The two 'real gentlemen,' who were waiting at the little cottage, wishing to see John Clare, were Mr. Edward Drury, bookseller, of Stamford, and Mr. R. Newcomb, a friend of the latter, proprietor of the Stamford Mercury. Mr. Drury, who had not been long established in business, having but a short time before bought the 'New Public Library' in the High Street, from a Mr. Thompson, had heard of John Clare in a rather singular manner. One day, while still in treaty about the business, there came into the 'New Public Library,' a gaunt, awkward-looking man, in the garb of a labourer, yet with somewhat of the bearing of a country squire. Addressing Mr. Thompson, he told him, in a haughty manner, that there would be 'no debts paid at present,' and 'not until the poems are out.' The man who said this was Mr. Thomas Porter, of Ashton, the friend of John Clare, and propounder of the awful question concerning grammar and the spelling-book. Though severe upon his young poetical friend, he nevertheless remained attached to him with true devotion, and latterly had assisted him in the distribution of prospectuses and other errands relating thereto. It was on one of these excursions that he came to the 'New Public Library,' in Stamford High Street. John Clare had been so extravagant, while burning lime at Pickworth, as to take in a number of periodical publications, among them the Boston Inquirer, and getting into debt on this account, to the amount of fifteen shillings, which he was unable to pay after his dismissal from the lime-kiln, Mr. Thompson had written several urgent letters demanding payment. In reply to one of these, Clare despatched his friend Thomas Porter to Stamford, instructing him to pacify his angry creditor, and to deliver to him some prospectuses of the 'Original Trifles.' It was in order to be the more effective that Thomas Porter adopted a haughty tone, quite in keeping with his tall gaunt figure; and, talking in a lofty manner of his friend the poet, almost repudiated the right of the bookseller to ask for payment of his little debt. The proprietor of the 'New Public Library,' a quick-tempered man, got exceedingly irritated on hearing this language. Speaking of John Clare in the most offensive terms, he took the prospectuses and threw them on the floor, at the same time ordering Thomas Porter out of his shop. The long wiry arms of John Clare's tall friend were about reaching across the counter and pulling the little shopkeeper from his seat, when Mr. Drury interfered. He had listened to the dialogue with intense astonishment, being quite bewildered as to the meaning of the terms poet, lime-burner, and swindler, all applied to one person, of whom it was clear only that he was a friend of the gaunt man. When the latter had taken his leave, pacified by much politeness and many kind words from Mr. Drury, an explanation was sought and obtained. Mr. Thompson, still trembling with rage, informed his successor in the business, that the lime-burning rogue had pretensions to be a poet, and wanted to swindle people out of their money under pretext of publishing a volume of verses. Picking up one of the prospectuses, Mr. Drury saw that this, in a sense, was the case. But examining the 'Address to the Public,' he could not help thinking that it was a prospectus singularly free from all indications of puffing, and less still of roguery. Indeed, he thought that he had never seen a more modest invitation to subscribe to a book; or one which, in his own opinion, was more unfit to attain the object with which it was written. The writer evidently depreciated his work throughout, and took the lowliest and humblest view of his own doings. That such a very unbusiness-like address could not possibly secure a dozen subscribers, Mr. Drury knew but too well; but this made him the more anxious to get some further knowledge of the modest author. He accordingly paid the debt of fifteen shillings to the delighted Mr. Thompson, and put Clare's prospectus in his pocket-book; and, having got somewhat at home in his new business, settling the most urgent matters connected with the transferment, started on a visit to Helpston, in company with a friend.

Entering the little cottage, the two visitors, though they expected to see poverty, were greatly surprised at the look of extreme destitution visible everywhere. Old Parker Clare, now a cripple scarcely able to move, was crouched in a corner, on what appeared to be a log of wood, covered with rags; while his wife, pale and haggard in the extreme, was warming her thin hands before a little fire of dry sticks. It was Sunday; but there was no Sunday meal on the table, nor preparations for any visible in the low, narrow room, the whole furniture of which consisted of but a rickety table and a few broken-down chairs. The astonishment of Mr. 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. John Clare, shy and awkward as ever, remained standing in the doorway, without uttering a word; while Mr. Drury, on his part, did not know how to address this singular being. The oppressive silence was broken at last by the remark of Drury's friend, that they had come to subscribe to the 'Original Trifles,' a few manuscript specimens of which, he said, they would be glad to see. John Clare did not like the remark, nor the patronizing tone in which it was uttered, and bluntly informed the inquirer that nearly all his verses were in the possession of Mr. Henson, of Market-Deeping, who had agreed to print them. The further question as to how many subscribers he had for his poems, irritated Clare still more, eliciting the answer that this was a matter between him and Mr. Henson. Mr. Drury, with superior tact, now saw that it was high time to change the conversation, which he did by asking leave to sit down, and exchange a few words with 'Mr. Clare' and his parents. Addressing old Parker Clare and his wife in a friendly manner, stroking the cat on the hearth, and sending a little boy, lounging about the door, for a bottle of ale, he at last succeeded in breaking the ice.

To win confidence, Mr. Drury began giving an account of himself. He told John Clare that he had taken the shop of Mr. Thompson, at Stamford, and having found among the papers some prospectuses of a book of poetry, with a specimen sonnet, he had felt anxious to pay a visit to the author. After awarding some high praise to the sonnet of the 'Setting Sun,' he next asked Clare whether the publication of the poems had been definitely agreed upon between him and Mr. Henson, of Market-Deeping.

'No,' answered John Clare, beginning to be won over by the frankness of his visitor. To further questions, carefully worded, he replied, that as yet he had only seven subscribers—nominally seven; in reality only one, the Rev. Mr. Mounsey, of the Stamford Grammar-school—and that Mr. Henson refused to commence printing the poems, unless the sum of fifteen pounds was advanced to him.

There now was a moment's pause, broken by Mr. Drury, who said, addressing Clare, 'Well, if you have made no agreement with Mr. Henson, and will entrust me with your poems, I will undertake to print them without any advance of money, and leave you the profits, after deducting my expenses.'

John Clare's heart rose within him when he heard these words, and but for the pompous man at Mr. Drury's side, he would have run up and pressed the good bookseller to his heart. 'Yes, you shall have all my papers,' he eagerly exclaimed; 'shall have them as soon as I get them back from Market-Deeping. And I can show you a few verses at once.' Which saying, he left the room, returning in a few minutes with a queer bundle of odd-sized scraps of paper, tied round with a thick rope, and scribbled over, in an almost illegible manner, in all directions. At the top of the bundle was a poem, beginning, 'My love, thou art a nosegay sweet,' which Mr. Drury had no sooner deciphered, than he shook Clare warmly by the hand.

'I think that will do,' he exclaimed, with some enthusiasm, looking at his companion.

The latter fancied he ought to say something. 'Mr. Clare, I shall be happy to see you to dinner, any of these days,' he exclaimed, with a dignified nod and gracious smile. Thereupon, both Mr. Drury and Mr. Newcomb took their farewell, Clare once more promising that he would take his papers to the 'New Public Library,' as soon as obtained from Market-Deeping.

On the threshold, Mr. Newcomb was seized with a new idea. 'If you get the manuscripts from Deeping, Mr. Clare, we shall be glad to see you,' he exclaimed; 'if not, we can say nothing further about the matter.' Thus the friendly visitor got rid of the overwhelming fear of giving a dinner to a poor man for nothing. However, John Clare never in his life troubled Mr. Newcomb of Stamford for a dinner.

Disagreeable, and almost offensive, as the conversation of one of his visitors had been to John Clare, he was very much pleased with that of the other. For Mr. Edward Drury he felt a real liking, and deeming the proposition which the latter had made exceedingly liberal, he at once set to work carrying the proposal into execution. Fearing that Mr. Henson might, possibly, put obstacles in his way, John persuaded his mother to go to Market-Deeping and fetch his poems. The good old dame gladly fulfilled her son's wish, and the next morning trudged over to the neighbouring town. Clever diplomatist, like all ladies, young or old, she managed to get, with some difficulty, her son's bundle of many-coloured papers, in the midst of which stuck, like the hard kernel in a soft plum, a stout, linen-bound book. John, over-anxious now to possess his verses, awaited the result of the journey half-way between Deeping and Helpston, near the village of Maxey. Here both mother and son sat down in a field, the latter examining his paper bundle with great care. It was all right; nothing was missing, not even the pitch-sealed document containing the prospectus of the 'Original Trifles.' Joyful at heart, the two went back to the little cottage, already expanded, in John's imagination, into a large comfortable house. The first difficulty of getting them printed overcome, the success of his poems was to John Clare a matter of no doubt whatever. His fancy painted to him, in glowing colours, what honour they would bring him, what friends, and what, worldly reward. He would be enabled to get a nice dwelling for his old parents, abundance of good cheer for them, and abundance of good books for himself. And then—his heart swelled at the thought—he would be able to carry home his beloved mistress, his 'Patty of the Vale.' The idea made him dance along the road; and he kissed his mother, and the good old dame began dancing, too, all through the green fields, in which the birds wore singing, and the flowers bending their faces in the wind.

On the following morning, John Clare walked to Stamford with his papers, handing them over to Mr. Drury. The latter presented him with a guinea, as a sort of purchase-money 'on hand,' encouraging him, at the same time, to write more verses, and to complete all the remaining manuscript poetry in his possession, John went home elated with joy, promising to return to Stamford at the end of a week. To John Clare it was a week of joy, while Mr. Edward Drury, on his part, felt somewhat uneasy in his mind. He was a man of good education, a relative of Mr. John Taylor—head of the formerly eminent publishing firm of Taylor and Hessey, Fleet Street, London—but, though with fair natural gifts, and a lover of poetry, was not exactly a judge of literary productions. John Clare's sonnet 'To the Setting Sun,' which had first attracted his attention, looked well in its printed and corrected form; but the rest of the manuscript poems, when he came to look over them, appeared to him to possess little or no value. Written on dirty bits of coarse paper, ill-spelt, full of grammatical blunders, and without any punctuation whatever, it required, indeed, a judge of more than ordinary capacity to pronounce on the intrinsic poetical value of these productions. Mr. Drury, having spent a day in scanning over the uncouth papers, began to feel very uneasy, doubting whether he had not promised too much in agreeing that he would print them, and also whether he had not paid too dear for them already in giving John Clare a guinea. Full of these doubts, yet not wishing to make a mistake in the matter, he resolved to submit the question to a higher tribunal. One of his customers, the Rev. Mr Twopenny, incumbent of Little Casterton, had the reputation of a most learned critic, having published various theological and other treatises; and he being the only literary man known to Mr. Drury in or near Stamford, the owner of the 'New Public Library' resolved to make his appeal to him. Clare's rough bundle of verses accordingly found its way to Little Casterton parsonage, to the great surprise of the learned minister, who, though deep in theology, Hebrew, and Greek, knew, probably, much less of the value of English verse than even Mr. Drury. This, however, did not prevent the learned man from giving an opinion, for having examined the blurred and somewhat unclean MSS. submitted to him, and finding them full of many blunders in grammar and spelling, he expressed himself in a decisive manner to the effect that the so-called poetry was a mere mass of useless rubbish. Mr. Edward Drury felt much downcast when he received this oracular note, which happened to come in on the very morning of the day arranged for the second visit of the poet of Helpston.

When John Clare came into the shop in High Street, joyful and excited, with another large bundle of rope-tied poetry under his arm, Mr. Drury received him with a somewhat elongated face. Instead of expressing a wish to see the new manuscripts, he told his visitor, after some hesitation, that unexpected circumstances prevented him from carrying out the promised publication of the poems at the moment, and that he would have to postpone it for some time. John Clare was ready to burst out crying; the blow came so unexpectedly that he did not know what to think of it. Although with little experience of the world, he saw perfectly well, from Mr. Drury's manner, that something unfavourable had occurred to produce a change respecting the poems. After a short pause, summoning up courage, he pressed his patron to explain the matter. Thereupon the letter of the Rev. Mr. Twopenny was handed to Clare. He read it over; read it once, twice; and then grasped the counter to prevent himself from falling to the ground. It was the first harsh literary criticism the poor poet had to submit to in his life. The blood rushed to his face; his hands clinched the fatal letter, as if to annihilate its existence. After a while, he could not contain himself any longer, but bursting into tears, ran out of the shop. Good-natured Mr. Drury saw that he had made a mistake—perhaps a great, and certainly a cruel mistake. He rushed after his humble friend, and brought him back to the shop, and into the parlour behind, there soothing him as best he could. It was easy to persuade John Clare that the Rev. Mr. Twopenny's opinion was, after all, but the opinion of one man; that men differed much in almost everything, and in nothing less than the value they set upon poetry. The remarks were so evidently true, that the much-humbled poet brightened up visibly; brightened up still more when Mr. Drury got a bottle of old ale from the cupboard and began filling two glasses. Viewed through this medium, the future looked much more cheery to John Clare; the world, there seemed no doubt, would appreciate good poetry, though the Rev. Mr. Twopenny did not. Having got his poetical friend into this happy mood, Mr. Drury talked to him seriously and sensibly. He advised John Clare to seek work immediately, either as a farm-labourer or lime-burner, and to devote only his spare time to the writing of verses. As to the verses already written, he promised to lay them before other judges, and to publish them, at any rate, more or less corrected and altered. This, too, sounded hopeful, and when John Clare shook hands with the owner of the 'New Public Library' in the High Street of Stamford, he thought he was a good deal nearer his long cherished object than he had ever been before.