Chapter 9

The year of 1820 broke dull and gloomy upon Clare. He had expected his poems to be published in the month of November, or the beginning of December previous; but was without any information whatever, either from Stamford or London, and did not know when the long-expected book would appear, or whether it would appear at all. The little money he had received from Mr. Drury at various periods--some twenty pounds altogether--had been spent by this time, and, being out of work, he was once more face to face with grim poverty. Day after day passed, yet no news, till, in the last week of January, the smiling face of a friend suddenly lighted up the gloom. It was a rainy day, and Clare was unable to take his usual ramble through the fields, when the clattering of hoofs was heard outside the little cottage. A man on horseback alighted at the door, and shaking off the dripping wet, rushed into the room, where Clare and his father and mother were sitting round the little fire. It was the Rev. Mr. Holland. 'Am I not a good prophet?' he cried, running towards John, and shaking him warmly by the hand. John looked up in astonishment; he had not the slightest notion of what his friend meant or alluded to. But Mr. Holland kept on laughing and dancing, shaking himself like a wet poodle. 'Am I not a good prophet?' he repeated, again and again. The long face of his melancholy young friend at last brought him to a sense of the actual state of affairs. 'You have had no letter from your publishers?' he inquired. 'None whatever,' was the reply. 'Then let me be the first herald of good news,' cried Mr. Holland; 'I can assure you that your utmost expectations have been realized. I have had a letter from a friend in London, this morning, telling me that your poems are talked of by everybody; in fact, are a great success.' How the words cheered the heart of John Clare! He fancied he had a slight touch of the ague in the morning; but it seemed to fall like scales off his body, and he thought he had never been so well all his life. Mr. Holland was about getting into his wet saddle again. 'Oh, do stop a little longer,' said John, imploringly; 'have something to eat and drink.' And he looked at his father and mother; and father and mother looked at him. Alas! they all knew too well that there was nothing in the house to eat; and no money wherewith to purchase food. Good Mr. Holland, at a glance, perceived the actual state of affairs. 'Well,' he exclaimed, 'I intended having some dinner at the inn round the corner; but if you will allow me, I will have it sent here, and take it in your company.' And in a twinkling of the eye, he was out of doors, leading his horse, which had been tied to a post, towards the 'Blue Bell.' He was back in ten minutes; and in another ten minutes there appeared the potboy from the 'Blue Bell' carrying a huge tray, smoking hot. Thrice the messenger from the 'Blue Bell' came and returned, each time carrying something heavy in his fat, red hands, and going away with empty trays. When he had turned his back for the third and last time, they all sat down around the little ricketty table, the Rev. Mr. Holland, John, his father and mother. 'Every good gift, and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights,' said the minister. 'Amen!' fervently exclaimed John.

The good news of which the Rev. Mr. Holland had been the bearer was soon confirmed on all sides. Early the next morning there came a messenger from Stamford, asking Clare to visit Mr. Drury as well as Mr. Gilchrist. He called first at the house of the latter, and was very graciously received, being informed that his poems were published, and that Mr. William Gifford, editor of the 'Quarterly Review' had taken a great interest in him and his book. John Clare, who had never heard either of Mr. Gifford, or the 'Quarterly,' listened to the news with much indifference, to the evident surprise of his friend. Leaving Mr. Gilchrist, he went next door, to Mr. Drury, and, entering the shop, fell back with astonishment on hearing a tall aristocratic-looking elderly gentleman inquire for 'John Clare's Poems.' It sounded like sweet music to his ear, the cracked voice of the old gentleman. Mr. Drury, not noticing the entrance of Clare, took a small octavo volume from the top of a parcel of similar books lying on his counter, and handed it to the gentleman, informing his customer at the same time that the poems were 'universally applauded both by the critics of London and the public.' John kept firm in his corner near the door; he thought his friend Drury the most eloquent speaker he had ever heard. 'And, pray, who is this John Clare?' asked the tall aristocratic-looking gentleman. 'He is ...' began Mr. Drury, but suddenly stopped short, seeing a whole row of his books tumble to the ground. John Clare, in his terrible excitement, had pressed too close towards an overhanging shelf of heavily-bound folios and quartos, which came down with a tremendous crash. It seemed as if an earthquake was overturning the 'New Public Library;' and the astonishment of the owner did not subside when he saw his poetical friend creeping out from under the ruins of five-score dictionaries, gazetteers, and account-books. Having somewhat recovered his composure, Mr. Drury, with a grave mien, turned towards the tall gentleman, exclaiming, 'I beg to introduce to you Mr. Clare, the poet.' The gentleman burst out laughing at the intensely ludicrous scene before him; yet checked himself instantly, seeing the colour mount into Clare's face. 'I beg you a thousand pardons, Mr. Clare,' he exclaimed; 'I hope you have not been hurt.' And as if to compensate for his rude hilarity, the tall gentleman entered into a conversation with Clare, ending by an invitation to visit him at his residence on the following day: 'Mr. Drury will give you my address; good morning.' John Clare made no reply, and only bowed; he did not feel much liking for his new acquaintance. However, when Mr. Drury told him that the stranger was General Birch Reynardson, a gentleman of large property, residing near Stamford, on an estate called Holywell Park, and that his acquaintance might be of the greatest benefit for the success of his book, if not for himself, Clare consented to pay the desired visit. The allusion to his published poems by Mr. Drury was pleasant to his ears, and Clare eagerly sat down to examine _his_ book. It was not by any means a handsome volume in outward appearance, being bound in thick blue cardboard, with a small piece of coarse linen on the back. But the coarseness of the material was relieved by the inscription, 'Clare's Poems,' printed on the back in large letters; and the plain appearance of the book was forgotten over the title-page, 'Poems descriptive of rural life and scenery, by John Clare, a Northamptonshire peasant.' He eagerly ran his eye over the poems, and was more than ever pleased with them in their new dress, with slightly altered spelling, and all the signs of punctuation added. There was only one part of the book with which he was not pleased, which was the part headed 'introduction.' It gave an untrue account of his life, and, what was still more galling to the pride of the poet, spoke of his poverty as the main point deserving public attention. All this deeply hurt his feelings; nevertheless the predominating sentiment of joy and satisfaction prevented him saying anything on the subject to Mr. Drury. He stayed some hours at the shop, and it was arranged that early on the next morning he should call again to get ready for the important visit to General Reynardson. When on the point of leaving, Mr. Drury put a letter in Clare's hands. 'I had almost forgotten it,' he said; 'it has been lying at the shop for several days. I suppose it is from your sweetheart.'

The letter was from the 'sweetheart;' but a very melancholy letter it was nevertheless. Poor Martha Turner told her lover, what he knew long ago, that she was about becoming a mother before being a wife; that her situation was known to her parents; that her father and mother refused to forgive her frailty; and that she was cruelly treated and on the point of being expelled from under their roof. John Clare read the letter on the roadside, between Stamford and Helpston; he read it over again and again, and his burning tears fell upon the little sheet of paper. A fierce conflict of passions and desires arose within his soul. He fancied that he did not love Martha Turner half so well as the pretty little lass of Southorp; he fancied that since his first overwhelming affection for 'Mary,' he had never been devoted, heart and soul, so much to any one as to Betty Sell. Yet to Martha Turner, once his sweet 'Patty of the Vale,' he knew he was bound by even stronger ties than those of affection and love--he trembled thinking thus, yet held firm to the nobler element in his breast. The secret struggle, short and intense, ended with a firm resolve that duty should conquer passion.

Early on the day following, John Clare made his appearance at Mr. Drury's shop. The busy tradesman had already provided an outfit for his friend, whom he meant to patronize more than ever, now that his poems promised to be successful. In the course of half an hour, John found himself clothed in garments such as he had never before worn. He had a black coat, waistcoat, and trousers, a silk necktie, and a noble, though very uncomfortable, high hat; while his heavy shoes seemed changed by a covering of brilliant polish. Surveying his figure, thus altered, in a looking-glass, John was greatly satisfied with himself, and with a proud step marched off towards Holywell Park. General Birch Reynardson received him with great affability; at once took him by the hand, and led him into the library. It was the finest collection of books Clare had ever seen, and he warmly expressed his admiration of it. After a while, the General took a small quarto, bound in red morocco, from the shelves, and showing it to his guest, asked him what he thought of the contents. They were poems written by the general's father; and Clare, seeing the fact stated on the title-page, was polite enough to declare them to be very beautiful. Another red-morocco volume thereupon came down from the shelves, full of manuscript poetry of the General's own composition. John Clare began to see that genius was hereditary in the family, and expressing as much to his host, earned a grateful smile, and a warm pressure of the hand. He was asked next to promenade in the gardens till dinner was ready.

The gardens of Holywell Park were laid out with great taste, and John Clare soon lost himself in admiration of the many beautiful views opened before him. While wandering along the banks of an artificial lake, fed by a cascade at the upper end, he was joined by a young lady of extraordinary beauty. He believed it was the wife of the General; yet, though showing the deepest respect to the lady who addressed him while walking at his side, he could not help looking up into her face now and then, in mute admiration of her exquisite loveliness. The General, after a while, joined the promenaders, when John, somewhat to his surprise, learnt that his fair companion was not the hostess of the establishment, but the governess. Notwithstanding the presence of the master of the house, the young lady continued speaking to Clare in the freest and most unrestrained manner, bewitching him alike by the tones of her voice and the soft words of flattering praise she poured into his ear. She told him that she had read twice through the volume of poetry which the General had brought home the preceding evening, having sat up for this purpose the greater part of the night. Clare's face got scarlet when he heard these bewitching words; never before had praise sounded so sweet to his ear; never before had it come to him from such honeyed lips. He was beside himself for joy, when, as a proof of her good memory, she began reciting one of his poems: 'My love, thou art a nosegay sweet.' And when she came to the last line, 'And everlasting love thee,' Clare's eyes and those of the beautiful girl met, and he felt her glances burning into his very soul. The general did not seem to take much notice of his companions, being busy picking up stones in the footpath, and examining the state of the grass on the borders of his flower beds. On returning towards the house, he informed Clare that the servants were about sitting down to their dinner, and told him to join them in the hall. The young governess appeared intensely surprised at the words; she looked up, first at the General and then at Clare. Probably it seemed to her a gross insult that a poet should be sent to take his meal with the footmen and scullery-maids. But Clare's face looked bright and serene; to him, as much as to the master of the house, it appeared perfectly natural to be returned to his proper social sphere, after a momentary dream-like rise into higher social regions.

He walked into the hall, and humbly sat down at the lower end of the servants' table. The big lackeys whispered among themselves, looking with a haughty air upon the base intruder. John Clare heeded it not; his soul was far away in a world of bliss. Before him, in his imagination still hovered that sweet beautiful face which he had seen in the gardens; in his ear still sounded the soft tones of her voice: 'And everlasting love thee.' Thus he sat at the table, among the footmen and kitchen wenches, tasting neither food nor drink--an object of utter contempt to his neighbours. Before long, however, there came a message from the housekeeper's room, inviting Clare to proceed to the select apartments of this potent lady. He followed the servant mechanically, careless where he was going; but was joyfully surprised on entering the room to see his dream changed into reality. There, opposite the table, sat his beautiful garden-companion, smiling more sweetly, and looking more exquisitely enchanting than ever. She stretched out her little white hand, and Clare sat down near her, utterly unmindful of the presence of the mistress of the apartment, the lady housekeeper. The latter felt somewhat offended in her dignity, yet overlooked it for the moment, being desirous to proffer a request. Having succeeded in rousing Clare's attention, she informed her visitor, with becoming condescension, that she was very fond of poetry; also that she had a son who was very fond of poetry. But it so happened that, though very fond of reading verses, neither she nor her son was able to produce any. Now hearing, from her friend the governess, that there was a poet in the house, she had taken the liberty to send for him, to do some trifling work. What she wanted was an address of filial love, as touching and affectionate as possible; this she would send to her son, and her dear son would return it to her, signed by his own name. She hoped it could be done at once, while she was getting the tea ready. Could it be done at once? Clare started on hearing himself addressed a second time by the high-toned lady--he did not remember a word of all that had been said to him. But he bowed in silence, and the dignified elderly person left the room to make the tea, firmly persuaded that her poetry would be got ready in the meantime. When she was gone, Clare looked up, and found a pair of burning eyes fixed upon him. He tried to speak, but could not; the words, rising from his heart, seemed to perish on his tongue. After a long pause, the young governess, flushed with emotion, found courage to address her neighbour: 'I hope to see you again, Mr. Clare; I hope you will write to me sometimes.' He had no time to reply before the bell rang and a servant entered the room, reporting that General Birch Reynardson wished to see John Clare before leaving. The intimation was understood. John went up to the library, bowed before his stately host, muttered a few words of thanks, he knew not exactly for what, and left the house. When the gate closed after him, he felt as if expelled from the garden of Eden.

Slowly he walked up the road, when suddenly a white figure started up on his path. The young governess again stood before Clare. 'I could not hear of your going,' cried the beautiful girl, her bright face suffused with blushes, and her long auburn hair fluttering in the wind; 'I could not hear of your going, without saying good-bye.' Clare again tried to speak, and again the words died upon his lips. But she continued addressing him; 'Oh, do not forget to write to me,' she said earnestly, with a tinge of melancholy in her soft voice. It thrilled through his soul, and opened his lips at last. 'I will write,' he answered, 'and I will send you some new poems.' Thus saying, he bent forward and took both her hands, and their eyes met, full of unspeakable passion. But a sudden noise from the distance startled Clare and his fair companion. There was a man on horseback coming up with full speed, riding in the direction of Holywell Park. The young governess softly loosened her hands, turned a last fond look upon the poet, and fled away like a frightened hind into a neighbouring wood.

John Clare hurried forward, his face flushed, his head trembling; forgetful of all the things around him. At last, feeling exhausted, he sat down on a stone, at the turning of two roads. The one of the roads was leading to Stamford; the other to Bridge Casterton and Walkherd Lodge. Clare felt like one entranced. Joy unutterable was struggling in his bosom together with infinite sadness, and the wild pulsation of his heart seemed to drive his blood, like living fire, to his very soul. And he held his burning head in his hands, sitting at the corner of the two roads. The image of the beautiful girl he had just left, an image more perfect, more sweet and angelic than ever conceived by his imagination, appeared standing in one of the roads, and the picture of a sad, suffering woman, surrounded by angry parents, in the other. Lower sank the sun on the horizon; it was beginning to get dark; but Clare still kept sitting at the corner of the two roads, his throbbing head bent to his knees. The clouds in the west glowed with a fierce purple, when he started up at last. He started up and walked, swiftly and with firm step, towards Walkherd Lodge. The clouds in the west seemed to glow with an unearthly light.

'OPINIONS OF THE PRESS' AND CONSEQUENCES.

The London book-season of 1820 was a dull one. The number of books published was very small, and there were but few extraordinary good or extraordinary bad ones amongst them. All the 'reviewers' were at their wits' end; for wit, sharp as a razor, must get dull over books undeserving of praise, yet incapable of being 'cut up' with due brilliancy of style. Into this mournful critical desert, there fell like manna the 'Poems descriptive of rural life and scenery.' Mr. John Taylor and his literary coadjutors had taken great pains to spread the news far and wide that a new Burns had been discovered on the margin of the Lincolnshire fens, and was to be publicly exhibited before a most discerning public. There were low rumours, besides, that William Gifford intended to place the new Burns on the pedestal of the 'Quarterly,' spreading the fame of the humble poet into the most distant regions. Accordingly, when the first volume of Clare's poems was published, on the 16th of January, 1820, there was an immediate rush to the shop of Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, in Fleet Street. Before many days were over, a first edition was exhausted; and before many weeks were gone, all the critical reviews began singing the praises of the book. The 'Gentleman's Magazine,' leading the van, got, eloquent over 'the unmixed and unadulterated impression of the loveliness of nature,' contrasting it with 'the riches, rules, and prejudices of literature;' the latter being in allusion to a quarrel which the learned editor had just had with some learned fellow-editors. Next followed the 'New Monthly Magazine,' the reviewer of which informed a discerning public that 'Clare is strictly a descriptive poet, and his daily occupation in the fields has given him manifest advantages.' This profound remark made great impression, and was quoted by Messrs. Taylor and Hessey in all their prospectuses; not even the deepest thinkers disputing the thesis that if Clare had been born and lived all his life in a cellar in the Seven Dials, his rural poetry might be less truthful. The 'London Magazine,' belonging to the publishers of Clare's poems, came modestly behind in critical praise, contenting itself, in a review of five pages, with giving plentiful extracts from the book, putting forward, at the same time, a somewhat undignified appeal to public charity. The demand for the pence and shillings of the charitable was, as stated in the review, 'made by one who has counselled and superintended this interesting publication,' and the same authority piteously invoked the aid of the nobility and gentry for 'this poor young man.' When Clare came to see this article, some months after its publication, he burst into a fit of indignation, and wrote an angry letter to Mr. Drury; but with the sole result of hearing, on his next visit to the Stamford Public Library, that he was not only a very poor, but a very ungrateful young man.

The 'Eclectic Review,' reviewed Clare in a very flattering article; and the 'Antijacobin Review,' 'Baldwin's London Magazine,' and a host of other periodicals, followed suit, all dwelling upon the luminous aspect of the poems, with pauperism as dark background. Last in the list, but greatest, came the 'Quarterly,' with William Gifford at the helm. The 'Quarterly Review' of May, 1820, actually devoted nine pages to a description and praise of Clare's poems, speaking of them as the most interesting literary production of the day. The review was supposed to be written by Mr. Gilchrist; but it was generally understood that the editor of the 'Quarterly' himself corrected and altered the article, strengthening its praise, and putting in some hearty, honest words about Clare as a man, as well as a poet. Perhaps of all living authors, William Gifford best understood John Clare, and felt thorough, and entire sympathy with the attempt of this noble soul to struggle into light, through all the haze of printers, publishers, and reviewers. Very likely he might have loved Clare as a brother--had the poet not been an author. William Gifford, as Southey truly remarks, 'had a heart full of kindness for all living creatures, except authors; _them_ he regarded as a fishmonger regards eels, or as Izaak Walton did slugs, worms, and frogs.' Nevertheless, the 'Quarterly Review' praised Clare in a way which quite astonished the book-makers of the day. After comparing him with Burns and Bloomfield, and dwelling upon the fact that his social position was far lower than that of either these two poets, the writer in the 'Quarterly'--here Mr. Gifford himself--gave some sound advice to Clare. 'We entreat him,' the article ran, 'to continue something of his present occupations; to attach himself to a few in the sincerity of whose friendship he can confide, and to suffer no temptations of the idle and the dissolute to seduce him from the quiet scenes of his youth to the hollow and heartless society of cities; to the haunts of men who would court and flatter him while his name was new, and who, when they had contributed to distract his attention and impair his health, would cast him off unceremoniously to seek some other novelty.' These words of true advice proved almost prophetic in the life of the poet.