Honours and good news came in fast upon Clare in the autumn of 1820. The poet, at his humble home, was visited, first by Lady Fane, eldest daughter of the Earl of Westmoreland; secondly, by Viscount Milton, coming high on horseback, in the midst of red-coated huntsmen; and, finally, greatest of honours, by the Marquis of Exeter. The villagers were awe-struck when the mighty lord, in his emblazoned coach, with a crowd of glittering lackeys around, came up to the cottage of Parker Clare, the pauper. Mrs. Clare was utterly terrified, for she was standing at the washing-tub, and the baby was crying. Her greatest pride consisted in keeping the little cottage neat and tidy; but, as ill-luck would have it, she was always washing whenever visitors dropped in. The marquis, with aristocratic tact, saved poor Patty from a fresh humiliation. Hearing the loud voice of the baby from afar, his lordship despatched one of his footmen to inquire whether Clare was at home. The man in plush carefully advanced to the cottage door, and holding a silk handkerchief before his fine Roman nose, summoned John before him. Old Parker Clare thereupon hobbled forward, trembling all over, and, in a faint voice, told the great man that his son was mowing corn, in a field close to Helpston Heath. Thither the glittering cavalcade proceeded, and John was soon discovered, in the midst of the other labourers, busy with his sickle. Though somewhat startled on being addressed by his lordship, he was secretly pleased that the interview was taking place in the field instead of in his narrow little hut. It seemed to him that here, among the sheaves of corn, he himself was somewhat taller and the noble marquis somewhat smaller than within the four walls of any cottage or palace; and this feeling encouraged him to speak with less embarrassment to his illustrious visitor. His lordship said he had heard rumours that a new volume of poetry was forthcoming, and wanted to know whether it was true. Clare replied that he was busy writing verses in his spare hours, and that he intended writing still more after the harvest, and during the next winter, which would, probably, result in another book with his name on the title-page. The marquis expressed his satisfaction in hearing this news, and, after a few kind words, and a hint that he would be glad to see some specimens, in manuscript, of the new publication, took his farewell. John Clare was not courtier enough to understand the hint about the manuscripts in all its bearings. For a moment, the thought flashed through his mind of asking his lordship to allow the new volume to be dedicated to him; but the idea was as instantaneously crushed by a remembrance of the fatal article in the 'London Magazine,' in which it was said, 'We really do not see what noblemen have to do with the support of poets more than other people.' The remark had left a deep impression upon his mind, and he felt its truth more than ever while standing face to face with a great lord, sickle in hand, among the yellow corn. He therefore said nothing about the dedication, and the visit of his lordship remained without result—which was not his lordship's fault.

A few days after this interview with the Marquis of Exeter, Clare went to Stamford to see Mr. Drury and Mr. Gilchrist. The latter had important news. He told his friend that he had just received a letter from Mr. John Taylor, stating that the fund collected for his benefit through the exertions of Lord Radstock, Dr. Bell, and others, had now reached the sum of £420 12_s_. and that this capital had been invested, for his benefit, under trustees, in the 'Navy five per cents.' Mr. Gilchrist, on communicating this information, expected an outburst of gratitude; but was surprised to see that Clare received it with a coldness which he could not understand. 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 high manliness of Clare now struck him for the first time, and he deeply admired it, though giving no words to his feelings. He even remonstrated about his friend's coldness in receiving gifts offered by real lovers and admirers of his genius. The chord thus struck reverberated freely, and Clare, after warmly shaking Mr. Gilchrist by the hand, returned home to his wife and parents, joyfully communicating the great news that he was now the owner of not less than four hundred and twenty pounds. They fancied it an inexhaustible store of wealth, and great, accordingly, was the joy within the little cottage.

The four hundred and twenty pounds invested for the benefit of Clare, were the gift of twenty donors. Nearly one-half the sum was contributed by two benefactors, namely, the Earl Fitzwilliam, who gave £100, and Clare's publishers, who bestowed the like amount upon him. The remaining two hundred and twenty pounds—accurately, £220 12_s_.—were made up of sums of five, ten, and twenty pounds, the principal contributors being the Dukes of Bedford and of Devonshire, who gave twenty pounds each; Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg—subsequently King Leopold of Belgium—the Duke of Northumberland, the Earl of Cardigan, Lord John Russell, Sir Thomas Baring, and six other noblemen, who subscribed ten pounds; and a few others who gave five pounds each. The sum thus collected was certainly insignificant, taking into account the extraordinary efforts made by Lord Radstock and other friends of Clare to procure him a provision for life. After all the high praise bestowed upon the new poet by the 'Quarterly Review,' and other critical journals, and the loud appeals for aid and assistance, it was found that there were only two patrons of literature in all England who thought him worth a hundred pounds, and of these two, one was a bookselling firm in Fleet Street. It really seemed as if the world at large engrossed the dictum of the 'London Magazine,' of the wealthy having no business to assist poets while the poor rates are in existence. The two hundred and twenty pounds collected for Clare from eighteen patrons of literature, together with the two hundred from Earl Fitzwilliam and Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, served, in the aggregate, to relieve the poet from absolute starvation. Invested in the funds, the capital gave him nearly twenty pounds a year, and, with the annuity already granted by the Marquis of Exeter, about thirty-five. Dr. Bell, by dint of restless exertions, managed to add another ten pounds to this yearly income. He wrote to Earl Spencer, temporarily residing at Naples, and obtained the promise of his lordship to grant Clare ten pounds per annum for life. So that altogether the poet now was endowed with a regular income of forty-five pounds a year, or rather more than seventeen shillings a week. It was far above the average of what he had ever earned before as a labourer, and, properly regulated, might have been sufficient to make his future career comparatively free from the cares and anxieties of daily subsistence. Unfortunately, this was not the case, and the very aid intended to smoothen his road through life led, almost directly, to his ruin.

The autumn of 1820, together with many gratifying gifts, brought Clare some little mortification. A few of his friends were somewhat too zealous: among them, Captain Sherwell, to whom the poet had been introduced by Lord Radstock, and who lost no opportunity to aid and assist him. Shortly after his meeting with Clare, Captain Sherwell went on a visit to Abbotsford, where he indulged in high praises of the 'Poems of Rural Life and Scenery,' trying hard to gain the sympathies of his distinguished host in favour of the author. But Sir Walter Scott showed little inclination to fraternize with the poet of Northamptonshire, and sternly declined the pressing demand of Captain Sherwell to write a note of approbation to Clare, or even to put his name to the subscription fund. The warm-heated captain was the more grieved at this refusal as he had already, in a letter to Lord Radstock, held out hopes that the 'Great Unknown' would enter into correspondence with their humble friend; and seeing the probability of this report reaching Clare, he deeply felt the disappointment which it would cause. He, therefore, when on the point of leaving Abbotsford, tried once more to get some token of friendship for Clare; but all he was able to obtain was a copy of the 'Lady of the Lake,' together with a present of two guineas. Even the slight favour of writing his names inside the book, Sir Walter Scott absolutely refused. Captain Sherwell, greatly humiliated in finding all his endeavours fruitless, forwarded the two guineas and the 'Lady of the Lake' to Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, placing a paper in the volume, with the inscription: 'Walter Scott presents John Clare with the "Lady of the Lake," with the modest hope that he will read it with attention.' John Clare, in receiving the book, naturally supposed that this paper was written by Sir Walter Scott himself. He therefore pasted it on the fly-leaf, and having to proceed, a few days after, to Burghley Park, to receive his quarterly stipend from the Marquis of Exeter, he took the book with him, and showed it to his lordship's secretary. The latter, deeming it an interesting curiosity, sent the copy to the marquis for inspection; but was astonished on getting it returned on the instant, with the message that the autograph was not that of Sir Walter Scott, and that the matter seemed to be an imposture. John Clare, of course, felt terribly mortified on hearing this message delivered. He forthwith applied to Captain Sherwell for an explanation; but, before he could expect an answer, received a note from this gentleman, written, evidently, before obtaining the request. The captain's note, notable in many respects, ran as follows:—

'My dear Clare,—I have forwarded to Mr. Taylor the long-expected "Lady of the Lake," with an earnest request that it may be sent to you speedily. If you have not read it already I shall be better pleased. It contains a sweetness of style, guided by a correctness of language, which no one of his works surpasses. All my endeavours, all my efforts of persuasion proved fruitless in obtaining the fulfilment of the anxious wish I had expressed to him that he would address a few lines to you on the blank-leaf. Sir Walter Scott seemed bound hand and head. It was not from any disapprobation of your talent, or taste; but occasioned by the high path in which he strides in the literary field of the present day. The paper in the "Lady of the Lake" is placed by me merely as a memorandum.'

This curious letter certainly furnished a confirmation of the fact discovered by the Marquis of Exeter, that the paper in the 'Lady of the Lake' was not in Sir Walter Scott's handwriting; but it all the more increased the deep humiliation felt by John Clare. To ease his over-burthened heart, he ran to Stamford, and laid both Captain Sherwell's letter and the book before Mr. Gilchrist. The latter had no sooner looked through the note, when he burst out laughing. 'Well,' he exclaimed, 'this is the funniest thing I ever read.' And seeing Clare's melancholy face, he continued, 'Oh, don't be disheartened, my dear fellow; all this is stuff and nonsense. I know the time when this great Scotch baronet did not stride in the high path into which he has now scrambled, and I will show you something to the effect.' Which saying, he went to his bookcase, and brought forth an elegantly-bound volume, together with a silk-tied note. 'This letter,' Mr. Gilchrist exclaimed, 'and this book, called the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," the author of the "Lady of the Lake" sent me more than ten years ago. He was then simple Mr. Walter Scott: a very humble man as you will see from his letter, in which he gives profuse thanks for a little review of his work which I wrote in a magazine. Therefore, I say again, don't be disheartened, my dear fellow. Keep up your head, and let us have some more of your verses; some better ones, if possible. Then, if the world applauds you, and applauds you again and again, I give you my word, the great baronet in his high path will be the first to shake hands.' Thus spoke Octavius Gilchrist, grocer of Stamford, and contributor to the 'Quarterly Review.' And his speech set John Clare musing for some time to come.

As soon as the harvest was over, Clare ceased working in the fields, and during the next six months devoted himself to literature. He had arranged with Messrs. Taylor and Hessey to bring out another volume of poetry in the spring of 1821, and the preparation of this work, together with much reading, filled up the whole of his time. Clare now was in possession of a rather considerable collection of books, chiefly poems; most of them gifts of friends and admirers, and the rest added by his own purchases. Small presents of money from strangers he invariably invested in books; and the two guineas of Sir Walter Scott went directly to buy the works of Burns, Chatterton's poems, and Southey's 'Life of Nelson.' The assiduous study of these works necessarily tended to elevate Clare's taste and to improve his style. All his earlier productions bore more or less the stamp of crudeness, by no means effaced by the corrections of the editor in orthography and punctuation; but he now gradually acquired the skill of handling verse, and shaping it into the desired smoothness of expression. He began to compose, too, with far greater rapidity than before. Many a day he completed two, and even three poems, elaborating the plan, as well as revising them finally. His mode of composition, likewise, became almost entirely changed at this period. While formerly his poetical conceptions were usually scribbled on little bits of paper, and furtively revised at intervals of labour, the correction, amounting to entire rewriting, often extending over weeks and months, he now got into the regular habit of finishing all his poems in two sittings, casting them first, and polishing them the second time. Almost invariably the first process took place out of doors. 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. Then, when full of rapture about the wonderful, ever-beautiful world—wonderful and beautiful to him in all aspects and at all seasons—he would settle down in some quiet nook or corner, and rapidly shape his imagination into words. There were some favourite places where he delighted to sit, and where the hallowed vein of poetry seemed to him to flow more freely than at any others. 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. Having prepared his verses in rough outline, within the oak, or in some other lonely place, he would hurry home without delay. Patty, carefullest of housewives, although little comprehending the erratic ways of her lord, had got into the habit of always keeping a slight meal ready for the hungry poet. He took his broth, or his cup of tea, in silence, and then crept up to the narrow bedroom in the upper part of the hut. Here the day's poetical productions were passed in review. Whatever was not approved, met with immediate destruction; the rest was carefully corrected and polished, and afterwards copied out into a big book, a sort of ledger, bought at Stamford fair. Clare had laid down the rule for himself to make no further corrections or examination whatever. The poems thus composed were sent to the printer; and though Mr. Taylor, the editor and publisher of the new work, was anxious to alter and revise some of them, Clare would not allow any change, save orthographical and grammatical corrections. There was at this time an impression on Clare's mind that his verses were the product of intuition; and that the songs came floating from his lips and pen as music from the throat of birds. So he held his own orthodoxy more orthodox than that of the schools. In which view poor John Clare was decidedly wrong, seeing that his music was not offered gratis like that of the skylark and nightingale, but was looking out for the pounds, shillings, and pence of a most discerning public.