Chapter 6

After seeing his sweet companion disappear behind the garden-gate; after hearing the door of the house open and shut, and watching the movement of the lights within the house for an hour or two, John Clare at last turned his back upon Walkherd Lodge, and went the way he came. The road he trotted along, with his feet on good Rutlandshire soil, but his head still somewhat in the clouds, got gradually more and more narrow, till it ended at a broad ditch, with, a dungheap on the one side and a haystack on the other. It was now that John perceived for the first time that he had lost his way. While walking along with Martha Turner, he no more thought of marking the road than of solving riddles in algebra, and, besides a faint consciousness that he was coming somewhere from the east and going to the west, he was utterly lost in his topography. However, under the circumstances, it seemed no great matter to John to lose his way, and rather pleasant than otherwise to sleep in a haystack within a mile of the dwelling of Martha Turner. On the haystack, accordingly, he sat down with great inward satisfaction, and, the moon having just risen, pencil and paper were got out of the pocket, by the help of which, in less than half an hour, another love-song was finished. But though the day was warm and comfortable, John felt too restless to sleep. So he cleared the ditch before him with one jump, and pursued the journey further inland, where lights appeared to be glimmering in the distance. Onward he trotted and leaped, over hedges and drains, across ploughed fields, through underwood and meadows, around stone-quarries and chalk-pits. At last, after a wild race of four or five hours, he sank down from sheer exhaustion. There was soft, mossy grass under his feet, and a sheltering tree above, and he thought it best to stop where he was and to compose himself to sleep. The heavy eyelids sank without further bidding, and for several hours his soul took flight into the land of dreams. When he awoke, the moon was still shining, but not far above the western horizon. Looking around, he perceived something bright and glittering near him, similar to the bare track beaten by the sheep in hot weather. To follow this path was his immediate resolve, as sure to lead to some human habitation, if only a shepherd's hut. He was just going to rise, but still on the ground, when one of his feet slipped a short distance, in the direction of the silvery line, and he heard the clear splash of water under him. At the same moment, the last rays of the moon disappeared from above the horizon. John Clare shuddered as if the hand of death was upon him. Creeping cautiously towards the neighbouring tree, and clasping both his arms around it, he awaited daybreak in this position. At length, after hours which seemed endless, the burning clouds appeared in the east. He once more looked around him, and found that he was lying on the brink of a deep canal, close to the River Gwash. One turn of the body in its restless dreams; one step towards the tempting silvery road of night, would have made an end for ever of all the troubles, the love and life and poetry, of poor John Clare.

ATTEMPTS TO GET UP A PROSPECTUS.

Soon after his first meeting with Martha Turner, at the beginning of October, 1817, John Clare left Bridge Casterton, hand went to Pickworth, a village four miles off, in a northerly direction, where he found employment in another lime-kiln, belonging to a Mr. Clerk. The reason he quitted his old master was that the latter lowered his wages from nine to seven shillings per week, which reduction John Clare would not submit to. Though content, throughout his life, to live in the humblest way, he had two strong reasons, at this moment, for wishing to earn moderately good wages, so as to be able to save some money. The first was that he had set his heart on having a new suit of clothes, including an olive-green coat. As young maidens sigh for a lover, and as children long for sweetmeats, so John Clare had set his heart for years on having an olive-green coat. For this wonderful garment he was 'measured' soon after returning from Oundle and martial glory, under the agreement, carefully stipulated with the master tailor, that it was to be delivered only on cash payment. But he had never yet been able to raise the necessary fifty shillings, although the olive-green coat was dearer to his heart than ever before. However, there was one still dearer object, for the carrying out of which he wanted to save money, namely, the attempt to get some of his verses printed. His chief impulse, in this respect, was not-so much literary vanity, but a strong desire to get the judgment of the world on his own secret labours. As yet, though with an intuitive perception of the intrinsic worth of his poetry, he had no real faith in himself. The intimation of Thomas Porter, respecting the necessity of grammar, still weighed heavily upon his mind, and the cold reception which his verses met with at the hands of the bookseller of Market Deeping greatly contributed to weaken the belief in the value of his writings. Nevertheless, the old spirit of faith urging him again and again, he had more than once renewed his communications with Mr. Henson, and repeated visits to Market Deeping at last produced a sort of treaty between bookseller and poet. Mr. Henson agreed to print, for the sum of one pound, three hundred prospectuses, inviting subscribers for a small collection of 'Original Trifles by John Clare.' The price of the volume was to be three shillings and sixpence, 'in boards;' and Mr. Henson promised that, as soon as one hundred subscribers had given in their names, he would begin to print the book, at his own risk. This treaty, the result of several interviews, and much anxiety on the part of John Clare, was settled between the interested parties in the month of December, 1817.

A more excited time than that which now followed, Clare had never seen in his life. He was in love over head and ears, and had to pay frequent visits to his mistress at Walkherd Lodge; he had to think of saving money for his long-desired olive-green coat--more than ever desired now for presentation at the Lodge; and, last not least, he had to work overtime to get the one pound sterling required for the printing of the three hundred prospectuses. In short, he had to labour harder than ever, in order to gain more money; and, yet, at the same time, required more leisure than ever, both for writing verses and love-making. To reconcile these opposite wants, he took to night-work, in addition to daily labour, risking his health and almost his life to gain a few shillings and to have an occasional glimpse at his sweet mistress. His love prospects did not appear to be very promising, at first. As for Martha Turner herself, she rather encouraged than otherwise the attentions of the young lime-burner; her parents, however, were strongly and energetically opposed to the courtship. Dignified cottage-farmers, renting their half-a-dozen acres of land, with a cow on the common, and a pig or two, they thought their pretty daughter might look higher in the world than to a mere lime-burner with nine shillings a week. Besides, there was another lover in the wind, of decidedly better prospects, who had already gained the ear of the parents, and was backed by all their influence. It was a young shoemaker from Stamford, with a shop of his own; a townsman dressed in spotless broadcloth on all his visits to Walkherd Lodge, and of manners considered aristocratic. Martha herself wavered slightly between the shoemaker and the lime-burner; the former was not only well-dressed but good-looking, to neither of which externals John Clare could lay any pretensions. The only advantage possessed by him over his rival was that he pleaded his cause with all the zeal and ardour of a man deeply enamoured, and this, as always, so here, carried the day finally. There was some languid indifference in the addresses of the loving shoemaker, to punish which Martha Turner threw herself into the arms of John Clare. So far, things were looking prosperous at the Pickworth lime-kiln, during the first months of 1818.

Meanwhile, the poetical aspirations of John Clare had made little progress. Mr. Henson, of Market Deeping, insisted that the poet should write his own prospectus, or 'Invitation to Subscribers,' and Clare trembled at the bare idea of undertaking such a formidable work. Easy as it was to him to compose scores of verses every day, in the intervals of the hardest manual labour, he had never attempted, in his whole life, to write a single line in prose, and therefore could not bring himself, by any exertion, to go through the new task. Day after day he tormented his head to find words how to begin the required prospectus, but invariably with the same negative result. Often it happened that, when trying to write down the first line of the 'Invitation,' his thoughts involuntarily lost themselves in rhyme, till finally, instead of the desired 'Address to the Public,' there stood on paper, much to his own surprise, an address to the primrose or the nightingale. Thus, one morning, when going to his work, in deep thoughts of poetry, prospectuses, love, and lime-burning, the reflection escaped his lips, 'What is life?' and, as if driven by inspiration, he instantly sat down in a field, and, on a scrap of coarse paper, wrote the first two verses of the poem, subsequently published under the same title. Clare's poetical genius threatened to master even his own will.

At length, however, after infinite trouble and exertion, he managed to get the dreaded prospectus ready. Having saved the pound with which to pay the printer, he firmly determined to make a final attempt to write prose, in some form or other, and to send it off to Market Deeping, in whatever shape it might turn. At this time he was in the habit of working, sometimes at Mr. Clerk's lime-kiln at Pickworth, and sometimes at a branch establishment of the same owner, situated at Ryhall, three miles nearer towards Stamford. Firm in his determination to produce a prospectus, he started one morning for Ryhall, and, arrived at his place of labour, sat down on a lime-scuttle, pencil in hand, with the hat as ever-ready writing-desk. For once, the prose thoughts flowed a little more freely, and after a strong inward effort, the following came to stand upon paper:--

'Proposals for publishing by Subscription a Collection of Original Trifles on miscellaneous subjects, religious and moral, in Verse, by John Clare of Helpston. The Public are requested to observe that the Trifles humbly offered for their candid perusal can lay no claim to eloquence of poetical composition; whoever thinks so will be deceived, the greater part of them being Juvenile productions, and those of later date offsprings of those leisure intervals which the short remittance from hard and manual labour sparingly afforded to compose them. It is hoped that the humble situation which distinguishes their author will be some excuse in their favour, and serve to make an atonement for the many inaccuracies and imperfections that will be found in them. The least touch from the iron hand of Criticism is able to crush them to nothing, and sink them at once to utter oblivion. May they be allowed to live their little day and give satisfaction to those who may choose to honour them with a perusal, they will gain the end for which they were designed and their author's wishes will be gratified. Meeting with this encouragement it will induce him to publish a similar collection of which this is offered as a specimen.'

The writing of this paper--presented here as originally written, with the correction only of the spelling, and the insertion of a few stops and commas--took Clare above three hours, and having finished it, and read it over several times, he thought he had reason to be pleased with his performance. A third reading increased this satisfaction, in the fulness of which he determined to send the prospectus at once to the printer. Accordingly, he sat down upon his lime-scuttle, fastened the paper together with a piece of pitch, scraped from an old barrel, and directed it, in pencil, to 'Mr. Henson, bookseller, Market Deeping.' This accomplished, he started off in a trot to the post-office at Stamford. On the road, new doubts and scruples came fluttering through his mind. Was it not a foolish act, after all, that he, a poor labourer, the son of a pauper, should risk a pound of his hard earnings in the attempt to publish a book? Would not the people laugh at him? Would they not blame him for spending the money on such an object, instead of giving it to his half-starving parents? Such were the doubts that crossed his mind. But, on the other hand, he considered that success might possibly attend his efforts; that, if so, it would be the means of raising his parents, as well as himself, from their low situation; and that, whatever the result, it would show the world's estimate of his own doings--either encourage him in writing more verses, or cure him of a silly propensity. This last reflection, and a thought of the fair girl he loved, decided the matter in his own mind. He sprang up from the stone heap, where he had sat buried in reflections, and pursued his way to Stamford. His face was burning with excitement, and, entering the town, he fancied everybody was looking at him, with a full knowledge of his vainglorious errand. The post-office was closed, and the clerk at the wicket demanded one penny as a fee for taking in the late letter. John Clare fumbled in his pockets, and found that he had not so much as a farthing in his possession. In a rueful voice he asked the man at the wicket to take the letter without the penny. The clerk glanced at the singular piece of paper handed to him, the pencilled, ill-spelt address, the coarse pitch, instead of sealing-wax, at the back, and with a contemptuous smile, threw the letter into a box at his side. Without uttering another word, he then shut the door in Clare's face. And the poor poet hurried home, burying his face in his hands.

THE TURN OF FORTUNE.

In about a week after the despatch of the pitch-sealed letter, there came a reply from Mr. Henson, of Market Deeping. It intimated that the prospectuses, with appended specimen poem, were nearly ready, and would be handed over to John Clare, on a given day, at the Dolphin inn, Stamford. Accordingly, on the day named, Clare went over to Stamford, his heart fluttering high with expectations. When Mr. Henson handed him the 'Address to the Public,' with the 'Sonnet to the Setting Sun' on the other side, both neatly corrected and printed in large type, he was beside himself for joy. In its new dress, his poetry looked so charmingly beautiful, that he scarcely knew it again. His hopes rose to the highest pitch when he found that the admiration of his printed verses was shared by others. While they were sitting in the parlour of the Dolphin inn, drinking and talking, there came in a clerical-looking gentleman, who, after having listened a while to the conversation about the forthcoming volume of poetry, politely inquired for the title of the book. Mr. Henson, with business-like anxiety, at once came forward, explaining all the circumstances of the case, not forgetting to praise the verses and the writer to the skies. The gentleman, evidently touched by the recital, at once told Mr. Henson to put his name down as a subscriber, giving his address as the Rev. Mr. Mounsey, Master of the Stamford Grammar-school. John Clare was ready to fall on the neck of the kind subscriber, first admirer of his poetry; but prudently restraining himself, he only mumbled his thanks, with an ill-suppressed tear in his eye. After having made arrangements for the circulation of the prospectuses, boldly undertaking to distribute a hundred himself, John Clare then went back to his lodgings at Pickworth, dancing more than walking.

The first bright vision of fame and happiness thus engendered was as short as it was intense. It was followed, for a time, by a long array of troubles and misfortune, making the poor poet more wretched than he had ever been before. Soon after his meeting with Mr. Henson at the Dolphin inn, he had a quarrel with his mistress, and a more serious disagreement with her parents, followed by a harsh interdict to set his foot again within the confines of Walkherd Lodge. A few weeks subsequently, his master discharged him, under the probably well-justified accusation that he was neglecting his work, scribbling verses all day long, and running about to distribute his prospectuses. This discharge came in the autumn of 1818, and put Clare to the severest distress. The expenses connected with his poetical speculation had swallowed up all his hoardings, and left him absolutely without a penny in the world. After several ineffectual efforts to find work as a lime-burner either at Pickworth or Casterton, he bethought himself to seek again employment as a farm-labourer, and for this purpose went back to Helpston. His parents, now quite reduced to the mercies of the workhouse, and subsisting entirely upon parish relief, received him with joy; but nearly all other doors were shut against him. The wide-spread rumour that he was going to publish a book, had created a great sensation in the village, but, so far from gaining him any friends, had raised up a host of jealous detractors and enemies. Among the most ignorant of the villagers, the cry prevailed that he was a schemer and impostor; while the better-informed people, including the small farmers of the neighbourhood, set him down as a man who had taken up pursuits incompatible with his position. Perhaps the latter view was not an altogether unjust one; at any rate, the farmers, all of them people of small means, acted upon good precedent in refusing John Clare work, after he had been discharged, by his last employer, for gross neglect of duty. It was in vain that Clare offered to do 'jobs,' or work by contract; his very anxiety to get into employment, of whatever kind it might be, was held to be presumptuous, and all his offers and promises met with nothing but distrust. In this frightful state of things, there was only one resource remaining to John Clare, to escape starvation--to do as his parents, and beg a dry loaf of bread from the tender mercies of the parish. His name, accordingly, was enrolled in the list of paupers.

But as if the cup of his distress was not yet full enough, John Clare, while reduced to this lowest state of misery, got a note from Mr. Henson, of Market-Deeping, informing him that the distributed prospectuses had only brought seven subscribers, and that the scheme of printing the poems would have to be dropped entirely, unless he could advance fifteen pounds to meet the necessary expenses. To Clare, this information sounded like mockery. To ask him, while in absolute want of food, to raise fifteen pounds, appeared to him an insult--which probably it was not meant to be. Mr. Henson, the printer and bookseller, had very little knowledge of the actual state of his correspondent, and looking upon the whole scheme of publishing poetry as the driest matter of business, addressed Clare as he would have any other customer. This, however, was not the way in which the deeply-distressed poet viewed the proceedings. He gave way to his feelings in a very angry letter, after despatching which he sank into deep despondency. It seemed to him as if he had now made shipwreck of his life and all his hopes.

Recovering from this sudden access of grief, he made a fresh resolve. At twenty-five, men seldom die of despondency--not even poets. John Clare, too, decided not to give up the battle of life at once, but prolong it a short while by becoming a soldier. However, he was afraid to add to the distress of his father and mother by informing them of this plan, and, therefore, left home under the pretence that he was going to seek work. It was a fine spring morning--year 1819--when he took once more the road to Stamford. Passing by Burghley Park, he was strongly reminded of that other sunny day in spring when he came the same way with Thomson's 'Seasons' in hand; when he was seized with the sudden passion for poetry, and when he wrote his first verses under the hedge of the gardens, fall of joy and happiness. And he pondered upon the sad change which had taken place in these ten years. He had written many more verses--far better verses, he fully believed; and yet was poorer than ever, and more wretched and miserable than he had imagined he could possibly be. Thus ran the flow of his thoughts: sad and gloomy, though not without an undercurrent of more hopeful nature. There was a deep-rooted belief in his heart that the poems he had written were not entirely worthless, and that notwithstanding the coldness and antipathy of the world, notwithstanding his own poverty and wretchedness, the day would come when their value would be appreciated. The new sanguine spirit took more and more hold of him while looking over the hedge into the park, and around on the fields, smiling in their first green of new-born loveliness, and enlivened with the melodious song of birds. Once more, his heart was warmed as of old, and he sat down under a tree, to compose another song. It was a poem in praise of nature, gradually changing into a love-song; and while writing down the lines, his heart grew melancholy in thoughts of his absent mistress, his sweet 'Patty of the Vale,' separated from him, perhaps, for ever. To see her once more, before enlisting as a soldier, now came to be the most ardent desire of his heart.

The shades of evening were sinking fast, when John Clare reached Bridge Casterton, on his way to Walkherd Cottage. He was just in view of the smiling little garden in front of the house, when a figure, but too well known, crossed has path. It was Patty. She wanted to speak, and she wanted to fly; her lips moved, but she did not utter a word. Clare, too, was lost, for a minute, in mute embarrassment; but, recovering himself, he rushed towards her, and with fervent passion pressed her to his heart. Patty was too much a child of nature not to respond to this burst of affection, and for some minutes the lovers held each other in sweet embrace. They might have prolonged their embrace for hours, but were disturbed by calls from the neighbouring lodge. The anxious parent within heard words, and sounds, and stifled kisses, and doubting whether they came from the shoemaker, sent forth shrill cries for Martha to come in without delay. But darkness made Patty bold; she assured her mother that there was 'nobody,' accompanying the word by another kiss. Then, with loving caress, she tore herself from Clare's arms, flying up the narrow path to the cottage. John Clare was transfixed to the spot for a few minutes, and, having gazed again and again at the rose-embowered dwelling, made his way back to Stamford, joyful, yet sad at heart. On the road, close to Casterton, he met some old acquaintances of the lime-kiln, going to the same destination, intent on an evening's drinking bout. John was asked to join, and after some reluctance, consented. The lime-burners had their pockets well-filled for the night, and the jug of ale went round with much rapidity. When gaiety was at the culminating point, a tall gentleman, in the uniform of the Royal Artillery, joined the merry company. The jug passed to him, and he returned the compliment by ordering a fresh supply of good old ale. Now the talk grew fast and loud, opening the sluices of mutual confidence. John Clare loudly proclaimed his intention of becoming a soldier, ready to fight his way up to generalship.

'Do you mean it?' inquired the tall gentleman in uniform.