The Life of John Clare

by Frederick Martin

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.