The Life of John Clare. Frederick Martin
sheer anxiety. The questions whether the bookseller would have any copies left of the wonderful poem; whether it could really be bought for eighteen-pence; and whether the big farmer's boy did not mean the whole story as a hoax, occupied his mind all night long. It seemed so improbable to him, on reflection, that a book containing the most exquisite verses could be bought for little more than the common fairy tales of the hawkers, and it seemed still more improbable that, being sold so cheap, there would be any books left for sale, that he at last inwardly despaired of getting the book. Thereupon he had a good long cry in the silence of the night, when all the village was asleep; and the crying closed his eyelids, too, for sheer weariness. And when he roused himself again there was a faint glow in the sky; so he rushed down to the stables, took out his horses, and led them to the pasture, awaiting the arrival of his confederate. The latter came at length, and, having given over his horses, John set off in a sharp trot, skipping over the seven or eight miles to Stamford in little more than an hour. The bookseller's shop, alas, was still closed; but the people in the streets told the eager inquirer that the shutters would be taken down in about an hour and a half. John, therefore, sat down in quiet resignation on the door-step, counting the quarters of the chiming clock. At last there was a noise inside the house, a rattling of keys and drawing of bolts. The bookseller slowly opened his door, and was immensely astonished to see a little country lad, thin and haggard, with wild gleaming eyes, rush at him with a demand for Thomson's 'Seasons.' Was there ever such a customer seen at Stamford? The good bookseller was not accustomed to excitement, for the old ladies who dealt at his shop bought their hymn-books and manuals of devotion without any manifestations of impatience, and even the young ones, though they asked for Aphra Behn's novels in a whisper, came in very quietly and demurely. Who, then, was this queer, haggard-looking country boy, who could not wait for Thomson's 'Seasons' till after breakfast, but was hovering about the shop like a thief? The good bookseller questioned him a little, but did not gain much satisfactory information. That his little customer was servant at the 'Blue Bell;' had hired himself to Master Gregory for a year; had a father and mother maintained by the parish; and had seen Thomson's 'Seasons' in the hands of a farmer's boy—that was all the inquisitive bookseller could get at; and, indeed, there was nothing more to tell. However, the Stamford shopkeeper was a man of compassion, and seeing the wan little figure before him, resolved upon a tremendous sacrifice. So he told Clare that he would let him have Thomson's 'Seasons' for one shilling: 'You may keep the sixpence, my boy,' he exclaimed, with a lofty wave of the hand. John Clare heard nothing, saw nothing; he snatched up his book, and ran away eastward as fast as his legs would carry him. 'A queer customer,' said the shopkeeper, finishing to take down his shutters.
The sun had risen in all his glory when John Clare was trotting back from Stamford to Helpston. Every now and then he paused to have a peep in his book. This went on for a mile or two, after which he could contain himself no longer. He was just passing along the wall of the splendid park surrounding Burghley Hall, the trees of which, filled with melodious singers, overhung the road. The village of Barnack in front looked dull and dreary; but the park at the side was sweet and inviting. With one jump, John was over the wall, nestling, like a bird, among some thick shrubs in the hedge. And then and there he read through Thomson's 'Seasons'—read the book through twice over, from beginning to end. And the larks and linnets kept singing more and more beautifully; and the golden sun rose higher and higher on the horizon, illuminating the landscape with a flood of light, a thousandfold reflected in the green trees and the blue waters of the lake. John Clare thought he had never before seen the world so exquisitely beautiful; he thought he had never before felt so thoroughly happy in all his life. He did not know how to give vent to his happiness; singing would not do it, nor even crying. But he had a pencil in his pocket and a bit of crumpled paper, and, unconscious almost of what he was doing, with a sort of instinctive movement, he began to write—began to write poetry. The verses thus composed were subsequently printed, but with great alterations, under the title, 'The Morning Walk.' What Clare actually wrote on his crumpled bit of paper was, probably, very imperfect in form, and not fit to be seen till thrice distilled in the crucible of his future 'able editor.'
John Clare felt intensely joyful when returning to Helpston from his long morning walk. He did not mind being taken to task by his indulgent employer for having, for the first time, neglected his duty; did not mind the reproaches of his fellow-servant as to his having broken his compact. The cowherd justly argued that, after the solemn agreement to look after the horses for three hours on payment of one penny, and to keep the secret for another penny, it was unfair to burthen him with the responsibility of the guardianship, as well as the secret, for more than half a day. Seeing the justice of the claim, John Clare, in the fulness of his heart, gave his brother cowherd the sixpence, which the kind bookseller at Stamford had presented him with. However, though generously paid, the cowherding youth was unable to keep the terrible secret for more than a day. The next morning he told his sweetheart, in strict confidence, that Clare had got into an immense fortune, and was running up and down to Stamford to buy books and 'all sorts of things.' Before it was evening, the whole village knew the story, and a hundred fingers were pointed at Clare while he walked down the street. He was greatly blamed on all sides: blamed, in the first instance, for allowing himself to be drawn away by the sprites and their nameless chief, and, as was supposed, accepting gold and silver from them; and blamed still more for not sharing his fortune with his poor parents. There were those who had seen him, on the brink of the mere, holding converse with the Evil One; they had actually witnessed the passing of the glittering coin, 'which fell into his hands like rain drops.' Clare's poor old father and mother did not believe these stories; yet even they shuddered when their son entered the little hut. It was clear John could not remain long at Helpston. There was danger in being a poet on the borders of the fen regions.
VARIOUS ADVENTURES, INCLUDING THE PURCHASE OF 'LOWE'S CRITICAL SPELLING-BOOK.'
When the yearly engagement at the 'Blue Bell' came to an end, there was serious consultation between John and his parents as to his future course of life. He was too weak to be a farm labourer; too proud to remain a potboy in a public-house; and too poor to get apprenticed to any trade or handicraft. John himself would have liked to be a mason and stone-cutter, which trade one Bill Manton, of Market Deeping, who had a reputation far and wide for setting up gravestones, was ready to teach him. Bill Manton was a big swaggering fellow, who, vibrating constantly to and fro between tavern and graveyard, hinted to John that in becoming his apprentice he would have to write the mortuary poetry as well as to engrave it upon stone; and the notion was so pleasing that he made a desperate effort to get initiated into the art and mysteries of stone-cutting. But the obstacles were insurmountable, for Bill Manton wanted a premium of four pounds, which Clare's parents had no more means of raising than so many millions. There was another chance for learning a trade in the offer of one Jim Farrow, a hunchback, who proposed to teach John the art of cobbling gratis, the sole condition being that the apprentice should provide his own tools. The few pence necessary for this purpose might have been obtained, and the poet might have taken to the calling of St. Crispin, but that he showed a great aversion to the trade. The prospect of passing his whole life in a narrow cabin, mending hobnailed boots, was one he could not face, and he strongly expressed his wish of rather remaining servant in a public-house than submitting to this necessity. One more resource remained, which was to become a gardener's apprentice at Burghley Park, the seat of the Marquis of Exeter, where such a place happened to be vacant. The mere mentioning of the name Burghley Park had charms of its own to John Clare; and although the situation was but a poor one as regarded pay, he eagerly expressed his willingness to apply for it. To make success more sure, old Parker Clare resolved to accompany John in making the application. Accordingly, one morning, father and son, dressed in their very best, made their appearance at the park gates, inquiring for the head gardener of the noble Marquis. After a long delay they were ushered into the presence of the great man. Parker Clare, in whose eyes a head-gardener was quite as important a personage as a prince, took off his hat and bowed to the ground, and the example was followed, in great trepidation of mind, by John. This evidently pleased the high functionary, and he condescended to engage John Clare on the spot. The terms were that John should serve an apprenticeship of three years, receiving wages at the rate of