opinion our best Pastoral Poet. His "Broken Crutch," "Richard and Kate," &c. are inimitable and above praise. Crabbe writes about the peasantry as much like the Magistrate as the Poet. He is determined to show you their worst side; and, as to their simple pleasures and pastoral feelings, he knows little or nothing about them compared to the other, who not only lived amongst them, but felt and shared the pastoral pleasures with the peasantry of whom he sung. I had promised that I would visit him this summer at Shefford, but death went before me. He was a warm-hearted friend and an amiable man. His latter poems show that his best days were by. His "Remains" are very trifling, but these have nothing to do with his former fame. I never forgave Lord Byron's sneering mention of him in the "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers;" but, never mind, he has left a genius behind him that will live as late as his lordship's; and, though he was but a "Cobler," his poems will meet posterity as green and growing on the bosom of English nature and the muses as those of the Peer. I could hazard a higher opinion for truth, but this is enough. Titles and distinctions of pride have long ago been stript of their dignity by the levellers in genius; at least they have been convinced that the one is not a certain copyright or inheritance of the other. I should suppose, friend Allan, that "The Ettrick Shepherd," "The Nithsdale Mason," and "The Northamptonshire Peasant," are looked upon as intruders and stray cattle in the fields of the Muses (forgive the classification), and I have no doubt but our reception in that Pinfold of his lordship's "English Bards" would have been as far short of a compliment as Bloomfield's. Well, never mind, we will do our best, and as we never went to Oxford or Cambridge, we have no Latin and Greek to boast of, and no bad translations to hazard (whatever our poems may be), and that's one comfort on our side.

I have talked enough on this string, so I will trouble you a little with something else. I can scarcely tell you how I am, for I keep getting a little better and a little worse, and remaining at last just as I were. I was very bad this morning, but have recovered this evening as I generally do, and I really fear that I shall never entirely overset it. I have written to Hessey for Dr. Darling's assistance again today, and I have desired him to forward this letter to you. Drop a line to say that you receive it, and give my kind remembrances to your better half, Mrs. Cunningham. I will try your patience no longer with this gossip, so believe me, friend Allan,

Your hearty friend and well-wisher,

John Clark.'

Dr. Darling's 'assistance,' in the shape of some medicine, acting as a febrifuge and preservative against the ague, arrived soon; after which Clare felt strong enough to make another attempt towards finding work. Having received no reply to his application to the steward of the Marquis of Exeter, he resolved to address himself to his next greatest patron in the neighbourhood, the Earl Fitzwilliam. The noble earl having been always very kind to him, he summoned courage to obtain an interview with his lordship. But it so happened, unfortunately, that neither the Earl, nor his son, Viscount Milton, was at home at the time; and although Lady Milton received him very graciously, Clare felt too much shyness to state to her what he intended to say. By the commands of her ladyship, however, Clare was entertained by the upper servants of the house, and finding them to be a very well-educated class of men, quite unlike the domestics of other lordly establishments, he renewed his visits frequently, and after a while became a regular guest at Milton Park. The butler, Edward Artis, was an enthusiastic antiquarian, possessing a large library, always hunting for old coins, medals, and pottery, and an absolute authority on all matters concerning Durobrivae and the works of the ancient Romans in the neighbourhood. With Mr. Artis, Clare soon got very intimate, and having become acquainted with the pursuits of his friend, imbibed even a slight fondness for antiquarian lore. There were two other servants, named Henderson and West, both distinguished in their way. Henderson was an accomplished botanist, spending whole days in search after plants and flowers, and West was a lover of poetry, as well as a writer of rather indifferent verses. Henderson offered to teach Clare the elements of botany, which proposal was eagerly accepted, though it did not lead to great results. After various attempts to master the hard words of the scientific handbook given to him, John Clare frankly stated to his friend that he could not get on with it, and must continue to love trees and flowers without knowing their Latin names. But eager of knowledge, under whatever form it offered itself, he made, after discarding botany, a new stride towards erudition. The head cook at Milton Park, a Monsieur Grilliot, better known to the servants as 'Grill,' undertook to teach Clare French. He did so in the rational way, not by stuffing his friend with rules and exceptions to rules, but teaching him words and their pronunciation, by which means Clare made rapid progress, and at once acquired a real liking for the study. Nevertheless, he had to relinquish his attempts to learn French in a very short time, being too poor to purchase the few books which Monsieur 'Grill' recommended him to read.

Clare's visits to Milton Park continued all through the autumn of 1824, till late in the spring of 1825, without leading to any advantageous result as far as the chief object was concerned. Having become intimately acquainted with the upper servants, particularly with Artis, Clare learned that there was no place suitable for him vacant in the establishment, and the consequence was that, when the Earl returned, nothing was said about the matter. Clare had an interview with his lordship, and was received in the kindest manner, but not being asked as to his worldly prospects, kept silent on the subject. The Earl probably fancied, as did many others, that Clare made a good income from the sale of his books, and it was not till years afterwards that he learnt the real truth. To his friend Artis, Clare made a confession to some extent, informing him that he was in want of work, and would be glad to get some employment even as a thresher or ploughman. But Mr. Artis would not hear of this, and strongly advised Clare to discard all ideas of hiring himself out as a labourer, as it would stand in the way of his appointment to a more honourable place. It was expected that the managership of a small farm near Helpston Heath, belonging to Viscount Milton, would become vacant before long, and Clare was told that there was no doubt that he could get this post by merely biding his time. So Clare waited; but, while waiting, got more and more melancholy, his mind overwhelmed by family cares, amidst the incessant struggle of getting the daily bread.

The temporary failure of his hopes to get employment in the fields made Clare now think once more of turning his poetry to account. Though aware that his 'Village Minstrel' had not proved a success, he still cherished the belief that new productions might meet with a better fate, the more so as he was fully conscious that through constant study his mind was being greatly enlarged, leading to an improvement of his writings, in conception as well as outward form. He accordingly wrote to Mr. Taylor, sending specimens of some new poems, and offering sufficient to form a small volume. But Mr. Taylor was unwilling to try another publication, excusing his reluctance by the same arguments already impressed upon Clare by Dr. Darling, namely, that the taste for poetry was on the wane, and that the world was crying for prose. Reflecting on this subject, Clare began thinking of a new scheme, which was to write a novel. He made the proposition instantly, but was answered by a refusal, thinly veiled under a heap of compliments. Clare felt somewhat offended, although Mr. Taylor was certainly right in this case, there being no doubt whatever of the absolute incapacity of his client to write prose. However, in order to soften the hardship of his refusal, he asked him to contribute occasional poems to the 'London Magazine,' which offer was accepted, but proved of little advantage to Clare, the remuneration being uncertain and of the slenderest kind. In his feverish anxiety to work and to gain some additional means of subsistence, Clare committed the mistake of writing too many poems at a time, which naturally lowered the value of the article in the eyes of his publisher. A letter to Mr. Taylor, dated February, 1825, shows the excited state of the poet at this period. 'I fear,' wrote Clare, 'I shall get nothing ready for you this month; at least I fear so now, but may have fifty subjects ready tomorrow. The muse is a fickle hussy with me; she sometimes stirs me up to madness, and then leaves me as a beggar by the wayside, with no more life than what's mortal, and that nearly extinguished by melancholy forebodings.' Further on he breaks out into the exclamation: 'I wish I could live nearer you; at least I wish London could be within twenty miles of Helpston. I live here among the ignorant like a lost man; in fact, like one whom the rest seem unwilling to have anything to do with. They hardly dare talk in my company, for fear I should mention them in my writings, and I feel more pleasure in wandering the fields than in musing among my silent neighbours, who are insensible to anything but toiling and talking of it, and that to no purpose.' This 'living among the ignorant like a lost man' came to be the deep key-note sounding through all the subsequent letters of Clare.