Frederick Martin

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ There now remained nothing for John Clare but to fall back upon his old way of living, and to seek a precarious existence as farm-labourer. This was what he resigned himself to accordingly, only changing his occupation now and then, as circumstances permitted, by doing odd jobs as a shepherd or gardener. It was a very humble mode of life, and its remuneration scarce sufficient to purchase the coarsest food and the scantiest clothing; but it was, after all, the kind of existence which seemed most suited to the habits and inclinations of the strange youth, now growing into manhood. ”

“ Drury and his friend rose when John Clare appeared on the threshold of his humble dwelling. A man of short stature, with keen, eager eyes, high forehead, long hair, falling down in wild and almost grotesque fashion over his shoulders, and garments tattered and torn, altogether little removed from rags—the figure thus presented to view was strikingly unlike the picture of the rural poet which the Stamford bookseller had formed in his own mind. ”

“ This, however, was not the way in which the deeply-distressed poet viewed the proceedings. He gave way to his feelings in a very angry letter, after despatching which he sank into deep despondency. It seemed to him as if he had now made shipwreck of his life and all his hopes.
Recovering from this sudden access of grief, he made a fresh resolve. At twenty-five, men seldom die of despondency—not even poets. John Clare, too, decided not to give up the battle of life at once, but prolong it a short while by becoming a soldier. ”

“ John Clare accepted the first invitation with some shyness; but before long felt himself fully at home at his friend's house, examining the books, maps, and pictures spread out before him with a blissful enjoyment never before known. The Sunday visits to Stamford, after a while, became to him such an intense delight that he could scarcely await the happy day, and even neglected his love affairs in its expectation. There were no visits to Walkherd Lodge on Saturday evenings, when John went early to bed, in order to rise earlier the next morning. ”

“ Gary instead of the fair daughter of the house, and, for a moment, was almost unable to speak. Recovering himself, he stammered forth his simple tale, hiding nothing, nor trying to excuse his conduct. It was impossible to listen and not believe his words. The Rev. Mr. Gary perceived at once the ridiculous error into which he had fallen, and shaking Clare's hand in a most affectionate manner, bade him think no more of the whole affair, and for the future distribute as many specimens of his poetry as he liked to his wife and daughters. ”

“ So it came that one morning Ann told her father that she had promised to marry Parker Clare. Old John Stimson thought it a bad match: 'when poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window,' he said, fortified by the wisdom of two score ten. But when was ever such wisdom listened to at eighteen!
The girl resolved to marry her lover with or without leave; and as for Parker Clare, he needed no permission, his mother, dependent for years upon the cold charity of the workhouse, having long ceased to control his doings. ”

“ 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 ”

“ It was not Platonic love, by any means, like that for sweet Mary Joyce; and less so on the part of the lass than on that of her lover. John, as always, so at his meetings with Elizabeth Newton, was shy, reserved, and bashful, while she was frank and forward, professing to be deeply in love with him. This had the desired effect upon John Clare, whose easily-touched heart could not withstand the charms and wiles of female enchantment. Having got her lover thus far, Elizabeth began to talk of marriage, at the mentioning of which word John felt somewhat startled. ”

“ The chief of these spots was the hollow of an old oak, on the borders of Helpston Heath, called Lea Close Oak—now ruthlessly cut down by 'enclosure' progress—where he had formed himself a seat with something like a table in front. Few human beings ever came near this place, except now and then some wandering gypsies, the sight of whom was not unpleasing to the poet. Inside this old oak Clare used to sit in silent meditation, for many hours together, forgetting everything about him, and unmindful even of the waning day and the mantle of darkness falling over the earth. ”

“ Veterans, with red noses and flying ribbons on their hats, kept tramping from one end of the country to the other, making every pothouse resound with tales of martial glory, and fearful accounts of 'Bony.' Even into remote Helpston the recruiting sergeant penetrated, taking up his quarters at the 'Blue Bell,' and with much political wisdom honouring the convivial meetings at Bachelors' Hall with occasional visits. John Clare's heart was stirred within him when, for the first time, he heard of golden deeds of valour in the field, and how men became great and famous by killing other men. ”

“ Having discovered that the noble lord was in the habit of occasionally visiting some outlying farms, the shrewd clerk waylaid his lordship, and, together with his young friend, burst upon him like an apparition. Breaking out into glowing praise of John Clare, which made the latter blush like a maiden, the parish-clerk finished by pulling from his pocket a bit of antique pottery, unearthed somewhere in the grounds between Helpston Heath and Castor. ”

“ Clare, passionately fond of every shape of beauty upon earth, did not get tired of looking at the throng of fair forms which passed before his eyes in the busy city thoroughfare. He had never seen so many handsome women under what he conceived so very favourable circumstances. Deeply imbued with the consciousness of possessing none of the attractions which render men agreeable in the eyes of women of superior rank, he always felt a morbid shyness to converse with ladies into whose company he was thrown, and in many instances was not able even to look them in the face. ”

“ The 'Northamptonshire Peasant' was duly petted, flattered, lionized, and caressed—and, of course, as duly forgotten when his nine days were passed. It was the old tale, all over. In this case, flattery did not spoil the 'peasant;' but poverty, neglect, and suffering broke his heart. After writing some exquisite poetry, and struggling for years with fierce want, he sank at last under the burthen of his sorrows, and in the spring of 1864 died at the Northampton Lunatic Asylum. It is a very old tale, no doubt, but which may bear being told once more, brimful as it is of human interest. ”

“ There now lies, under the shade of a sycamore-tree, with nothing above but the green grass and the eternal vault of heaven, all that earth has to keep of John Clare, one of the sweetest singers of nature ever born within the fair realm of dear old England—of dear old England, so proud of its galaxy of noble poets, and so wasteful of their lives. ”

“ Taylor:—'The discretion which makes Clare hesitate to receive as canonical all the accounts he has heard of the former honours of Langley Bush, is in singular contrast with the enthusiasm of his poetical faith. As a man, he cannot bear to be imposed upon,—his good sense revolts at the least attempt to abuse it;—but as a poet, he surrenders his imagination with most happy ease to the allusions which crowd upon it from stories of fairies and ghosts. ”

“ Clare's swan-song, we fervently hope, will live as long as the English language.
For the last ten or twelve years of his existence the poet suffered much from physical infirmities. Previously he was allowed to go almost daily into the town of Northampton, where he used to sit raider the portico of All Saints' Church, watching the gambols of the children around him, and the fleeting clouds high up in the sky. When these excursions came to be forbidden, he retired to his window-recess in the asylum, reading little and speaking little; dreaming unutterable dreams of another world. ”

“ Never seemed the green fields more glorious, the song of the birds more enchanting, and the whole wide world more full of ecstatic bliss. In vain the good Peterborough doctor entreated him not to risk his yet imperfect health in long excursions, but to keep as quiet as possible, and only venture upon short walks during the middle of the day. Clare promised to attend to the injunction, and honestly meant to obey it, yet was lured into forgetfulness whenever the birds sat piping in the trees, and the sun's rays came streaming into his narrow hut. ”

“ 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 chèr ami, voilà quelque chose pour vous!' exclaimed Monsieur, evidently delighted to see Clare. ”

“ With the failure of all his schemes, the great truth began, to dawn upon Clare that he was destined, notwithstanding all his friends and patrons, to remain a farmer's drudge and poetical pauper; destined to plough and thresh for others, and, in his spare hours, to make pretty songs for ladies and gentlemen—something better than a clown, and something less than a lackey in uniform. ”

“ John Clare thought the dark-eyed gypsies far more intelligent than his own working companions in the fields, and he was attracted to them, besides, by their fondness for and knowledge of plants and herbs, as well as their love of music. Expressing a wish to learn to play the fiddle, the most expert musicians of King Boswell's crew at once began to teach him the art, in their own wild way, without notes or other scientific aid, but with the net result that he was able to perform to his own satisfaction in the course of a few months. ”

“ The inmates of the asylum treated Clare with the greatest respect—far greater than that previously allotted to him by the world without. To his fellow-sufferers he always was John Clare the poet; never Clare the farm-labourer or the lime-burner. An artist among the patients was indefatigable in painting his portrait, in all possible attitudes; others never wearied of waiting upon him, or rendering him some slight service. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Charles Lamb, Hazlitt, Barry Cornwall, Tom Moore, Allan Cunningham, Leigh Hunt, and others, were busy writing and publishing, and John Keats sent his swan-song from the tombs of the Eternal City. In the midst of this galaxy of genius and fame, John Clare stood, in a sense, neglected and forlorn. The very reputation of his first book was against him, for most of his friends were unreasoning and uncritical enough to assert that the 'Poems on Rural Life and Scenery,' were less remarkable as poetic works, than as productions of a very poor and illiterate man. ”

“ 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 ”

“ With patrons in abundance, there was not one willing to advance the small sum of two hundred pounds, which, he said, would make him happy for life; with friends who praised his genius to the skies, there were none who thought it safe to entrust him with the means for purchasing independence otherwise than 'under trustees.' The patrons and friends admired the poet's genius, but they never forgot that he was a 'Northamptonshire peasant,' the son of a pauper. As such, even kind Mr. John Taylor thought proper to preach humility, and refer the 'Village Minstrel' to the Bible. ”

“ PREFACE. Some forty years ago, the literary world rapturously hailed the appearance of a new poet, brought forward as 'the Northamptonshire Peasant' and 'the English Burns.' There was no limit to the applause bestowed upon him. Rossini set his verses to music; Madame Vestris recited them before crowded audiences; William Gifford sang his praises in the 'Quarterly Review;' and all the critical journals, reviews, and magazines of the day were unanimous in their admiration of poetical genius coming before them in the humble garb of a farm labourer. ”

“ Those were stirring seven days in the little hut of Parker Clare. The poor mother, anxious to assist to the best of her power in her son's rise in life, ransacked her scanty wardrobe to the utmost, to put John in what she deemed a proper dress. She mended all his clothes as neatly as possible; she made him a pair of breeches out of an old dress, and a waistcoat from a shawl; and then ran up and down the village to get a few more necessary things, including an old white necktie, and a pair of black woollen gloves. ”

“ A yearning after absolute freedom, mental as well as physical, was one of his strongest instincts through life, and not possessing this, he appeared to value little else. It was a desire, or a passion, which nearly approached the morbid, and gave rise to much that was painful in the subsequent part of his existence.
Once more a farm-labourer at Helpston, John Clare was all his own again. Thomson's 'Seasons' never left his pocket; he read the book when going to the fields in the morning, and read it again when eating his humble meal at noonday under a hedge. ”

“ Henson, of Market Deeping, insisted that the poet should write his own prospectus, or 'Invitation to Subscribers,' and Clare trembled at the bare idea of undertaking such a formidable work. Easy as it was to him to compose scores of verses every day, in the intervals of the hardest manual labour, he had never attempted, in his whole life, to write a single line in prose, and therefore could not bring himself, by any exertion, to go through the new task. ”

“ Dignified cottage-farmers, renting their half-a-dozen acres of land, with a cow on the common, and a pig or two, they thought their pretty daughter might look higher in the world than to a mere lime-burner with nine shillings a week. Besides, there was another lover in the wind, of decidedly better prospects, who had already gained the ear of the parents, and was backed by all their influence. It was a young shoemaker from Stamford, with a shop of his own; a townsman dressed in spotless broadcloth on all his visits to Walkherd Lodge, and of manners considered aristocratic. ”

“ Being pressed for an explanation, Clare frankly stated that he was not pleased with the whole affair, both as being personally unwilling to receive alms, and, still more, unwilling to receive them in the aggravated form of helplessness, from 'under trustees.' Clare's remark quite startled Mr. Gilchrist. He had hitherto looked upon the poet as a man who, gifted with considerable talent, was yet little removed from the ordinary hind of the fields; willing not only, but anxious to live upon charity, and kneeling, in all humility of heart, before rank and wealth. ”

“ 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 ”

“ Inspiration seldom came to him in-doors, within the walls of any dwelling; but descended upon his soul in abundant showers whenever he was roaming through the fields and meadows, the woods and heathery plains around Helpston. It mattered not to him whether the earth was basking in sunshine, or deluged with rain; whether the air was warm and mild, or ice and snow lying on the ground. At the accustomed hour every morning, he would wander forth, now in one direction, now in another; only caring to get away from the haunts of men, into the cherished solitude of nature. ”