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We hope we have by this time amply substantiated the opinion we gave at the outset, as to the extraordinary merit of these productions: if so, if, instead of thinking them very clever considering they are by a day-labourer, our readers agree with us in conceding to them a high de

gree of poetical merit quite independent of the circumstances of their author, they will be prepared to enter, with the requisite sympathy, into the simple details of his history:

and closes by saying, "Society owes it to itself to prevent the author of these poems from adding another name to the annals of unbefriended genius." In those years poor Clare was petted and patted by the chief reviews of England. Unfortunately, few people seem to have remembered that he was a poor labourer, almost in pauper circumstances, able only to earn a few shillings a week. Marquises and earls wrote to him, calling him to their palaces that they might look at him; and well they might, for we scarcely know where to find such another prodigy among poets, such an entire severance from every advantage of education resulting in such melody and sweetness of language; but marquises and earls all sent him to dine in the kitchen with the servants — all, except one truly beautiful and noble exception, a real, hearty, and tender friend, Lord Radstock, who took a deep interest in him and in his affairs; and which is more, as marking his respect, sat with him and talked familiarly, from time to time, at his table. The nobleman, however, was in his last years, and died in the midst of an effort he was making for Clare's benefit. There is really much in this life of Clare which recalls Moore's vividly true verses:

In the woods of the North there are insects
which prey

On the brains of the elk, till his very last sigh;
Oh genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they,
First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee
to die!

Clare's verses had been set to music by
Rossini; sung, in her palmiest days, to
crowded audiences by Vestris. He had been
lauded and lionized as the English Burns;
but it is the old tale-battling off hunger
and anxiety until, in their marriage, they
bring forth madness! - then a pauper's ex-
istence; and an English earl thinking that
a pauper's grave is good enough for his ob-
sequies!
Helpston is a little village on the borders
of the Fen country
a place not famous
for the production of genius, or of poetic
inspiration. Here John Clare was born on
the 13th of July, 1793. His parents were

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among the poorest persons in the village. He first saw the light in one of the most wretched mud-hovels. It is impossible to imagine circumstances more adverse than those in which the poor child first unfolded more like a prison than a human dwelling. existence. Mr. Martin says, "the house was The hut stood in a dark, gloomy plain, covered with stagnant pools of water, and overhung by mists during the greater part of the year. Yet from out of these surroundings sprang a being to whom all life was golden, and all nature a breath of paradise.” The poor little lad was born a dreamer, seems to have been stirred by dangerous, undefined, unpractical consciousness from his very childhood. There is a story of a wild yearning he had, when a child, to see what was to be seen yonder where the sky was touching the earth, and, one hot day in June, he set off to see, not saying a word to father or mother. Through the hot, close, sultry air he hurried on, through the gossamer mists; in the morning he set out, a poor little fellow, trotting on mile after mile, to reach that point where the sky seemed nearest to the earth; tantalizingly, it seemed to recede farther from him, the farther he went, till, hungry, exhausted, wearied out, he sunk down. Some labourers gave him a crust of bread, and sent him on his homeward journey; late at night he arrived home, and had to endure a thorough good beating for his romantic excursion. This was not pleasant, but he often said that his real grief was that he had been unable to find the country where heaven and earth met; he found that, nearly seventy years afterwards, in spite of Earl Fitzwilliam, in the little village churchyard; but that first ramble was not a bad parable of his whole future life. The "Fen country" was not then what it is now - what it has been made by the enterprise of some of the finest and heartiest farmers in England, it was perhaps really uninteresting; and there, upon the hard fare of agricultural labourers, potatoes and water porridge, and perhaps a piece of wheaten bread and pork on Sundays, he grew. The old women of the place initiated him a little into letters; one carried him through the difficulties of A, B, C; and another, "old Granny Bains," an ancient lady filling the dignified post of cowherd of the village, who spent almost all her time out of doors, in heat or cold, storm or rain,- a wonderful weather prophetess -a perfect oracle in the village, blessed with an amazing memory, filled with every variety of merry and plaintive song. storehouse of traditions—always of a joy

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ous nature, and never having known illness, it is not wonderful if, in the ancient body, John Clare found his guide, instructor, and friend.

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Before he was twelve years old, he was sent to learn to thresh, and, about the same time, the instincts of scholarship strongly proclaimed themselves. At Glinton, a little village five miles from Helpston, lived a certain schoolmaster, a Mr. Merrishaw, a thin, tall old man, with white hair hanging over his shoulders, in the fashion of ancient days -passionately fond of long walks and his violin. Him John sought out to receive some rudimental lessons in writing and arithmetic. Also he ambitiously looked up to algebra. The algebraic studies, however, soon came to an end. Also came about a disappointment in an attempt in which, however, he never believed to procure employment in a lawyer's office in Peterborough, about the year 1807; his mother persuaded him, and he consented. We do not wonder that his appearance in Peterborough, as he walked down the old street, created excitement and astonishment. His mother had ransacked her wardrobe to supply him. She had made him a pair of breeches out of an old dress, a world too large for his slender legs; a many-coloured shawl had been transformed into a waistcoat; an old threadbare coat. was a world too small for his tall figure; his hat was half a century old. In white necktie and black woollen gloves, this remarkable figure made his entrance into the episcopal city, exciting admiration in curious eyes. He soon learned from Mr. Councillor Bellamy, whose office he had sought, that all his mother's efforts were vain; yet his mother cried with joy as she saw her poor plucked crow come back again. He continued to study algebra, and ever so early he seems to have plunged headlong into his dangerous kingdom of dreams. He had no books -no Shakespeare, Milton, Thomson, nor Cowper; neither had he science; nor, we fear, much common-sense, to direct him. He peopled the world with real spirits. The stories he read, or which were told to him, were literal. The earth swarmed with ghosts and hobgoblins, fairies, and dwarfs, and giants; hallucinations, as of lunacy, seem to have held him in their spell. Then he fell in love; but Mary Joyce, the " Mary of his poems- quite as ideal to him as Laura to Petrarch, Beatrice to Dante, or Mary to Burns was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer at Glinton. Quite a wonderful world of love and beauty seemed to wrap the two young people round; they used to meet during six months by the stiles and fields, and

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rural lanes and places; and John used to tell her how he loved the beautiful earth of trees, and flowers, and larks, and insects, and clouds; but he never told her that he thought her more beautiful than all the great and beautiful works of nature. Then came the terrible father, and prudently, and rightly enough, looking upon them both as mere children, told Mary she must not see the "beggar-boy" again. The blue-eyed Mary was compelled to listen to her father, and so the lad lost her, and went carving her name about upon a hundred trees. Poor Mary is thought to have carried with her through life affection for her rude and illdressed, but eloquent and shrinking lover; she never married, dying a spinster. People point still to an inscription on the porch of Glinton Church known to be theirs," J. C., 1808," and underneath it, in fainter lines, " Mary." One day, while tending his cattle in the field, a farmer's big boy showed him a copy of Thomson's Seasons; a glance revealed to him the quality and character of the book; he implored the possessor for a loan of it, if only for an hour. Its owner was a brutish character, and he refused; it was but a trumpery book, he said; he had bought it for eighteenpence, people who wanted it might buy it. Clare heard there was a copy at a bookseller's in Stamford to be sold for a shilling; through a variety of romantic difficulties, he at last procured the shilling, and going early to rest got up soon after midnight to walk over to Stamford from Helpston to make his purchase; as it was, he made a grave mistake, for it was on a Sunday, and the shop was not open. He started again on the Monday morning, arrived before the bookseller's shop was open, and sat down in quiet resignation for an hour and a-half on the shop steps, counting the quarter chimes; at length came a turning of keys and drawing of bolts, and never, we suppose, was bookseller more amazed than when the thin, haggard, country lad, with great, wild, gleaming eyes, pounced upon him for the copy of Thomson's Seasons. It was eighteenpence, but the bookseller let him have it for a shilling. The poor lad set forth on his journey again; the sun was just rising in his strength; the larks and linnets were abroad; the landscape was illuminated; he passed beneath the walls of Burleigh Park - it was more tempting than the road he bounded over the wall, and there, among the stately trees, the ragged laddie, his eye running from the book to nature herself and from nature herself back again to the book, first felt, himself, the ambitions of verse striving with

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him, and, in some way, in obedience to some
instinctive movements, upon a crumpled bit
of paper, with a pencil he happened to pos-
sess, he wrote, we believe, his first piece.
Its verses, of course, received subsequent
retouchings, but do not these form exqui-
site and, the circumstances remembered,
truly wonderful lines of rural beauty? —

The cocks have now the morn foretold,
The sun again begins to peep;
The shepherd, whistling to his fold,
Unpens and frees the captive sheep.

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crust of bread. It is the story as of a completely ill circumstanced soul:- a gardener's lad, then again a farm-labourer, in the midst of his labours in the fields, Thomson's Seasons never out of his pocket, read and read again when eating his humble meal at noonday under a hedge; in the evenings in lonely places he enjoyed the pursuit of that provoking jade, poetry, under difficulties scribbling upon all scraps of paper which came in his way, much to the horror of his old father, whose loftiest idea of poetry was of halfpenny ballads sold or sung at publichouses, and who had an idea that productions sold so cheaply could not be of much profit to the composer. His mother also discovered his propensities-discovered also where he was in the habit of hiding the scraps of paper on which he had written, and, to make an end of the miserable business at once, with a true and righteous maternal instinct consigned all on which she could lay her hands to the fire; and yet, without knowing it, the poor lad was pursuing a path of culture like that pursued and prescribed by, and for, noblest minds. He had a thought that his father had not so much want of faith in his writings as in himself, the writer; so he committed one of his longest and most effective poems to memory, and pretending to read it from print, had the satisfaction of hearing his father exclaim, " Ah John! my boy, if thou couldst make such like verses, that would do;" but he did not disclose the secret, but henceforth made a regular habit of reading his own poetry to his parents as if reading it from a book or printed sheet of paper. Thus he had the pleasure of hearing praise from lips to which the poor fellow was not indifferent, although it was not of much critical value; but he was also wise enough when he was asked for explanation of a word or a line to note it down as ill expressed, and to alter it; and so also, when, as was sometimes the case, laughter came where he had intended pathos, he carried that verse with him into the fields next day, and set it to simpler and more natural words. So the poor fellow was really doing the best with himself, and was at school and college without knowing it. Did not Molière make his inimitable comedies perfect in the same way? and so it happened, that John Clare came to write verses, some of which have the sweet and perfect simplicity of the best days of the "English undefiled." It is true, when it was found that he was engaged in the sinful practice of verse writing, the sin reached the ears of a certain village dignitary, a Mr. Thomas

Porter; to him he was persuaded to show | to be left so entirely to a life of mere vagathe poetry, on little pieces of paper, blue, bondage; in some way life would open a and red, white, and yellow. Mr. Thomas side-door for him, if not its great gates. Porter's first question was, "Do you know grammar?" John was compelled to confess that he could scarcely even tell what grammar was, whether a person or a thing; thereupon Mr. Thomas Porter handed him back his little bits of paper, and, with a frown, exclaimed, "You cannot write poetry before you know grammar." Poor John, horrified, did, for a time, give up his propensities, procured a well known schoolroom-companion of those days, a critical spelling-book; but this did not help him much, and, to the end of his days, he who could enjoy nature so profoundly, read with such sympathy and appreciation some of our best English authors, write verse so sweetly, and use words so graphic and descriptive, never knew much either of grammar or spelling. He is also in very dignified company, however, in this. A poor country fad, upwards of half a century since, with not a guide or a friend, it is not to be supposed that his life could run along alone without its own burden of temptation. Viciousness could never have dwelt long with, or have been at all akin to, such a spirit; he was able to resist the temptation of poaching a wild, romantic pursuit not, perhaps, because he either dreaded the danger or cared much for the sin, but because he was too tender a lover of all the creatures God had made to hurt or destroy them wilfully. Sometimes, we are afraid, he became a little too excited at the Holein-the-Wall, or the more dangerous roisterings of Bachelors' Hall: also, in the times when the country was at the fever-heat of excitement, against Bony, he enlisted in the Northampton Militia, and was stationed for a little while at Oundle; the warriors, however, with whom he was allied, seem to have created more fear than confidence, for the good people of Oundle felt their property more insecure in their presence than in their absence, and petitioned that they might be disbanded. Before this, however, John had expressed plainly his dislike to the military profession; his regimentals seem to have been of the quaintest and most comical; and when they provoked the laughter of his corporal, a dandybody, he knocked him down. Somehow this did not get him into trouble, and shortly after he returned to Helpston, enriched by an old second-hand copy of Paradise Lost, and some fragmentary leaves of Shakespeare's Tempest. It would now be scarcely possible for a lad with John Clare's mental qualities

For a time he haunted the fields and lanes as a gypsy, but gypsy life filled him with utter disgust; finally, he settled down to the loftiest occupation he had yet obtained; he became a lime-burner; at this he wrought fourteen hours a day, and sometimes through the night. We have ourselves seen, in a pilgrimage we paid to the cottage of Patty Clare some sixteen years since, some relics of the writing of the old days of the brickkiln. The lines are a heap of most incongruous caligraphies, in which Roman and Italian letters run about and dodge each other, even in the same word. His inspiration seemed, in those days, to reach its height in the neighbourhood of the limekiln, and to the poet there came the first miraculous dream of himself becoming an author – a wild, ridiculous ambition, indeed, when it is remembered that at this time he was earning nine shillings a-week. By this time he was twenty-five years of age; he was also in love. England, at that time, had a strong fit upon her conscience, and was, perhaps, desirous of doing penance for some sins in the way of neglect of genius by patronizing a peasant poet. Southey had a large and tender heart for such poor bodies. Bloomfield had written some very sweet and winning verses. Strong Allan Cunningham was working his way up to fame from his stone-mason's yard; the wonder of Robert Burns was in the full strength of its sudden meridian light. Somehow, the idea entered Clare's mind that he might publish. His first efforts with a bookseller at Market Deeping did not seem very promising, but, circuitously, his prospectus, which he had managed to get printed, met the eye of Mr. John Taylor of the eminent publishing firm of Taylor and Hessey, of London; he was attracted by it, and still more impressed and attracted when he saw the utterly unpromising manuscript, written on dirty bits of coarse paper, ill spelt, without a note of punctuation; he saw, however, that Clare was one of the born poets of the earth, a man who could no more help writing than birds can help singing, and he signified his intention of editing and publishing them. One or two kind friends now made their appearance in Clare's life; Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, a kind, local, literary friend; but even so early we are compelled to notice that which keeps itself before us to the close, that Clare's self-respect was never cultivated, yet he never lost it. What,

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Day after day passed, yet no news, till in the last week of January, the smiling face of a friend suddenly lighted up the gloom. It was a rainy day, and Clare was unable to take his usual ramble through the fields, when the clattering of hoofs was heard outside the little cottage. A man on horseback alighted at the door, and shaking off the dripping wet, rushed into the room, where Clare and his father and mother were sitting round the little fire. It was the Rev. Mr. Holland. "Am I not a good prophet?" he cried, running towards John, and shaking him warmly by the hand. John looked up in astonishment; he had not the alluded to. slightest notion of what his friend meant or But Mr. Holland kept on laughing and dancing, shaking himself like a wet poodle. "Am I not a good prophet?" he repeated again. The long face of his melancholy young friend at last brought him to a sense of the actual state of affairs. "You have had no letter from your publishers?" he inquired. "None whatever," was the reply. "Then let me be the first herald of good news," cried Mr. Holland; “I can assure you that your utmost expectations have been realized. I have had a letter from a friend in London, this morning, telling me that your poems are talked of by everybody; in fact, are a great success." How the words cheered the heart of John Clare! He fancied he had a slight touch of the ague in the morning; but it seemed to fall like scales off his body, and he thought he had never seen so well all his life. Mr. Holland was about getting into his wet saddle again.

then, could be the consequence? He was always treated as a poor unhappy miracle of a creature, that made verses. On all hands we notice the apparent inability to guide this poor, ignorant, yet marvellous genius into what might be a way of peace for himself. The person who at this time seems to have taken the most downright, thorough, truly human, and genuine interest in John Clare, was the Reverend John Holland, the Congregational minister of Market Deeping. About him there was nothing of the patron; a man of culture, and mind, and character, meets a poor brother marked by higher genius, and instantly acknowledges his equality; he did his utmost to serve Clare, encouraged him heartily, and as he heard him read some of his own verses, he said, "If this do not succeed, the world deserves a worse opinion than I'm inclined to give it." Clare, naturally enough, looked upon Mr. Holland as one of his best friends, and was rather pleased and proud to proclaim the fact. Is it not sad to think that at this ment the poor young man, so scant of friends, had to learn that the fact of the Calvinistic minister taking him by the hand would be a bar to his success? John himself was surprised by the publication of some account of his life at this time, in which he was told that "Mr. Holland, a Calvinistic preacher in an adjoining ham-"Oh do stop a little longer," said John, imlet, had paid him some attention, but his means of aiding the needy youth were small, whatever might have been his wish, and he has now quitted his charge." Mr. Holland was not stationed in a hamlet, not what is understood in that country, by a "Calvinistic preacher," and he had not given up his charge, that is, his interest in and friendship for Clare. Although Mr. Gilchrist insisted that all communications should cease between the peasant and the preacher, John could not understand the prejudices of the former student of Magdalen College; but he had the pride of genius and independence here, farm-labourer and lime-burner as he was. He, on his part, declared that his friendship with Mr. Holland was literary and personal, and not founded on religious opinions; and so the friendship and confidence of Mr. Gilchrist were scorched. As it was, when the sun of his fame rose, Mr. Holland seems to have been the first to convey to the poor poet the good news from London, widely separated then from Helpston, compared with its distance now. Mr. Martin tells the story so pleasantly that we shall borrow his own words:

"

ploringly; "have something to eat and drink.
And he looked at his father and mother; and
father and mother looked at him. Alas! they
all knew too well that there was nothing in
the house to eat; and no money wherewith to
purchase food. Good Mr. Holland, at a glance,
"Well,"
perceived the actual state of affairs.
he exclaimed, "I intended having some dinner
at the inn_round the corner; but if you will
allow me, I will have it sent here, and take it
And in a twinkling of the
in your company."
eye, he was out of doors, leading his horse,
which had been tied to a post, towards the
"Blue Bell." He was back in ten minutes;
and in another ten minutes there appeared the
potboy from the "Blue Bell" carrying a huge
tray, smoking hot. Thrice the messenger from
the "Blue Bell" came and returned, each
time carrying something heavy in his fat, red
hands, and going away with empty trays.
When he had turned his back for the third and
last time, they all sat down around the little
ricketty table, the Rev. Mr. Holland, John, his
father and mother. "Every good gift, and
every perfect gift is from above, and cometh
down from the Father of lights," said the
minister. "Amen!" fervently exclaimed John.

So he was in print; found himself soon
beckoned up into the circles of good society,
of course always occupying the place be-

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