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.

In the summer of 1825, Clare's pecuniary embarrassments grew to a climax. He could not refuse anything to his family; and though living personally worse than a beggar, eating little else than dry bread and potatoes, and drinking nothing but water, his expenditure, including medical attendance and many articles of comfort for his aged parents, averaged considerably more than a pound a-week, while the income from his annuity, on which he now solely depended, was very much less. Repeated new efforts to find employment as a labourer proved fruitless; while his visits to Milton Park had ceased by this time, his stock of clothes being so scanty, and patched all over, that he was ashamed to show himself in the company of his friends, always elegantly dressed. With Artis alone he kept up an acquaintance, the learned butler having a soul above dress, and showing himself on all occasions utterly careless whether the companion with whom he was searching for old medals and pottery was dressed in purple or in rags. For many a day, the two went roaming through the environs of Castor and Helpston Heath, digging for the remains of the ancient inhabitants of Durobrivae. One afternoon, when thus employed, Clare fainted, to the great consternation of his friend. The latter, fortunately, had a small flask of wine in his pocket, a few drops of which were sufficient to restore Clare to consciousness. He was gently led home by Edward Artis, who was told, in answer to his inquiries, that the illness had been brought on by the sudden heat. This was not true, or, at the best, only partially true. The fainting was caused by hunger.

When Dr. Darling advised Clare to drink no more ale or spirits, he probably was not aware of the nature of his patient's diet, or of that of Helpston labourers generally. Very likely, had he known that dry bread and potatoes, both in limited quantities, were the staple food, the able Scotch physician would have recommended an occasional glass of port wine, or even of stout—if obtainable. As it was, Clare's promise of abstinence, which he kept religiously for several years, was very detrimental to his health. His naturally delicate frame sank under the coarse diet, as soon as the accustomed stimulants were withdrawn, and his stomach getting gradually weakened, he at last began to feel a sort of abhorrence for his daily food. He now took to eating fruit, which still more debilitated his digestive organs, so that finally there took place a process of slow starvation. When fainting at the side of his friend Artis, he had eaten nothing but a few potatoes with milk for twenty-four hours, having left his home in the morning without taking any food whatever. In this case, it was not merely want of appetite, but actual want of bread. Being greatly indebted to the baker, the latter thought fit to withhold the regular supply of bread, and although there were plenty of vegetables for his wife and children, Clare quitted the house without tasting anything, for fear they might want. It thus happened that, while exploring the ruins of the old Roman city, he sank to the ground from sheer want of food.

The learned butler was much absorbed by his antiquarian speculations, and little given to reflections about his fellow-men; nevertheless, Clare's case struck him as very peculiar. Getting back to Milton Park, he told the particulars to Earl Fitzwilliam, suggesting that a little help might be welcome to the poor poet. The noble earl, however, thought otherwise. It was not that he was unwilling to give; on the contrary, his hand was always open to those in distress, and his previous liberal present of a hundred pounds showed that he was particularly well disposed towards Clare. In all likelihood, had he known the real position of the poet, he would have further extended his liberality, or come to his assistance in some other way. But he knew very little of Clare, and looked upon him as any ordinary earl would look upon an ordinary farm-labourer. From the few interviews with the poet, his lordship had come to the conclusion, true in the main, that Clare was a proud man, and having a strong feeling that Northamptonshire farm-labourers had no business to be proud, he did not think himself justified in giving any further assistance unless specially asked to do so. The earl told this to his learned butler, who acquiesced, as in duty bound, in his master's decision. However, Artis mentioned the subject at the dinner table, where it was attentively listened to by all assembled, especially the worthy head-cook. Monsieur Grill had a secret liking for Clare, based on the fact that the poet was almost the only one of all the people with whom he came into contact who did not torment him with sneers and mocking speeches. Monsieur was endowed with a most extraordinary visage, much like a full moon, put into a dripping-pan, and baked before a slow fire; and the aspect of which was not improved by a pair of ears of very unusual length, and a total absence of hair at the top. To make matters worse, Monsieur Grill was very susceptible of criticism concerning his face, having done his best to improve it, by painting the nose white, the cheeks rosy, and the eyebrows dark. But, whether he liked it or not, the members of the establishment at Milton Park, together with their friends, would laugh at him, and, what was almost as bad, would insist upon calling him 'Mounsear.' Clare alone never laughed, and, after two lessons, pronounced the word 'Monsieur' to Grill's entire satisfaction. At the end of three, he said 'Mon cher ami,' in the best Parisian accent, to the delight of the head-cook, and the astonishment of the whole company in the servants' hall. All this went straight to the heart of Monsieur Grill. When he heard, therefore, that Clare was unwell, he said nothing, but went quietly down into his laboratory, put his saucepan on the fire, and began mixing together a wonderful quantity of groceries, spices, and other ingredients. Being a conscientious man withal, he next despatched the valet to Lady Milton, asking permission to give some strengthening broth to John Clare of Helpston. 'Give as much as you like,' was the immediate reply of her ladyship. This was satisfactory, and after an hour's simmering of his saucepans, Monsieur Grill put on his coat, poured his broth into a stone bottle, took his stick, and went out at the back of the mansion, and through the park towards Helpston. Not long, and he stood before Clare. The latter was amazed on beholding Grill, with the jar in his hand; having always held Monsieur to be the vainest of mortals, quite incapable of carrying a stone bottle across the country. 'Ah, mon cher ami, voila quelque chose pour vous!' exclaimed Monsieur, evidently delighted to see Clare. And without further ado, he grasped some sticks, made a fire in an instant, laid hold of an ancient earthen vessel, and in a few minutes presented, with graceful bow, a basin of broth to his astonished friend. Clare tasted it, and found it delicious. He fancied he had not partaken of anything so nice for months; all the faintness and languor under which he was suffering seemed to disappear as by enchantment. 'This is much better than medicine,' he said, with a look of gratitude to the clever head-cook. 'Medicine? parbleu!' exclaimed Grill; 'do not speak of medicine, mon cher ami, or I leave alone my batterie de cuisine.' Monsieur Grill felt deep contempt, approaching hatred, for all drugs and doctors, labouring under the impression of having lost his beautiful head of hair through some ill-applied medicines. Clare saw the passing cloud, and, with much tact, renewed his praises of the delicious broth, asking his friend to show him the making of it. There was no objection on the part of Monsieur Grill; nevertheless, an hour's teaching was attended with but little success. Though having the manipulation explained to him in the most lucid manner, in terms half French and half English, Clare got more confused the more he listened, till at last his friend told him, with some severity, that his mind seemed incapable of comprehending 'l'art du cuisinier.' Which was true enough. Heaven certainly had not gifted John Clare with a genius for cookery, any more than with the higher faculty of money-making.



PUBLICATION OF 'THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR.'

The visit of worthy Monsieur Grill to Helpston had the good result that henceforth Clare's diet and mode of living became greatly improved. Lady Milton, hearing of the illness of the poet, sent him her physician, while, better still, the chef de cuisine at Milton Park continued to supply him with good broth. The physician, a man of sense, soon perceived that his patient required not medicine but food. He told Clare that it was absolutely necessary that he should adopt a most nourishing diet, and even advised him to take some ale, or stout, in moderate quantities. However, Clare refused the latter part of the advice, urging the promise he had given to Dr. Darling. As to his general mode of living, he consented to do as requested, although too proud to state the reasons which had prevented him, and would, probably, continue to prevent him fully adopting the counsel. The physician, being asked by Lady Milton whether Clare seemed in want, stated that there were no signs of poverty in Clare's home. Though but a narrow hut, the many handsome hooks on the shelves, with a few good paintings, gave it the appearance of comfort, and thus the informant of the noble lady, like many of the other acquaintances of Clare, acquired very erroneous notions concerning his real means. This was the more the case, as Clare always managed to let his wife and children, as well as his aged parents, want none of the necessaries of life, and frequently contrived to procure them even a few luxuries. Nobody knew that while Clare's family had a good dinner, he himself was munching dry bread in some corner in the fields. The fact was not discovered till long afterwards—when discovery came too late.

In the autumn of 1825, the sad news reached Clare that his best friend and patron, Lord Radstock, had succumbed to a stroke of apoplexy. Admiral Lord Radstock died on the 20th of August, at his town residence in Portland Place, in a very sudden manner, after but a few days' illness. The loss of his noble patron would have been a deep affliction to Clare at any time, but it was particularly so at this moment. During the whole of the summer, the admiral had been in correspondence with Mr. Taylor, trying to induce him to come to some distinct arrangement with his client, in regard to the payment for his books and poetical contributions to the 'London Magazine.' Hitherto, Mr. Taylor had not treated his 'Northamptonshire Peasant' on the same footing as other authors, but looked upon him more in the light of a child under tutelage than of an independent man, desirous of gaining a living by the exercise of his talents or industry. When, therefore, Lord Radstock urged him to enter into a regular business agreement with Clare, he felt somewhat offended. Replying to his lordship, he stated that he had given much more to the poet than was due to him, without even charging for his own labours as editor, and that he had hitherto acted, not as a mere business agent, but as a real friend to Clare. Lord Radstock was not satisfied with this answer, but rejoined that, admitting Clare had received more than was due to him, it yet would be better to furnish regular accounts to him, and, by paying what was due, and no more, to foster his self-reliance, instead of keeping him in the position of a dependent, living upon alms or friendly gifts. The correspondence continued through several more letters, with a prospect of Mr. Taylor yielding his point, when the death of Lord Radstock brought it to an end. It was a sad misfortune to Clare, affecting his whole life. In Lord Radstock he lost the truest and noblest friend he possessed—the only one of all his patrons who might have been willing as well as able to remove the darkening clouds already visible in the future.

In the autumn of 1825, Clare was fortunate enough to find some employment in harvesting, which continued till the end of October, when he was once more thrown out of work. He now devoted himself with increased ardour to poetry anxious to excel in the new volume which. Mr. Taylor had agreed to publish. The chief poem of the work was to be a pastoral, in twelve cantos, descriptive of the aspects of the months and seasons, tinder the title, 'The Shepherd's Calendar.' The work required lengthened exertion, which, though he devoted himself with the greatest energy to the task, he could not always muster. Again and again the all-absorbing feeling of poverty broke upon and crushed the mind of the poet. Turn as he might, dire want stared him in the face, and his spirit kept chafing and fretting under the constant exertion of making his small income suffice for the ever-growing wants of his family. Some regular work to perform, or the consciousness of being seated on a few acres of his own ground, with the pleasure of growing his corn and vegetables, would have been sufficient to destroy all these petty cares; but the chance of entering upon such happy existence seemed to grow less and less every year. Liberty, the greatest boon which he desired, he was never able to obtain. To spend half the day in hard out-door work, and the other half in wanderings and poetical musings, would have made him completely happy, as well as, in all likelihood, physically strong; yet this simple wish of his heart not all his great and noble patrons were willing to grant him. They gave him alms, sufficient to lift him from the sphere of labour, but not enough for subsistence, and thus left him in a position as false as hopelessly ruinous. Working at intervals, almost beyond his strength, as a farm labourer, and then again remaining for a long time in forced idleness, writing too much, thinking too much, and ever and ever with the grim phantom of poverty before him, was a form of existence necessarily fatal. It was a life too hard, too cold, too angular, too crystallized—a life which would have broken the heart of any poet under the sun.

In the preparation of his new volume, Clare adopted the sensible plan of correcting and revising his writings constantly, so as to reach the greatest perfection in form. The uninterrupted study of the best poets began to have effect upon his mind by more and more developing his taste, and destroying his former notion that his verses came flowing by a sort of inspiration, and, as such, were not liable to further artificial improvement. Mr. Taylor was much pleased with the new verses which Clare sent him, far more polished than most of the previous ones, and encouraged him by many praises to persevere in the new course. Praise, as to all poets, was sweet to Clare, and he kept on writing with great eagerness during the whole of winter and the coming spring. He expected that his new book would be published early in the summer of 1826, but was disappointed in his expectation. There were poems enough in Mr. Taylor's hands to make at least two volumes; but the careful publisher was not over-anxious to print them. A shrewd man of business, he was fully aware that the tide was running strong against pastorals, or, indeed, against any form of good poetry, the fashion being all for jingling rhyme, embodying the least possible amount of sense. It was the period when annuals began to flourish, with all merit concentrated in 'toned' paper, gilded leaves, and morocco bindings. Mr. Taylor liked John Clare, and held his talent in fair estimation from the fact that the 'Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery' had gone through four editions. But against this fact there was the terrible set-off that the 'Village Minstrel' had only risen to the second edition, with the larger part of the second issue still on the shelves in Fleet Street. Mr. Taylor, therefore, like a sound man of business, resolved to manipulate his 'Northamptonshire Peasant' with great caution, for fear of accidents.

John Clare got into a very excited state when he learnt that his new volume was not to be published in the summer of 1826, nor during the remaining part of the same year. He felt the delay as a scorn of his poetical fame; and he felt it, moreover, as a sad ruin of his financial prospects. The money which he expected to receive was anxiously awaited to pay off pressing debts, and its man-arrival involved not only scanty clothing and short rations, but cares of a peculiarly tender nature. 'Patty' brought her husband a third child, a little boy, who was christened John on the 18th of June, 1826; and though there arrived much timely assistance from Milton Park, the baby, as well as his mother; wanted many things not to be met with in the little hut at Helpston. Always a tender and most affectionate father, Clare's heart was ready to break when he found his poor little son suffering from the absence of those comforts which a few pounds might have purchased. He wrote a pathetic letter to Mr. Taylor, entreating him to send his poems to press; but received a cold answer in return. The sound business man of Fleet Street told his client that it was the wrong time for bringing out the 'Shepherds' Calendar.' He informed him, moreover, that the annuals had got the upper hand, and advised him strongly to write for the annuals. Clare answered that he preferred breaking stones at the workhouse.

But when Clare said so, he was in an angry mood. The baby continued crying, in want of milk and a few yards of flannel, and the mother commenced crying, too; and at length things came to such a pass that Clare determined to write for the annuals. He heard that he should get five shillings per poem, and from some publishers even as much as seven and sixpence. In great haste, therefore, he penned as many verses as he could, sitting up night after night, and on getting a bundle ready despatched them to London. But here again there was terrible disappointment. The annuals, it turned out, did not pay annually, but remunerated their contributors at uncertain periods, varying from two years to ten. When Clare found he could get no payment from the proprietors of the splendid morocco-bound volumes, he complained to Mr. Taylor. The busy publisher was vexed at this, as naturally he might be. He answered that he did not, and could not, hold himself responsible for the liabilities of others, and that it was unfair; after having tendered some general advice, to burthen him with the consequences. Here the matter ended, leaving both parties very dissatisfied. For some time to come there was a great coldness between them, and their correspondence almost entirely ceased.

The failure of his attempt to make money by contributing poems to the gold-edged toy-books had the good result of inciting Clare to renewed exertions to return to his old sphere of labour. He was after a while fortunate enough to find employment at Upton, a village on the southern border of Helpston Heath, where he continued at work during the autumn and winter, and far into the spring of 1827. The labour had the most beneficial effect upon his health, and brought on a fresh desire to leave the allurements of writing, or at least of printing, poetry, and devote himself more to out-door occupation. The great difficulty in carrying eat this plan was to find regular employment of a nature suited to his bodily strength, and his somewhat erratic habits. After much pondering on the subject, Clare resolved to try a little farming on his own account, with the help of his friends, and on a very limited scale. A visit to Milton Park settled the matter. The two head servants of Earl Fitzwilliam, the antiquarian and the botanist, were both ready and willing to assist the poet to become a farmer, though they told him frankly that they had small hopes of his success. Like in all agricultural districts, the owners of land at Helpston and throughout the neighbourhood were opposed to small tenants and 'spade husbandry,' and Clare's friends justly feared that even if there were no other obstacles, this cause alone would prevent him prospering. However, sanguine as he was, Clare held these fears to be exaggerated, and having obtained a small loan from his friends, rented several acres of barren soil at a rent four times as high as that paid by the larger farmers for really good land. The result, not for a moment doubtful from the commencement, did much to accelerate Clare's road to ruin.

During the whole spring and summer of 1827, Clare was so busy and excited in attending to his farming operations as almost to forget his new volume of poems. He scarcely expected to see it published, and was somewhat startled on receiving a copy of the book by post, unaccompanied however by a single line from Mr. Taylor. At any other time, he would have keenly felt the neglect; but as it was, the potatoes and cabbages on his farm attracted his attention more than even his printed verses, and the slight put upon him by his publisher. It was only when, the harvest was over—a harvest very poor and unsatisfactory—that he bethought himself again of his poetical doings. Conscious that he had been in the wrong, to a great extent, in his quarrel with Mr. Taylor, he determined to be the first to hold out the hand of friendship. Having made his resolutions to this effect, he sat down to pen a long letter, dated, 'Helpston, November 17, 1827.' It ran:—'My dear Taylor,—I expect you will be surprised when you open this to' see from whence it comes, so scarce has our correspondence made itself. Ere it withers into nothing, I will kindle up the expiring spark that remains, and make up a letter by its light, if I can. When you sent me the poems in summer, you never sent a letter with them; I felt the omission, but murmured not. It was not wont to be thus in days gone by. So I will shake off this ague-warm feeling, and this dead-living lethargy, and ask you how you are, and where you are, and how our friends are.' And much more to the same effect.

Mr. Taylor replied in a bland, dignified manner. The 'friends,' he reported to be well; but said nothing about what the poet was most desirous of knowing, the fate of his new volume. The truth was, the 'Shepherd's Calendar' did not sell; and the volume having come into the world almost unnoticed, was lying in the publisher's shop neglected and forgotten. A few periodicals mentioned the book in terms of faint praise, and one solitary critic, visibly behind his age, spoke of the verses as 'exquisite, and by far the most beautiful that have appeared for a long time'; but the great majority of the representatives of public opinion utterly ignored John Clare's new work. It soon became clear that, though infinitely superior to the 'Poems of Rural Life and Scenery,' which passed through four editions; and far better even than the 'Village Minstrel,' issued twice! the 'Shepherd's Calendar' was entirely overlooked by the public and the press. And it could not well be otherwise. The book, instead of in morocco, was bound, or rather stitched, in coarse blue cardboard; the paper was not only not 'toned,' but rough and inelegant in the extreme; and the edges, which, ought to have been smooth and gilded, were rugged and uneven like a ploughed field. It was hopeless to expect that a most discerning public should pay six shillings for a book of pastorals of such clownish appearance, when the sweetest rhymes, jingling like silver bells, and descriptive of angels and cupids, and the whole heaven of Greek and Roman mythology, were offered for a lesser sum, in settings resplendent with all the colours of the rainbow. There was no room for the 'Shepherd's Calendar' at the side of all the—gorgeously beautiful annuals of the day, of the Souvenir, Keepsake, and Forget-me-not family.

If this was one reason why the 'Village Minstrel' passed entirely unnoticed, another and still more important cause was the negligent manner in which it was published. Books, like all other earthly objects requiring to be bought and sold, must undergo certain preparations, and run through prescribed channels of trade in their way from the producer to the consumer, and it is well known that the regulation and management of this process may either greatly retard or accelerate the sale of a work. It often happened, that really valuable works have met with very little success, owing to want of energy or want of thought on the part of the publishers; while, on the other hand, not a few bad or paltry books, utterly unworthy of public, patronage, have, through active commercial management, met with a considerable demand, and brought both profit and fame to the writers. The truth of this was once more proved in the sale of Clare's works. In the first published volume, the 'Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery,' Mr. Taylor took a very great interest, and devoted the whole of his energy to ensure its success with the public. He looked upon Clare's book as a personal property; for it was he who enjoyed the honour of having discovered the poetical genius of the 'Northamptonshire Peasant;' he who brought him out in society; and he who was not merely the publisher but the 'editor' of his works, and who as such could fairly; claim a share of the renown accruing to the writer. Accordingly, Mr. Taylor took the greatest trouble in ensuring a favourable reception to Clare's works, and being a literary man of some standing, as well as a bookseller—with the additional advantage of gathering, at stated periods, the chieftains in the republic of letters around his bachelor's table, to enjoy the most excellent dinners—he succeeded in doing what perhaps no other London publisher could have accomplished at the time. Long before the 'Poems of Rural Life' were issued from the press their merit was discussed at Mr. Taylor's dinner-table, under the cheering influence of exquisite port and madeira, and the persuasive eloquence of the most charming of hosts. Thus it happened in the most natural manner that the poems at their appearance were received with a perfect storm of applause, in which even such stern critics as William Gifford—carefully guided by Octavius Gilchrist—could not help joining. Mr. Taylor's own periodical, the 'London Magazine,' marched ahead as chief drummer, and behind came a long train of daily, weekly, and monthly 'organs,' with the great 'Quarterly Review' as commander-in-chief. The result proclaimed itself in four editions of the poems of the 'Northamptonshire Peasant.'

It was in the nature of things that Mr. Taylor should attach due importance to his own efforts in raising the unknown poet upon a pedestal of fame. That he did so, and even reminded Clare of his exertions at a subsequent period, when the poet did not show himself sufficiently grateful, could scarcely be blamed, although it had the consequence of leading to a gradual estrangement between author and publisher. John Clare was not a grateful man, in the ordinary sense of the word. He deeply felt kindness, but had an equally deep abhorrence of servility, or what he fancied to be such; and, therefore, while humble as a child towards those whose real benevolence he appreciated, he showed himself stiff and proud against all who approached him as condescending patrons. Upon Mr. Taylor he looked, rightly or wrongly, as a mere patron. That his publisher refused throughout to give him any accounts, but treated all payments to him as voluntary presents, was a real grief; and that his whole demeanour, though very affable and courteous, was marked by an air of proud superiority, was a fancied distress, but which not the less irritated the sensitive poet. Thus there was, from the first, a want of real attachment between Clare and his influential friend and protector, which was looked upon by Mr. Taylor as a kind of ingratitude. He gradually slackened in his endeavours to spread the fame of the hero he had raised, when he perceived the hero's repugnance to be properly saddled and harnessed. While using prodigal exertions for the success of the first volume, he fell back upon the ordinary bookseller's routine when issuing his second work. In the publication of the third, the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' there was not even this ordinary attention, owing to circumstances of a peculiar kind. Mr. Taylor, in the year 1825, dissolved partnership with his active coadjutor, Mr. Hessey, and, while the latter remained at the old establishment in Fleet Street, he went to set up a new but smaller publishing house at Waterloo Place. It was here he issued the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' under conditions more than usually unfavourable. Expecting to be appointed publisher to the new London University—which expectation was realized not long afterwards—Mr. Taylor had to devote the greater part of his time to preparations for his new position, so as almost to be unable to attend to his bookselling business. Thus Clare's new volume kept lying very quietly on the shelves of the new shop at Waterloo Place.

The 'Shepherd's Calendar' was dedicated to 'the most noble the Marquis of Exeter.' To previous counsel of putting the name of some great patron to his poems, Clare had always leant a deaf ear; but he was persuaded in this instance by his old friend, Dr. Bell, to act contrary to his own judgment. Perhaps there was not much harm in the dedication; but there came from it not much good either. The most noble the marquis, as acknowledgment of the honour, condescended to order ten copies of the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' for which he paid the sum of three pounds, being at the ordinary retail price of six shillings the volume. Clare asked no further favours from his lordship; and his lordship, as a rule, did not grant any favour unasked. Probably, the noble marquis might have broken through his rule on this occasion, but that he was not altogether satisfied with the 'Shepherd's Calendar.' The humble dedication on the title-page was well enough; yet, considering that the poet was enjoying a stipend of fifteen guineas a year, payable quarterly, it was thought that he might have done something more. But there being not a page, nor even a line, in the whole book in praise of the elder branch of the Cecils, showed a deplorable want of feeling proper to a farm labourer living on his lordship's estate. It was clear that the Helpston poet was, on the whole, a silly, foolish man. Dwelling under the very shadow of Burghley Castle, he should have known that by trimming his poetic course in the right direction, he might have landed at almost any haven of comfort—might have become under-gardener in the park, or, if less ambitious, been sent to the House of Commons as member for Stamford. But there was a deplorable want of worldly wisdom in John Clare. That he was a real poet the noble marquis was ready to believe, not distrusting the authority of the 'Quarterly Review.' At the same time, his lordship could not close his eyes to the fact that the man was, all things considered, unworthy of high patronage.

The bad news that his 'Shepherd's Calendar' had met with no success whatever reached Clare in the first days of 1828. He did not learn it from Mr. Taylor, who, as usual, did not think it worth while to give a business account of his transaction to his 'Peasant,' but contented himself in sending, now and then, a few pounds as a present to Helpston; but became aware of the fact through a communication of his kind friend Allan Cunningham. Honest Allan's admiration of Clare increased, as that of the world decreased; and having gone into raptures about some of the poems in the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' yet seeing that few others shared his delight, or were aware even of the existence of the book, he went to the publishing office in Waterloo Place to investigate the matter, and was informed there of what sounded to him utterly strange, that the work did not sell. Exasperated at this communication, he sat down to pen a long epistle to Clare, seasoned with strong epithets, and winding-up with an invitation to his friend to come to London. While consoling Clare about the neglect of the public, to which, he said, 'poets must get accustomed,' he told him at the same time that he was sure that some of his verses in the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' such as 'The Dream,' and 'Life, Death, and Eternity,' were worth more than all the sing-song of the age put together, and, if not at once, could not fail being appreciated in course of time. But in the meanwhile, Allan thought, Clare could not do better than connect himself with the periodical literature of the day, especially the fashionable annuals. John Clare hated the annuals; but he dearly loved his kind and honest friend, and thereupon promised once more to write verses for the pretty toy books, payable by the cubic foot, or yard, or in any other desirable form. But he made it a stipulation that he should be allowed to send his best productions to 'The Anniversary,' an annual edited by Allan Cunningham himself. The proposition was accepted, and Allan thereupon put his friend into communication with proprietors of annuals who actually paid their contributors. Clare, on his part, promised to visit London, at the beginning of February, to conclude some necessary business arrangements.

Soon after Allan's letter, there came another from Mrs. Emmerson. The lady, though a very indifferent writer of verses, had a keen appreciation of sterling poetry, and warmly congratulated Clare on his new volume. Having induced some two or three of her friends to purchase copies of the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' she lived under the impression that the book was a great success, and could not fail bringing wealth and fame to the author. In connexion with this, Mrs. Emmerson had planned a neat little project of her own. Her apartments had become somewhat deserted since the death of Lord Radstock, the chief leader of her literary assemblies, and dreading the idea of being forgotten among the rising generation of female sonneteers, she bethought herself of calling her old lion, the 'Northamptonshire Peasant,' to the rescue. John Clare accordingly got a sweet little letter, fall of bewitching flattery, ending with an invitation to Stratford Place. He trembled when he opened the note, addressed in the old familiar handwriting, and trembled still more when he read it. There was a time when poor John had been making Platonic love to Mrs. Emmerson; when he wrote to her scores of letters, very passionate and very ill-spelt; when he called her his Laura, and made verses in imitation of Petrarch; and in the end had the courage to ask for her portrait. Mrs. Emmerson graciously smiled upon the poor lover at her feet, and while employing him to correct her verses, even granted his request for her likeness, and sent him a beautiful painting by Behnes, the sculptor. John revelled in an elysium of bliss, and, hanging the picture on the place of honour over the mantelpiece, to the great disgust of Patty, got more and more embedded in tenderness, until his letters became sheer unreadable for passionate love, unassisted by grammar. The thing getting tiresome now, and there being no more verses to correct, Mrs. Emmerson thought fit to drop her Northamptonshire poet, and accordingly wrote him a quiet little note asking for a return of her portrait. John Clare fell from the clouds; but fell on his feet, fortunately. He took the beautiful picture down from over his mantelpiece, wrapped it in straw and brown paper, and sent it to Stratford Place, Oxford Street, by the next carrier. The consciousness came dawning on his mind that he was not quite up to the art of making Platonic love.

But Clare trembled when he read the new letter from Mrs. Emmerson. He had not heard from her for a long time, and could not for a moment understand what brought her to renew a correspondence, broken off in the most abrupt manner. His first impulse was to decline the invitation, which he did on the instant in a very long letter. And when he had written the long letter, he threw it into the fire, and indicted another shorter note, informing Mrs. Emmerson that he had already arranged with Mr. Allan Cunningham to visit London, and would be most happy to accept her hospitality at Stratford Place. Having despatched this note, Clare felt much pleased with himself. It would have been very rude, he thought, and almost offensive, to refuse the invitation of an old friend, given in all kindliness of heart. Perhaps it was he, after all, who was in fault respecting that unhappy affair of the portrait, which he took to be a gift, though it was meant only as a loan. He owed an apology to Mrs. Emmerson, that was quite clear; and for this reason alone, if for no other, ought to become her guest during his stay in town. Thus reasoned the poet, and the more he reasoned, the more impatient he got to set out on his journey. At last he started, earlier than he intended, taking the road by Peterborough, to pay his respects to the inmates of the episcopal palace.



VISITS TO NEW AND OLD FRIENDS.

Lions were rare at Peterborough forty years ago. The wife of the Right Reverend Dr. Herbert Marsh, an elderly lady of much energy, often felt lonesome in her old mansion at the foot of the big cathedral, for which suffering neither the sound doctrinal sermons of her husband nor the saintly gossip of weekly tea-parties offered any remedy. There was a little theatre at the episcopal city, at which performances were given now and then; but the histrionic talent of the strolling players being of the slightest, and the Right Reverend Dr. Marsh objecting, moreover, in a subdued manner, to give his immediate patronage to the Punch and Judy of the stage, the lady often felt time hanging heavy on her hands. In this exigency, Mrs. Marsh heard of the Helpston poet, and lost no time in making his acquaintance. Her kindly help and sympathy during his illness was greatly appreciated by Clare, and left him full of gratitude ever after. Nevertheless, though often invited to become a guest at the episcopal palace, he could not summon resolution to do so. He was afraid, not so much of the stiffness and ceremony which he would have to encounter, as of the stern looks of the high dignitary of the Church, who, when visiting him at home, had cross-questioned him in the most awful manner on all subjects, in particular as to the state of his religion. But pressed again and again to pay a short visit to Peterborough, Clare at length consented, being told that Dr. Marsh would be 'kept in his proper place,' and not be allowed to interfere with him. It was on this understanding that Clare made his appearance at the episcopal palace, at the commencement of February, 1828. Mrs. Marsh rejoiced that her poet had come at last, and at once installed him in a funereal little chamber overlooking the gardens, which she had long selected as fittest for the habitation of genius. Before being led to this room, Clare was informed by the lady that he would find several reams of paper, with stores of pens and ink, for his poetic use, and would be at liberty to write anything he liked, epics, madrigals, pastorals, sonnets, and even tragedies. Strict orders were given to the servants not to disturb the poet on any account, but to take whatever food he might require—if requiring food at all—to an adjoining room. The whole of these excellent measures having been executed with great precision, Mrs. Marsh left the palace, to complete the further arrangements in connexion with the exhibition of her new lion.

John Clare, being left alone in his little chamber, felt very dull. He had no idea as to whether the way he was treated was a special honour, or part of the general routine of episcopal existence. However, he concluded that, special or general, his surroundings were of somewhat gloomy aspect. There were certainly plenty of writing materials; but what he wanted far more for the moment was a cup of tea, or coffee, with a slice or two of bread and butter. After vainly trying to make himself heard, he attempted to open the door of his chamber, and found that it was not locked. But there was no soul in the next room, nor in the farther passage, and the whole mansion appeared to be silent like the grave. Up another passage, and down a pair of stairs did not lead him from the regions of silence; a little maid-servant, visible far off, started away like a frightened hind on beholding the poet. Mrs. Marsh evidently was well obeyed in her own house. But Clare now began to feel rather uncomfortable, and resolved to get somewhere, if not to human beings, at least to bread and butter. So he marched down a final pair of stairs, and through a small door out into the garden. There was a porter at the outer garden gate; but he, too, bowed in silence, and in another minute Clare found himself in the streets of Peterborough. The doors of the 'Red Lion' stood hospitably open, and feeling nigh starved, he went in to get some refreshments. No tea and coffee, however, were to be had at the 'Red Lion;' only ale and porter, brandy and whiskey. Clare took some bread, with a glass of ale, and felt very faint immediately after. Not having tasted any alcoholic drink for a long time, the ale produced a sort of stupefaction, from which he did not recover till late in the day. In the meantime, Mrs. Marsh returned to the episcopal palace, and at once inquired for her poet. He was not to be found anywhere, and it was discovered at last that he had escaped into the city. Messengers were despatched forthwith, and while they scoured the streets, John Clare ran right against them, coming from the 'Red Lion,' and feeling still somewhat drowsy. He was secured immediately, and taken in triumph before Mrs. Marsh. The lady, against his expectation, received him most graciously, ascribing his bewildered state to high poetic musings. She was sorry only that he had not been able to make use of her paper and ink in the chamber of genius; but trusted he would write all the more the next day, which, as she hinted, would be a day of great importance.

Clare went to bed, with the 'day of great importance' tingling in his ears. He could not go to sleep for reflections on the subject, and even after shutting his eyes it hovered over him in ghastly dreams. There was an immense table in an immense hall, with ten thousand parsons on the one side, and ten thousand old maids on the other. At the head presided Mrs. Marsh, with the bishop in waiting behind; while he himself was sitting in an arm-chair, suspended by ropes from the ceiling. Then Mrs. Marsh called upon him to make a speech, and while he was rising, down came the arm-chair, ropes and all. It was a hard bump, and Clare felt aching all over. Before he could rise, a man-servant rushed into the room. 'Good heavens, Sir, you have fallen out of bed,' he cried; 'I hope you are not hurt.' 'No, not much,' said Clare; 'but I should be glad to have a cup of tea.' The tea was brought, and with it some useful information. They were to have a grand party in the afternoon, said the man; he, that is, his mistress, having invited all the notabilities of Peterborough, with the dean, the archdeacon, and the canons. Clare shuddered. 'At what time will the entertainment commence?' he inquired. 'At four,' was the reply. Nothing more was said; Clare sipped his tea, and, the servant gone, commenced making up his little bundle of clothes. Part of the contents he was able to stuff into his pockets; the rest formed a parcel not much larger than a couple of hooks. Once more he made his way down the broad flight of stairs, passed the silent porter at the gate, and a minute after stood in the High Street, opposite the Angel Inn. The coach for London, he was told, would start in half an hour. Clare took his seat inside, hiding his face, as best he could, under a handkerchief, and drawing a long breath when the horses were whipped into a gallop and sprang away southward. It was late at night when the Peterborough coach discharged its passengers at the 'Bell and Crown,' Holborn. Clare hurried up to Stratford Place, and was glad to find Mrs. Emmerson at home. The lady shook hands with the greatest cordiality, called him her dearest friend, and praised his verses in terms which made him blush. With all his bitter experiences, he was once more ready to fall in love—Platonic or otherwise.

One of Clare's first visits in London was to Allan Cunningham He was received as a brother by the warm-hearted Scotchman, and encouraged to unburthen his whole heart. Allan now heard for the first time that his friend was in great pecuniary distress, and that his poetry, so far from bringing him a competence, as he had been led to believe, met with but the most trifling remuneration. Filled with compassion, Allan offered his friend assistance; but this was proudly refused. He next advised Clare to go to Mr. Taylor, and request, politely but firmly, a statement of the whole of the transactions between them, including an account of the profits made by the sale of the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' the 'Village Minstrel,' and the 'Rural Poems.' Clare promised to do so, and the next day went to Mr. Taylor's residence, Percy Street, near Rathbone Place. The publisher received him in his ordinary friendly, though somewhat stiff and formal manner. Clare was on the point of delivering his preconcerted speech, when Mr. Taylor interrupted him with an unexpected communication. He told him frankly that he had not been able hitherto to give much attention to the sale of the 'Shepherd's Calendar,' and that this, probably, was the reason why but few copies had been disposed of. As a compensation, Mr. Taylor offered Clare to let him have as many volumes of his new work as he liked at cost price, that he might sell them in his own neighbourhood. The project of becoming a perambulating bookseller, hawker of his own poetical ware, came upon Clare in a startling manner. He did not know what to reply to the proposal made to him, and asked time for reflection. Mr. Taylor had no objection to this, and told his friend to come again in a few days. Thereupon Clare went away, not saying a word on the financial subject which he had come to discuss.

There was much fluctuating advice among Clare's friends as to the propriety of his turning poetical bagman. Mrs. Emmerson at first was greatly opposed to the scheme, but afterwards changed her opinion, on the ground that the exercise and change of air might prove beneficial to his health. Allan Cunningham, however, would not hear of Mr. Taylor's scheme for a moment. He said it was disgraceful that such a proposal should have been made, and exhorted his friend not to think for a moment of accepting it. 'God knows,' Allan exclaimed passionately, 'poetry has sunk low enough already; but do not you haul it lower still by dragging the muse along the muddy roads in a pedlar's bag.' Clare was much impressed by these words, and promised further reflection, which, however, tended only to lead him in an opposite direction to that proposed by his noble friend Allan. The thought of being able to acquire a little capital; of getting out of debt; of purchasing a small farm; and of giving his children a good education, carried everything before it, and he finally resolved to risk all else, even obloquy, to gain these ends. Talking the subject over once more with. Mrs. Emmerson, as happily ignorant as himself in the matter, the conclusion was arrived at that it would be easy to gain five hundred a year by the sale of his books. It seemed not necessary, therefore, that he should continue his new occupation longer than a few years, when he would be enabled to retire from business and spend the rest of his days in comfort and ease. Thus the poet kept on building his castles in the air, until they reached to the very clouds. When meeting Mr. Taylor at the appointed time, Clare told him that he accepted his kind offer, and would do his best to carry out the scheme with all possible energy. Thereupon the poet and his publisher parted-parted never to meet again, although to each life had scarce run half its course.

Clare remained in London till towards the end of March, lionising a little and making a few new acquaintances. Frequently, when walking along the streets, he found himself addressed by strangers, who recognised him at once from Hilton's exceedingly faithful picture, which hung in Mr. Taylor's parlour, and was reproduced in the portrait prefixed to the 'Village Minstrel.' Thus he ran one day in Russell Square against Alaric Watts, who, though never having met him before, addressed him without hesitation as a brother poet, and insisted upon remaining in his company for some time. In the same manner, too, he met Henry Behnes, the sculptor, who showed himself so delighted with his acquaintance that he would not let him go till he had promised to sit for his bust. Clare did sit, and Behnes produced an admirable work of art, which, like Hilton's picture, was paid for and kept by Mr. Taylor.[1] Mrs. Emmerson took advantage of the modelling of the bust by celebrating it as a notable event, and inviting to her house a distinguished party of artists and patrons of art, to whom she wished to present her poet, together with 'his painter,' and 'his sculptor.' As always on such occasions, Clare felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and had no sooner entered the brilliantly lighted-up saloon when he resolved to run away. He communicated his intention to the other two heroes of the evening, who at once expressed their wish to be the companions of his flight. William Hilton, like Clare, was averse to lionship, and glad enough to escape from any crowd, whether in satin or rags; and as for Henry Behnes, he had become so fond of his 'Northamptonshire Peasant,' that he declared himself ready to travel with him to the ends of the world. The friends did not go quite as far on this occasion, but only to a neighbouring tavern. Here the happy trio, poet, painter, and sculptor, sat down to a supper of bread and cheese, seasoned with pale ale, and the flow of unrestrained thought. They talked of all the noblest subjects that stir the human breast; of all the unutterable longings that fill the heart of genius. At last they talked of each other, their hopes, aims, and aspirations, building golden castles high up into the clouds. They saw fame before them with outstretched arms; wealth following in its course; and of love and happiness a bountiful reward. These were lofty dreams: too lofty, alas! for the flight of helpless genius—genius not understanding the first of all earthly arts, that of making money. William Hilton, though a famous painter and Royal Academician, was left to die in poverty, the greater part of his pictures remaining on his hands unsold. Henry Behnes, noblest of sculptors, went to perish in an hospital; and John Clare.... The reader may fill the blank.

[1] Both, the bust by Behnes, and Hilton's oil-painting of Clare, remained in Mr. Taylor's hands during his lifetime, and after his death (1864) were sold by public auction, at Messrs. Christie, Manson, and Woods, March 17, 1865, when they came into the possession of the author of this work.

Mrs. Emmerson was very angry with her guest when he came back to her house a little after midnight, having been kept so long in the delightful interchange of thoughts with his two artist friends. Clare took very little notice of the remarks of his fair host about want of courtesy and the disappointment of distinguished visitors, his mind being full of reflections engendered by the evening's conversation. He inwardly resolved to enjoy, if possible, many more such evenings; but changed his determination the next day. It was a beautiful day of spring, the warm sunlit air wafting in soft breezes from over the green fields with its first blossoms, into the crowded streets of the town. Clare took a long walk through Regent's Park and past Primrose Hill towards Hampstead, on the slopes of which he discovered some early violets. The sight fairly made him home-sick. He ran back to Stratford Place, and quite startled Mrs. Emmerson by crying, 'I must go!' And go he did, twenty hours after; in such a haste as not even to find time to bid farewell to Allan Cunningham, warmest of friends. But he left a letter for Allan, 'a shake of the hand on paper,' which, coming down to the present time, may be found still interesting. The letter ran:—

'Stratford Place, March 21, 1828.

My Dear Cunningham—I wholly intended to see you, but now I fear I cannot, as my stay is grown so short; so, if I cannot, here is a "good bye," and God bless you, and as you are aware of my ignorance in travelling about your great Babel, being insufficient to do so in most cases without a guide, which is not always to be procured, you must allow me to make up for the omission by a shake of the hand on paper, as hearty as your imagination can feel it. If you had not been a poet I would not have made such a bull, but it is an English one; it has not a cold meaning. Therefore accept it in lieu of a better. Pray give my kind remembrances to Mrs. Cunningham, and if I could utter compliments as well as I feel gratification in the society of kind and warm-hearted people, I should grow eloquent in her praise. But you well know I am not Ovid, and I as well know I am no orator, so if I am unable to pay ladies deserving compliments, if she will accept the plain respects of a plain fellow, and allow them as nothing more, it will please me much better. Once again, "good bye."

Now I am going to say last what would have been a compliment to have said first, perhaps, and that is that Mrs. Emmerson feels much gratified at your commendation of her poem ["The Return," in Allan Cunningham's Annual, "The Anniversary"], and much more so, as that commendation came from a poet. Now comes the cut to my vanity, a sad confession, but perhaps better "in the breach than the performance." (Allow me to misquote to suit my purpose.) You ask me for a prose tale, and you imagine I have written one. Good faith, my dear Allan, I have not, neither dare I, for I know not what to say; excuses I might have for writing it badly, but whether I could find excuses for writing it at all I cannot say. I should be somewhat in the case of the lady, who excused her faulty book before the rude Dr. Johnson by saying that she had so many irons in the fire that she had not time to write it better. You may know his reply from my inability in the like. "Then I advise you, madam," said he, "to put your book where your irons are." Such I fear would be the deserving meed of a prose composition of mine, though your proposition goes a good way to urge me, if I dare.—Farewell, my dear Allan, and believe me your sincere friend and highly gratified brother in the muses,

John Clare.'

The day after writing this letter, Clare was on his way back to Helpston. He rejoiced inwardly when passing the bill of Highgate, looking back over the vast world of bricks and smoke behind, and beholding the sunny fields, fragrant with the first blossoms of spring, in front. More than ever he felt that he could not exist within the big metropolis, even its large intellectual life offering no compensation for the bounteous joys of nature. He almost shuddered when glancing at the huge black vault for the last time, at the turn of the Highgate Road. But he did not know it was the last time that his eyes rested upon London.



THE POET AS PEDLAR.

Returned to Helpston, Clare made immediate preparations for carrying out Mr. Taylor's project to become a hawker. He sorted the little parcel of books which he had brought from London, and having divided the volumes into sets, each containing the 'Rural Poems,' 'Village Minstrel,' and 'Shepherd's Calendar,' he set out in regular pedlar fashion. By dint of complex reasoning he had persuaded himself, to his own entire satisfaction, that the profession of selling would be fully as honourable as that of writing books; nay, that there was greater merit in being the distributor than the author, and consequently, that the highest vocation was that of being both together. He therefore resolved to devote himself with the greatest energy to his new business, and to leave no stone unturned to succeed in it. As to his attempt at farming, carried on during the past year, in a very unprofitable manner, he had already come to the conclusion to abandon it, by letting the land fall back to the original tenant. Though in reality more attached to field labour than any other kind of work, his love of it was for the moment all obscured by the vision of the brilliant prospects open in the new career as bookseller. His sufferings from poverty had been so fearful, that the one all-absorbing aim to him now was that of amassing a small capital and getting out of debt.

It was on one of the first days in April when Clare commenced his trade as pedlar. With a dozen volumes of his poems in a canvas bag, slung by a strap over his shoulders, he bravely issued forth from his little hut, taking the road to Market Deeping. The people of the village, well acquainted with all his doings, peeped at him from out of doors and windows, shaking their heads in wonder at the strange sight. To his Helpston countrymen, Clare's new calling did not seem at all degrading, but, on the contrary, too ambitious. They looked upon a bagman as a person of superior social rank—decidedly higher than a poet. Their conclusions were fully justified from their own point of view, in a material sense. The hawkers who passed through Helpston were mostly men of substance, putting-up at the 'Blue Bell,' and ordering the best of everything from kitchen and cellar; while the poet among them was a starving wretch, over head and ears in debt, and with one foot in the workhouse. When Clare set out as a pedlar, therefore, they all declared that his ambition was carrying him too high. 'Pride comes before the fall,' said the old ones, tottering to, the door, and stretching their necks to get a sight of neighbour John. He took no heed of all the signs of curiosity, but walked briskly up the road towards the north. The sun shone bright when he started; but before long it began to rain heavily, so that he was wet all through when arrived at Market Deeping. According to his carefully-arranged plan, he first called upon the rector. The reverend gentleman was at home, and condescended to see the poet. But his brow darkened when learning the errand of his visitor. He told Clare sharply that he did not intend buying his poems, and that, moreover, he held it unbecoming to see them hawked about in this manner. Having said this, he bowed his visitor out of the room, perceiving that his clothes were dripping wet, and likely to spoil his carpet. The poor pedlar-poet left the house with, an ill-suppressed tear in his eye.

It still rained heavily, and Clare took refuge in a covered yard attached to an inn. There were some horse-dealers lolling about, talking of the state of the weather and the forthcoming races. One of them, a jolly-looking man with red hair and a red nose, after scanning Clare for a while, engaged him in conversation. 'You have got something to sell there: what is it?' The answer was, 'Books.'—'Whose books?'—'My own.'—'Yes, I know they are your own; or at least I suppose so. But what kind of books, and by what author?'—'Poems, written by myself.' The horse-dealer stared. He looked fixedly at Clare, who was sitting on a stone, utterly dejected, and scarcely noticing his interlocutor. The latter seemed to feel stirred by sympathy, and in a more respectful tone than before exclaimed, 'May I ask your name?'—'My name is John Clare,' was the reply, pronounced in a faint voice. But the words were no sooner uttered, when the jolly man with the red nose seized Clare by both hands. 'Well, I am really glad to meet you,' he cried; 'I often heard of you, and many a time thought of calling at Helpston, but couldn't manage it.' Then, shouting at the top of his voice to some friends at the farther end of the yard, he ejaculated, 'Here's John Clare: I've got John Clare.' The appeal brought a score of horse-jobbers up in a moment. They took hold of the poet without ceremony, dragged him off his stone, and round the yard into the back entrance of the inn. 'Brandy hot, or cold?' inquired the eldest of Clare's friends. There was a refusal under both heads, coupled with the remark that a cup of tea would be acceptable. An order for it was given at once, and after a good breakfast, and a long conversation with his new acquaintances, Clare left the inn, delighted with the reception he had met with. He had sold all his books, and received for them more than the full price, several of his customers refusing to take change. It altogether seemed a good beginning of a good trade.

Nevertheless Clare was uneasy in his mind. Not all the kindness of his friends at the inn could compensate him for the harsh words he had heard at the rectory. Clare asked himself whether, supposing Market Deeping to be a fair sample of the towns which he was going to visit, he would be able to bear such treatment. And then the words of Allan Cunningham recurred to his mind, and his noble scorn of the career in which he was embarking. However, it seemed too late now to repent, having gone beyond the starting point. The next day, therefore, Clare once more slung his pack across his shoulders, and sallied forth towards Stamford. He did not expect to sell any of his books within the town, the market having been abundantly supplied by Mr. Drury; but he had hopes to meet with some success among the residents in the neighbourhood, to many of whom he was personally known. But his hopes were doomed to entire disappointment. He went to numerous farmhouses, mansions, and parsonages, and everywhere encountered refusal to purchase his ware. Some persons upon whom he called treated him politely; others with marked rudeness; and the great majority with indifference. Nearly all knew him by name, and had heard of his poems; and nearly all, too, like the rector of Market Deeping, expressed their surprise that an author should retail his own productions. One irascible old gentleman, living close to the village of Easton, told Clare, after some conversation, that he ought to be ashamed to go through the country with a bundle on his back The poet mildly suggested that to go with a bundle might be better than to go to the workhouse—the possible other alternative. There was huge astonishment depicted in the countenance of the old gentleman, and he furtively left the room, evidently frightened at having talked with a man likely to go to the workhouse.

It was late at night when Clare arrived home. He felt footsore, and fainting almost from hunger and thirst, not one of all the persons whom he had seen during sixteen hours having offered him as much as a crust of bread or a glass of water. The next day and the day after he was too ill to leave home, and remained on his couch, pondering on the subject uppermost in his mind. A fresh resolve to make still greater efforts to succeed was the result, come to after anxious consideration. As soon as recovered, he started again, this time to Peterborough. Though somewhat afraid of the inmates of the episcopal palace, he was in hopes of discovering a few friends in the city, having met with several people who knew his name and admired his writings during his previous short stay at the 'Red Lion.' Clare, therefore, once more visited this hospitable tavern, as well as the 'Angel,' but with no result whatever, as far as the sale of his books was concerned. The people were quite willing to talk with him for whole hours, and were willing even to pay for such slight refreshments as he might require; but they would not buy his books. They did not want poetry, they said; or they did not care for poetry; or they were, not in the habit of reading poetry. Clare felt very depressed and sad at heart when starting on his homeward journey, after a day's ineffectual labour. He had left the 'Angel' inn, and was passing near the western front of the cathedral, when all on a sudden he found himself face to face with Mrs. Marsh. The active lady was bustling along in great haste, but recognised her poet at once. Escape being utterly impossible, he awaited his fate with resignation. But contrary to his anticipation, the bishop's wife was not in the least angry or resentful; she smiled upon him as benignly as if he had never escaped from her custody at a most trying moment. Clare did not know it at the time, but discovered afterwards, that Mrs. Marsh was pleased to allow him the privilege of unlimited eccentricity. That a poet should be playing fantastic tricks seemed to her the most natural thing in the world; perhaps she would not have held a man to be a true poet unless invested with this peculiar gift. Therefore, when Clare ran away in fear of her grand party, she did not wonder much; only she blamed her servants for permitting him to run away. That he had taken the coach to London she knew an hour after he had started; but it was too late to follow him, and too difficult to look for a single eccentric poet in the streets of the metropolis. Great now was the joy of Mrs. Marsh that accident threw him again into her way.

Being questioned as to his present movements, Clare was simple enough, from a feeling of both diffidence and pride, to hide his actual occupation. It was the greatest fault he committed in his whole career of perambulating bookseller, and fatal, in a sense, to his future prospects. With a better acquaintance of the world and the human heart, he might have known that Mrs. Marsh would have assisted him in sailing ten times as many books as he could ever hope to do in his whole life; that she would have spread his 'Shepherd's Calendar,' like the Catechism, through the whole diocese of Peterborough, and would have made every clerk in holy orders, down to the lowest curate, buy the 'Village Minstrel.' But Clare had no idea how active a friend he possessed in Mrs. Marsh, and thereby lost the finest opportunity he ever had of succeeding in his career as a bagman. He left the bishop's wife somewhat abruptly, on her renewed invitation to pay a visit to the palace, and stay a week or two in the chamber of genius. Hurrying home, very low in spirits, Clare found the inmates of his little hut all in trouble and consternation. A doctor was urgently needed to attend to Patty, she having been suddenly seized with the pains of labour. Though fearfully tired with his day's march, he trotted back to Peterborough to fetch the medical man. His assistance proved to be superfluous, for when Clare returned he found that another member had meanwhile been added to his household: a little son, who was christened William Parker on the 4th of May, 1828. The poet's family was increasing rapidly—too rapidly, alas, for his slender means. Little William Parker was the third son and fifth child, and there were now nine living beings within the narrow hut depending upon Clare for bread. His head throbbed in terrible anxiety when thinking that he might not always be able to give them bread.

There was not much progress made in the bookselling business during the next six months. Clare tried all possible means to secure a sale of his works, walking not unfrequently twenty and even thirty miles a day in all directions, through Northamptonshire, Lincolnshire, and Rutland; but meeting with scarcely any success whatever. Sometimes, when most fortunate, he sold two or three volumes a week, but oftener did not find a single purchaser. Kindness, too, he met but little, most of the people treating him as a pauper or a vagrant. Many advised him to try the sale of trinkets and drapery, or of pills and 'patent medicines,' instead of poetry; while others went so far as to recommend him to become an itinerant musician. Having traversed the country in all directions, suffering from want and fatigue, and, more still, from insults, and not gaining enough, to purchase the coarsest food, he at last began to see the utter uselessness of persevering further in his new occupation. However, as a last attempt to succeed, he inserted a few advertisements in the 'Stamford News,' informing the public that he was selling his own poems at his cottage at Helpston. This step was taken by Mr. Taylor's advice, Clare having informed his publisher of the failure of all his former operations. The announcement in the 'Stamford News' did not remain altogether without result, though its immediate effect was rather unprofitable, the poet being visited by a number of strangers, chiefly elderly ladies from the neighbouring towns, who were kind enough to take his books upon credit, and never ceased being creditors.

However, in spite of these constant disappointments, Clare did not give up all hope of ultimately prospering as a hawker of books. 'Though I have not as yet opened any prospect of success respecting my becoming a bookseller,' he wrote to Mr. Taylor, under date August 3d, 1828, 'yet I still think there is some hopes of selling an odd set now and then, and as you are so kind as to let me have them at a reduced rate, when I do sell them I shall make something, if only a trifle. I thought of more in my days of better dreams, but now even trifles are acceptable. For I do assure you I have been in great difficulties, and though I remained silent under them, I felt them oppress my spirits to such a degree that I almost sunk under them. Those two fellows of Peterborough in the character of doctors have annoyed and dunned me most horribly, and though their claims are unjust, I cannot get over them by any other method than paying.' The 'two fellows from Peterborough in the character of doctors' were quacks into whose hands Clare, or rather his old father, had unfortunately fallen. They promised to cure the poor invalid of his lameness and all other ailings, and after nearly killing him with noxious drugs, made an exorbitant demand for 'professional assistance.' The demand was reduced ultimately, when they became aware of the utter poverty of Clare, to less than a tenth, which they extracted in small instalments, often taking the last penny from his pocket. For the present, Clare had hopes to pay 'those two fellows' out of the income from 'annuals' to which he was contributing. 'I am going to write for the Spirit of the Age,' he informed Mr. Taylor, 'for which I am to have a pound a page, and more when it becomes established. But promises, though they produce a good seedtime, generally turn out a bad harvest. Yet be it as it will, I am prepared for the worst. I have long felt a dislike to these things, but necessity leaves no choice.' Considering what Clare got for his other writings, the 'pound a page' from the 'Spirit of the Age' was no bad pay. But the poet's unqualified disgust of 'these things,' the annuals, was so great as often to counterbalance even his desire to gain a living by his pen. He not unfrequently refused to write for the 'Souvenir' and 'Keepsake' family, and the only annual to which he contributed with real pleasure was that under the editorship of Allan Cunningham.

The advertisement in the 'Stamford News' brought some curious letters to Helpston at the beginning of the autumn. A few of the papers having been wafted into the eastern parts of Lincolnshire, there came invitations from several places for John Clare to show himself to the natives. Feeling naturally dull in the Fens, they thought the sight of a live poet, being a pedlar in the bargain, might be productive of a mild kind of excitement, highly moral, and very cheap. The mayor of Boston was the first to be struck with this idea, which he communicated to the more distinguished of his townsmen, and finally embodied in a most polite note of invitation. Clare felt exceedingly flattered by the compliments of the mayor of Boston, and in reply stated that he would be happy to pay a visit to the ancient borough. The answer had no sooner been sent when there came summonses from other places within the counties of Lincolnshire and Norfolk. At Grantham, too, they wanted to see John Clare, as well as at Tattershall, at Spalding, and at Lynn Regis. There seemed to be a slow poetic fever raging among the people of the Fens. Clare sent polite replies to all the courteous invitations, and having procured a small parcel of books from Mr. Taylor, started for Boston at the end of September. He walked all the way, and arriving in the evening of a beautiful day, ascended the steeple of the old church, just when the sun was sending his last rays over the surging billows of the North Sea. The view threw Clare into rapturous delight. He had never before seen the ocean, and felt completely overwhelmed at the majestic view which met his eyes. So deep was the impression left on his mind that it kept him awake all night; and when he fell asleep, towards the morning, the white-crested waves of the sea, stretching away into infinite space, hovered in new images over his dreams.

The few days which he remained at Boston turned out a continual round of excitement. The worthy mayor called upon him at the 'White Hart,' the morning after his arrival, and insisted that he should be present at a grand dinner-party the same day. Finding all resistance useless, Clare submitted to his fate. The consequences he related to Mr. Taylor, in a letter written some time after. 'The mayor of the town,' Clare informed his publisher, 'was a very jolly companion, and made me so welcome, while a lady at the table talked so sweetly of the poets, that I drank off my glass very often, almost without knowing it, and he as quickly filled it—but with no other intention than that of hospitality—that I felt rather queer. It was strong wine, and I was not used to it.' After years of almost total abstinence from intoxicating drink, the effect was disastrous. For a whole day, the poet was confined to his little room at the inn, feeling very ill, and wishing himself back at Helpston. But the men of Boston had not yet done with him, and seemed determined to have as much lionizing as the occasion allowed. The mayor was preparing another dinner; and the lady who 'talked so sweetly of the poets' made strong attempts to get up a poetical conversazione, with sandwiches and lemonade; while some lively youths went so far as to order a supper at Clare's inn, thinking to make sure of their lion in this way. But he was not to be so easily caught, and, with some pride, let Mr. Taylor know how he escaped the ordeal. 'Several young men,' he informed his patron, 'had made it up among themselves to give me a supper, when I was to have made a speech. But as soon as I heard of it, I declined it, telling them if they expected a speech from me they need prepare no supper, for that would serve me for everything. And so I got off.' To which the pedlar-poet appended some moralizings, exclaiming, 'Really this speechifying is a sore humbug, and the sooner it is out of fashion the better.' It was strange how little John Clare understood the world in which he lived.

The visit to Boston was to have been followed by a trip to other places in the eastern counties, but Clare felt unequal to the task. A three days' sojourn at the 'White Hart' gave him an insight into the nature of the work required from a travelling provincial lion, and he became conscious that he was not fitted for the calling. So he hurried home in great haste, after having sold his little stock of books. The 'jolly mayor' was kind enough to purchase two sets of the poetical works, on the condition of getting the author's autograph, together with his own name at full length, in every volume. But the lady who talked so sweetly of the poets, refused to buy anything, pleading that her bookcase was quite full already. The truly liberal among the people of Boston were the young men whose supper Clare refused. They made a collection among themselves, and, unknown to the poet, put ten pounds into his little wallet. He did not find the gift of his unknown friends till he returned to Helpston, and the discovery affected him to tears. For the first time in his life he regretted not having made a speech, even at the risk of breaking down in the middle of it.



CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

The journey to Boston was followed by a three months' illness. A low fever, of the typhoid kind, was part of the result of his trip into the fen country, and of the sudden change of his diet, to which he had been driven in the intercourse with the hospitable mayor and his friends. The disease spread through his whole family, attacking each member in turn, and for a moment threatening to be fatal to the youngest child. However, all recovered in the end, though very gradually, it being not till towards the spring of 1829 that the doctor's visits to the little hut came to an end. The consequences of the illness did not end so soon. Having been unable to do any work for months, and incurred, moreover, great expenses for medical assistance and other items connected therewith, Clare found himself now deeper than ever in debt, and with scarcely any prospects of raising himself from his abject state of poverty. Nevertheless, he struggled on bravely, once more trusting to his pen and poetical inspiration. That book-hawking would not open the road to success, but, if anything, lead him into an opposite direction, had become clear to him by this time, and he resolved, therefore, to put himself once more into communication with the editors of the annuals, so as to earn a few shillings in writing poetry by the yard. In order to extend the circle of his editorial acquaintances, he wrote letters to several of his friends in London, notably to Mr. John Taylor and Allan Cunningham. In the note to his publisher, the old grievance of Clare came at length to be touched upon by him in an almost piteous manner. The poor poet's inexperience of the world was strikingly shown in the tone as well as contents of this letter, bearing date April 3d, 1829, and traced apparently in a trembling hand.

After referring to his continued efforts to dispose of his books by means of advertisements in the 'Stamford News,' with the appended doleful remark: 'If I succeed in selling them, all well and good; if not, it will not be the first disappointment I have met with,' Clare continues:—'And now, my dear Taylor, I will, as a man of business, say what I have long neglected to tell you. I never liked to refer to it; but it is a thing to be done, and, be it as it may, it will never interfere in our friendship. So I should like to know at your leisure how I stand with you in my accounts, and my mind will be set at rest on that score at once. For if there is anything owing to me it will be acceptable at any time, and if there is nothing, I shall be content. The number printed of the first three volumes I have known a long while by Drury's account; but whether I have overrun the constable or not since then, I cannot tell, and that is what I should like to know at the first opportunity. I hope you will not feel offended at my mentioning the matter, as I do it with no other wish than to make us greater and better friends, if possible.' Notwithstanding this extreme humility of tone, Mr. John Taylor felt offended at the letter of his 'Northamptonshire Peasant,'—and 'man of business' to boot. He told the 'man of business' that he was asking indiscreet questions, and recommended him once more to try success as a bagman, and to write for the annuals in his spare hours. To assist him in the latter object, Mr. Taylor was kind enough to recommend his poet to a Monsieur Ventouillac, '14, Gumming Street, Pentonville;' an enterprising professor of French, who was about entering upon the Souvenir and Keepsake speculation. John Clare, all eagerness, wrote at once to Monsieur Ventouillac, and was informed in return that the new annual, to be called 'The Iris,' would be published in the autumn, and that his 'offerings' would be welcome. Thereupon he sat down to write at once a poem of twenty-five verses, entitled, 'The Triumph of Time,' and sent it off in great haste to 14, Gumming Street, Pentonville, with a request to forward 'the amount for the trifle inserted' at the earliest convenience. The 'Iris' made its appearance at the appointed time, as advertised, 'bound in silk,' with numerous 'embellishments' got up regardless of expense. But John Clare's 'Triumph of Time' was not in the 'Iris,' the able editor having placed it among his waste papers, with a pencil note, 'to be shortened one-half next year. 'The old MS. brown with age, has survived the wreck of a thousand other manuscripts, and remains in the world, melancholy to look at as a memorial of the fate of poetry and poets.