Chapter 5

The Helpston group of warriors having been joined by other clusters from various parts of the county of Northampton, the whole regiment of raw recruits was marched along, one fine morning, to Oundle. Here they were drawn up in a body, some thirteen hundred strong, and divided into companies, according to size. John Clare, being among the smallest of the young heroes, scarce five feet high, was put into the last company, the fifth in number. These preliminaries being duly arranged, the thirteen hundred had to exchange their smock-frocks, jackets, and blouses, for the regulated red coat and trousers. Unfortunately, the official distributor of these articles paid no attention whatever to the stature and physical conformation of the recipients, nor even to their division into different-sized companies, but threw out his uniforms like barley among the chickens. The consequences were of the most ludicrous kind. Nearly all the big men got coats which fitted them like strait-laced jackets, while the little ones had garments which hung upon their shoulders in balloon fashion. John Clare was more unlucky than any of his warrior brethren. His trousers, apparently made for a giant, were nearly as long as his whole body, and though he drew them up to close under his arms, they still fell down, by many inches, over his shoes. To prevent his tumbling over them, like a clown in the pantomime, he held up his pantaloons with one hand, while with the other he kept his helmet from falling in the mud. This wonderful headpiece was as much too small for the big-brained recruit as the other parts of the uniform were too large, and it required the most careful balancing to keep it in a steady position on the top of the crown in a quiet atmosphere while, in any little gust of wind, it was indispensable to ensure the equilibrium with outstretched arm. All this was easy enough while John Clare went through his first martial exercises: nothing more simple, while learning the goose-step, than to hold his big trousers with one hand and his tight helmet with the other. But at the end of four weeks, his superiors gave John Clare a gun, and with it came blank despair. He did not know in the world how to hold his trousers, his gun, and his headpiece at one and the same time. Puzzling over the matter till his brain got dizzy, he at length resolved upon a notable expedient. He tucked his nether garments into his shoes, thereby giving the upper portion of them a bag-like appearance, while he exchanged his helmet for another of larger dimensions, in the possession of a thin-headed brother recruit. The new headpiece was a good deal too large, which, however, was easily remedied by a stuffing of paper and wood shavings, so that henceforth, unless the wind blew too strong, the ingenious young soldier had, at least, one of his two hands to himself. This would have been an immense benefit under ordinary circumstances; but unfortunately, in the case of John Clare, and as if to damp his military ardour, it also turned out a source of unqualified regret. The corporal under whose immediate orders he was placed, a prim and lady-like youngster, took an aversion to John, partly on account of the bag-trousers, and partly because of the stuffings of his helmet, a fraction of which not unfrequently escaped its confinement, and hung down, in stiff wooden ringlets, over his pale cheeks. At this the dandy-corporal sneered, and his sneers growing louder on every occasion, John Clare, at the first favourable opportunity, knocked him down with his unoccupied right hand. The offence, amounting to a crime, was at once reported to the captain, and Clare expected momentarily to be thrust into the black-hole, to be tried by court-martial, and perhaps to be shot. But, singularly enough, nothing, after all, came of the whole affair. The serious breach of military discipline was entirely overlooked by the authorities of the Northamptonshire militia, who probably thought the whole body of men not worth looking after, the greater number of them consisting of a mere collection of the lowest rabble. In consequence of strong remonstrances made by the good people of Oundle about the insecurity of their property, and even their lives, the thirteen hundred warriors were disbanded soon afterwards, and never called together again. John Clare thereupon left his quarters at the 'Rose and Crown,' where he had been tolerably well treated by the owners, a widow and her two daughters, and, with a joyful heart, returned to Helpston. He came home somewhat richer than he left, for he brought back with him a second-hand copy of Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' an odd volume, with some leaves torn out, of Shakespeare's 'Tempest,' both works purchased at a broker's shop at Oundle, and, over and above these acquisitions, a knowledge of the goose step.

TROUBLES OF LOVE, AND A TRIAL OF GYPSY LIFE.

The few weeks' martial glory which John Clare enjoyed had the one good effect of weaning him from the roisterous company at the Bachelors' Hall, and bringing him once more to his former peaceful studies. While a recruit in the militia, he had seen so much of rioting and debauchery, on the part of the vilest of his companions, as to be cured from all desire to follow in their footsteps, and he now made the firm vow to lead a more respectable life for the future. A change of scenery, too, had cured him of the all-absorbing fear that he should never be able to write poetry, for want of grammar, and the proper understanding of 'Lowe's Critical Spelling-book.' It seemed to him, on reflection, that, as he could make himself understood in speaking to his fellow men without knowing grammar, he would be able to do so likewise in writing. He therefore began, more eagerly than ever, to collect small strips of paper, and to fill them with verses on rural scenery, fields, brooks, birds, and flowers. His daily occupation, as before, consisted in working as an out-door farm labourer, and doing occasional odd jobs in gardening and the like, which, though it was barely sufficient to maintain him, had the to him inestimable advantage of leaving him completely his own master. This was the more valuable to John Clare at the present moment, in consequence of an affair which occurred soon after his return from Oundle, and which was nothing less than his falling in love, for the second time in his life. He met, saw, and was conquered by Elizabeth Newton, the daughter of a wheelwright, at Ashton, a small hamlet close to Helpston. She was but a plain girl, but possessed of all the arts of coquetry; and though John Clare did not care much for her at first, she gradually entangled him into fervent affection, or what he held to be such. It was not Platonic love, by any means, like that for sweet Mary Joyce; and less so on the part of the lass than on that of her lover. John, as always, so at his meetings with Elizabeth Newton, was shy, reserved, and bashful, while she was frank and forward, professing to be deeply in love with him. This had the desired effect upon John Clare, whose easily-touched heart could not withstand the charms and wiles of female enchantment. Having got her lover thus far, Elizabeth began to talk of marriage, at the mentioning of which word John felt somewhat startled. His old studies in arithmetic brought to his mind the difficulties there must be in keeping a matrimonial establishment upon ten shillings a week, the average amount of his income, not only for the time, but in all probability for years to come, if not for his whole life. Elizabeth, on her part, did not share these arithmetical apprehensions, in consequence of which there were quarrels, bickerings, and misunderstandings without end. To please his Elizabeth, John Clare was made to go frequently to the house of father Newton, the wheelwright, a curious old man, who was constantly reading in the Bible and trying to find out the meaning of the Apocalypse. He had quotations upon every subject, none of which, however, showed John clearly how to get over the great difficulty of keeping a wife upon nine, or at the best ten, shillings a week. Seeing that her lover was unwilling to do the one thing she wanted, Elizabeth Newton at last jilted him openly, telling him, before a number of other girls, that he was but a faint-hearted fool. After this, she refused to see him again, although John Clare would have been willing to renew the acquaintance, and even, if necessary, to marry her. He felt, now she had parted from him, and, probably, because she had parted from him, a strong affection for the girl, not to be overcome by many inward struggles. For a short time he sank into melancholy, from which he roused himself, however, by a new resolution.

On Helpston Heath and the neighbouring commons there were always some gypsy tribes in encampment, the two largest of them being known by the names of 'Boswell's crew,' and 'Smith's crew.' While out on his solitary rambles, John Clare made the accidental acquaintance of 'King Boswell,' which acquaintance, after being kept up by the interchange of many little courtesies and acts of kindness, gradually ripened into a sort of friendship. John Clare thought the dark-eyed gypsies far more intelligent than his own working companions in the fields, and he was attracted to them, besides, by their fondness for and knowledge of plants and herbs, as well as their love of music. Expressing a wish to learn to play the fiddle, the most expert musicians of King Boswell's crew at once began to teach him the art, in their own wild way, without notes or other scientific aid, but with the net result that he was able to perform to his own satisfaction in the course of a few months. He now became a constant visitor at King Boswell's tent, which he only neglected during his courtship with Elizabeth Newton. This being broken off, in his grief of unrequited affection John Clare was seized with a real passion for the wild life of his gypsy friends, and resolved to join them in their wanderings. He actually carried out this resolve, and enrolled himself as a member of Boswell's crew for a few days; but at the end of this period left them with much internal disgust. The poetry of gypsy life utterly vanished on close examination, giving way to the most disagreeable prose. Accustomed as John Clare was to humble fare under a poor roof, his nerves could not stand the cookery at King Boswell's court. To fish odds and ends of bones, bits of cabbage, and stray potatoes from a large iron pot, in partnership with a number of grimy hands, and without so much as a wooden, spoon, seemed unpleasant work to him, not to be sweetened by all the charms of black eyes and a tune on the fiddle. He therefore told his new friends that he could not stop with them; at which they were not very sorry, seeing in him but a poor hand for making fancy baskets and stealing young geese. Thus King Boswell and his secular friend parted to their mutual satisfaction, John Clare returning once more to his accustomed field and gardening operations. However, the poet, all his life long, did not forget the gypsies; nor did they forget him. Whenever any of 'Boswell's crew,' or, in their absence, their first cousins of 'Smith's crew' happened to be near John Clare, on a Saturday evening, after he had drawn his weekly wages, they did not fail to pay him a friendly visit, singing some new song to the ancient text of 'Auld lang syne.'

LIME BURNING AND LOVE MAKING.

The short trial of gypsy life was not sufficient to make John Clare forget his troubles of love, and he began to think seriously of his further prospects in life. He would have been but too happy to ask Elizabeth Newton to become his wife; but having seen so much of poverty in the case of his parents, he had a natural dread to start in the same career, with the workhouse for ultimate goal. While thus given up to reflections on his life, there came an offer which appeared to be most acceptable. A fellow labourer of the name of Gordon, who had been once working at a lime-kiln, with good wages, proposed to him to seek the same employment, and to act as a guide and instructor in the matter. John Clare consented, and starting with his friend, in the summer of 1817, the two were lucky enough to find work not far off, near the village of Bridge Casterton, in Rutlandshire. By dint of very severe labour, Clare managed to earn about ten shillings a week, a part of which he carefully hoarded, with the firm intention of attempting a new start in life, by the aid of a little capital.

The first investment of the small sum thus acquired led to rather important results. Having collected a considerable quantity of verses, and safely carried them off from the old hiding-place at Helpston, John Clare resolved to copy a selection, comprising the best of them, into a book, so as to preserve his poetry the more easily. With this purpose in view he went to the next fair at Market Deeping, and after having gone, with some friends, through the usual round of merry-makings, called upon a bookseller and stationer, Mr. Henson, to get the required volume of blank paper. Mr. Henson had no such article in stock, but offered to supply it in a given time, which being agreed on, particulars were asked as to the quantity of paper required, and the way in which it should be ruled and bound. In reply to these questions, John Clare, made talkative by a somewhat large consumption of strong ale, for the first time revealed his secret to a stranger. He told the inquirer that he had been writing poetry for years, and having accumulated a great many verses, intended to copy them into a book for better preservation. The bookseller opened his eyes at the widest. He had never seen a live poet at Market Deeping, yet fancied, somehow or other, that the species was of an outward aspect different from that of the tattered, half-tipsy, undersized farm labourer who was standing before him. Though an active tradesman, willing to oblige people at his shop, Mr. Henson could not help hinting some of these sceptic thoughts to his customer, and feelingly inquired of him whether it was 'real poetry' that he was writing. John Clare affirmed that it was real poetry; further explaining that he wrote most of his verses in the fields, on slips of paper, using the crown of his hat as a desk. This was convincing; for the hat, on being inspected, certainly showed abundant marks of having been employed as a writing-desk, and even bore traces of its occasional use as a camp-stool. Doubts as to John Clare being a poet were now impossible; and Mr. Henson willingly agreed to furnish a book of white paper, strongly bound, fit for the insertion of a vast quantity of original poetry, at the price of eight shillings. When parting, the obliging bookseller begged as a favour to be allowed to inspect one of his customer's poems, promising to keep the matter as secret as possible. The flattering request was promptly acceded to, and in a few days after, there arrived by post at Market Deeping two sonnets by John Clare, which he had recently composed. One of these was called 'The Setting Sun;' and the other 'The Primrose.' Mr. Henson, who was no particular judge of sonnets, thought them very poor specimens of poetical skill, the more so as they were ill-spelt, and without any attempts at punctuation. He threw the poems aside at once, and wrote to the poet that he might have his blank paper book on paying the stipulated eight shillings. So the matter rested for the present.

John Clare's labours as a lime-burner at Bridge Casterton were of the most severe kind. He was in the employ of a Mr. Wilders, who exacted great toil from all his men, setting them to work fourteen hours a day, and sometimes all the night long in addition. Nevertheless, Clare felt thoroughly contented in his new position, being delighted with the beautiful scenery in the neighbourhood, and happy, besides, in being able to earn sufficient money to send occasional assistance to his parents. When not engaged at work, he went roaming through the fields far and wide, always with paper and pencil in his pocket, noting down his feelings in verse inspired by the moment. It was the time when his poetical genius began to awaken to full life and consciousness. He began writing verses with great ease and rapidity, often composing half-a-dozen songs in a day; and though much of the poetry thus brought forth was but of an ephemeral kind, and of no great intrinsic value, the exercise, combined with extensive reading of nearly all the old poets, contributed considerably to his development of taste. Sometimes he himself was surprised at the facility with which he committed verses to paper, on the mere spur of the moment. It was on one of these occasions that the thought flashed through his mind of his being endowed with poetical gifts denied to the majority of men. This was a perfectly new view which he took of himself and his powers, and it helped to give him immense confidence. Timid hitherto and entirely distrustful of his own abilities, he now felt himself imbued with strength never known, and under the impulse of this feeling determined to make another attempt to rise from his low condition. The idea occurred to him of printing his verses, and of coming openly before the world as a poet. Each time he had written a new verse with which he was pleased, his confidence grew; though his hopes fell again when he set himself thinking the matter over, and dwelling upon the difficulties in his way. This inward struggle lasted nearly a year, in the course of which there occurred another notable event, which in its consequences grew to be one of the most important of his whole life.

Every Sunday afternoon, the labourers at Mr. Wilder's lime-kiln were in the habit of visiting a small public-house, at the hamlet of Tickencote, called 'the Flower Pot.' Thirsty, like all of their tribe, they spent hours in carousing; while John Clare, after having had his glass or two, went into the fields, and, sitting by a hedge, or lying down under a tree, surveyed the glories of nature, feasting his eyes upon the thousandfold beauties of earth and sky. It was on one of these Sunday afternoons, in the autumn of 1817--Clare now past twenty-four--that he saw for the first time 'Patty,' his future wife. She was walking on a footpath across the fields, while he was lying in the grass not far off, dreaming worlds of beauty and ethereal bliss. Patty stepped right into his ideal realm, and thus, unknown to herself, became part and parcel of it. She was a fair girl of eighteen, slender, with regular features, and pretty blue eyes; but to Clare, at the moment, she seemed far more than fair, slender, and pretty. He watched her across the field, and when she disappeared from sight, John Clare, almost instinctively, climbed to the top of a tree, to discover the direction in which she was going. His courage failed him to follow and address her, though he would have given all he possessed to have one more glance at the sweet face which so suddenly changed his poetical visions into a still more poetical reality. However, the shades of evening were sinking fast; John Clare could not see far even from the top of his tree, to which he clung with a lover's despair, so that the beautiful apparition was soon lost to him. Sleep did not come to his eyes in the following night; and the slow hours of lime-burning the next day only passed on in making projects how he would go to the field near the 'Flower Pot,' and try to meet his sweet love again. He went to the field, but she came not; not the following day, nor the second, nor the whole week. John Clare began to think the fair face which he had seen, and with which he had fallen in love at first sight, was after all, but the vision of a dream.

More than two weeks passed, and John Clare, with his fiddle under his arm, one evening made his way to Stamford, to play at a merry meeting of lime-burners the tunes which the gypsies had taught him. While walking along the road, the vision burst upon him a second time in not to be mistaken reality. There again was the fair damsel he had seen walking, or floating, across the greensward on the Sunday eve; as fair and trim as ever, though this time not in her Sunday dress. John Clare, with much good sense, thought it useless to climb again upon a tree; but summing up courage, followed his vision, and, after a while, addressed her in timid, soft words. What gave him some courage for the moment was, that being on a festive excursion, he had donned his very best garments, including a flowery waistcoat and a hat as yet free from the desk service of poetry. The fair damsel, when thus addressed in the road, smiled upon her interlocutor; there could be no doubt, his words, and, perhaps, his waistcoat and new hat, found favour in her eyes. And not only did she allow him to address her, but permitted him even to accompany her to her father's cottage, some four miles off. Thither accordingly went John Clare, in an ecstacy of delight; feeling as if in heaven and playing merry gypsy-tunes to the winged angels. He wished the four miles were four hundred; and when arrived at the paternal door with his fair companion, and she told him that he must leave her now, it seemed to him as if it had been but a minute since he met her. He looked utterly dejected; but brightened up when she told him that her name was Martha Turner, that her father was a cottage farmer, and that the place where they were standing was called Walkherd Lodge--which perhaps, she whispered, he would find again. It sounded as if the fiddle under his arm was again making music to the bright angels. John Clare was in heaven; but the poor lime-burners at Stamford did not think so, that evening, when they had to dance without a fiddle.