In October, 1819, Clare left the lime-kiln at Bridge-Casterton, where he had been working during the greater part of the year, and returned to Helpston. He did so partly on account of a new reduction of wages, but partly also because suffering from constant ill-health. His old enemy, the fever of the fens, continued its attacks at intervals, and he found that he was less able to withstand the foe in the lime-kiln than when working in the open air. This time he was fortunate enough to find regular work as a farm labourer in the neighbourhood of Helpston, and having got somewhat better, he set with new energy to thrashing and ploughing. His visits to Mr. Drury and Mr. Gilchrist henceforth became somewhat more scarce. Though conscious of being deeply indebted to both these friends, he could not bear being constantly reminded of this indebtedness in the patronizing air which they assumed, and the high tone of superiority which they arrogated to themselves in their intercourse with him. With Mr. Gilchrist, especially, he found fault for attempting to guide him in a manner which, he held, this gentleman had no right to do. John Clare had become acquainted, in the spring of 1819, with the Rev. Mr. Holland, minister of the congregational church at Market-Deeping. Mr. Holland, a well-educated man, with a fine appreciation of poetry, happened to see Clare's prospectus, with the sonnet to the 'Setting Sun,' at a farm-house near Northborough, and being struck with the verses, as well as with the account which the farmer, who knew Clare, gave of the author, he at once went in search of the poet. After some trouble, he discovered him in the lime-kiln at Bridge-Casterton, just while Clare was resting from his work, and scribbling poems upon the usual shreds of paper spread out on the crown of his hat. Mr. Holland, much astonished at the sight, forthwith entered into conversation, and being a simple man, with nothing of the patron about him, at once won Clare's affection. The acquaintance thus begun soon ripened into friendship, with, however, but scant personal intercourse, owing to the many occupations of the active dissenting minister, and the distance of his place of residence from Casterton. But John Clare did not fail to lay most of the verses he was writing before his clerical friend, and was delighted to meet always with hearty encouragement. 'If this kind of poetry does not succeed,' Mr. Holland said on one occasion, looking over Clare's shoulder, while the latter was writing the 'Village Funeral;' 'if this kind of poetry does not succeed, the world deserves a worse opinion than I am inclined to give it.' These words made a deep impression upon Clare, and he kept on repeating them to himself whenever his mind was fluttered with doubts of success and apprehensions of failure. Very naturally, upon the man who had cheered him with such hearty and well-timed approval, Clare looked as one of his best friends, and lost no occasion to proclaim the fact.

He told the story of his acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Holland, as at many other times, so at the first interview with Mr. Gilchrist. The latter seemed rather displeased when he heard that the young rustic, presented to his patronage, was acquainted with a dissenting minister, although professing to be a member of the Church of England. Mr. Gilchrist took at once occasion of rebuking him for this conduct, and in the account given of Clare in the 'London Magazine,' alluded to the subject at some length, explaining that 'Mr. Holland, a Calvinistic preacher in an adjoining hamlet, had paid him some attention, but his means of aiding the needy youth was small, whatever might have been his wish, and he has now quitted his charge.' The statement was untrue in several respects; for Mr. Holland was neither a 'Calvinistic preacher,' nor stationed in a 'hamlet,' nor had he 'quitted his charge,' that is, given up his friendship with Clare. To make at least the ultimate assertion true, Mr. Gilchrist, after having been acquainted for some time with John, insisted that he should cease all communication with the 'Calvinistic preacher.' This Clare refused at once, looking upon his intercourse with Mr. Holland as an entirely private matter, not in the least connected with religious opinions. The refusal brought about a great coldness on the part of Mr. Gilchrist, which Clare no sooner perceived than he absented himself from his house. This was very unfortunate; but could scarcely be helped for the moment. John Clare was totally unable to understand the orthodox high-church principles of the former student of Magdalene College, while Mr. Gilchrist, on his part, was incapacitated from appreciating the lofty feeling of independence that existed in the breast of the poor lime-burner and farm labourer. In his account in the 'London Magazine,' Mr. Gilchrist's estimate of the poet's character was expressed in the words:—'Nothing could exceed the meekness, and simplicity, and diffidence with which he answered the various inquiries concerning his life and habits;' and it was upon this supposed 'meekness' that all subsequent treatment of Clare by him and other friends and patrons was based. But it was an estimate of character entirely false. Though meek and humble outwardly, the consequence of early training and later habit, John Clare had all the towering pride of genius—more than this, of genius misunderstood.

The year of 1820 broke dull and gloomy upon Clare. He had expected his poems to be published in the month of November, or the beginning of December previous; but was without any information whatever, either from Stamford or London, and did not know when the long-expected book would appear, or whether it would appear at all. The little money he had received from Mr. Drury at various periods—some twenty pounds altogether—had been spent by this time, and, being out of work, he was once more face to face with grim poverty. 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 slightest notion of what his friend meant or alluded to. But Mr. Holland kept on laughing and dancing, shaking himself like a wet poodle. 'Am I not a good prophet?' he repeated, again and 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 been so well all his life. Mr. Holland was about getting into his wet saddle again. 'Oh, do stop a little longer,' said John, imploringly; '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, perceived the actual state of affairs. 'Well,' 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 in your company.' And in a twinkling of the 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.

The good news of which the Rev. Mr. Holland had been the bearer was soon confirmed on all sides. Early the next morning there came a messenger from Stamford, asking Clare to visit Mr. Drury as well as Mr. Gilchrist. He called first at the house of the latter, and was very graciously received, being informed that his poems were published, and that Mr. William Gifford, editor of the 'Quarterly Review' had taken a great interest in him and his book. John Clare, who had never heard either of Mr. Gifford, or the 'Quarterly,' listened to the news with much indifference, to the evident surprise of his friend. Leaving Mr. Gilchrist, he went next door, to Mr. Drury, and, entering the shop, fell back with astonishment on hearing a tall aristocratic-looking elderly gentleman inquire for 'John Clare's Poems.' It sounded like sweet music to his ear, the cracked voice of the old gentleman. Mr. Drury, not noticing the entrance of Clare, took a small octavo volume from the top of a parcel of similar books lying on his counter, and handed it to the gentleman, informing his customer at the same time that the poems were 'universally applauded both by the critics of London and the public.' John kept firm in his corner near the door; he thought his friend Drury the most eloquent speaker he had ever heard. 'And, pray, who is this John Clare?' asked the tall aristocratic-looking gentleman. 'He is …' began Mr. Drury, but suddenly stopped short, seeing a whole row of his books tumble to the ground. John Clare, in his terrible excitement, had pressed too close towards an overhanging shelf of heavily-bound folios and quartos, which came down with a tremendous crash. It seemed as if an earthquake was overturning the 'New Public Library;' and the astonishment of the owner did not subside when he saw his poetical friend creeping out from under the ruins of five-score dictionaries, gazetteers, and account-books. Having somewhat recovered his composure, Mr. Drury, with a grave mien, turned towards the tall gentleman, exclaiming, 'I beg to introduce to you Mr. Clare, the poet.' The gentleman burst out laughing at the intensely ludicrous scene before him; yet checked himself instantly, seeing the colour mount into Clare's face. 'I beg you a thousand pardons, Mr. Clare,' he exclaimed; 'I hope you have not been hurt.' And as if to compensate for his rude hilarity, the tall gentleman entered into a conversation with Clare, ending by an invitation to visit him at his residence on the following day: 'Mr. Drury will give you my address; good morning.' John Clare made no reply, and only bowed; he did not feel much liking for his new acquaintance. However, when Mr. Drury told him that the stranger was General Birch Reynardson, a gentleman of large property, residing near Stamford, on an estate called Holywell Park, and that his acquaintance might be of the greatest benefit for the success of his book, if not for himself, Clare consented to pay the desired visit. The allusion to his published poems by Mr. Drury was pleasant to his ears, and Clare eagerly sat down to examine his book. It was not by any means a handsome volume in outward appearance, being bound in thick blue cardboard, with a small piece of coarse linen on the back. But the coarseness of the material was relieved by the inscription, 'Clare's Poems,' printed on the back in large letters; and the plain appearance of the book was forgotten over the title-page, 'Poems descriptive of rural life and scenery, by John Clare, a Northamptonshire peasant.' He eagerly ran his eye over the poems, and was more than ever pleased with them in their new dress, with slightly altered spelling, and all the signs of punctuation added. There was only one part of the book with which he was not pleased, which was the part headed 'introduction.' It gave an untrue account of his life, and, what was still more galling to the pride of the poet, spoke of his poverty as the main point deserving public attention. All this deeply hurt his feelings; nevertheless the predominating sentiment of joy and satisfaction prevented him saying anything on the subject to Mr. Drury. He stayed some hours at the shop, and it was arranged that early on the next morning he should call again to get ready for the important visit to General Reynardson. When on the point of leaving, Mr. Drury put a letter in Clare's hands. 'I had almost forgotten it,' he said; 'it has been lying at the shop for several days. I suppose it is from your sweetheart.'

The letter was from the 'sweetheart;' but a very melancholy letter it was nevertheless. Poor Martha Turner told her lover, what he knew long ago, that she was about becoming a mother before being a wife; that her situation was known to her parents; that her father and mother refused to forgive her frailty; and that she was cruelly treated and on the point of being expelled from under their roof. John Clare read the letter on the roadside, between Stamford and Helpston; he read it over again and again, and his burning tears fell upon the little sheet of paper. A fierce conflict of passions and desires arose within his soul. He fancied that he did not love Martha Turner half so well as the pretty little lass of Southorp; he fancied that since his first overwhelming affection for 'Mary,' he had never been devoted, heart and soul, so much to any one as to Betty Sell. Yet to Martha Turner, once his sweet 'Patty of the Vale,' he knew he was bound by even stronger ties than those of affection and love—he trembled thinking thus, yet held firm to the nobler element in his breast. The secret struggle, short and intense, ended with a firm resolve that duty should conquer passion.

Early on the day following, John Clare made his appearance at Mr. Drury's shop. The busy tradesman had already provided an outfit for his friend, whom he meant to patronize more than ever, now that his poems promised to be successful. In the course of half an hour, John found himself clothed in garments such as he had never before worn. He had a black coat, waistcoat, and trousers, a silk necktie, and a noble, though very uncomfortable, high hat; while his heavy shoes seemed changed by a covering of brilliant polish. Surveying his figure, thus altered, in a looking-glass, John was greatly satisfied with himself, and with a proud step marched off towards Holywell Park. General Birch Reynardson received him with great affability; at once took him by the hand, and led him into the library. It was the finest collection of books Clare had ever seen, and he warmly expressed his admiration of it. After a while, the General took a small quarto, bound in red morocco, from the shelves, and showing it to his guest, asked him what he thought of the contents. They were poems written by the general's father; and Clare, seeing the fact stated on the title-page, was polite enough to declare them to be very beautiful. Another red-morocco volume thereupon came down from the shelves, full of manuscript poetry of the General's own composition. John Clare began to see that genius was hereditary in the family, and expressing as much to his host, earned a grateful smile, and a warm pressure of the hand. He was asked next to promenade in the gardens till dinner was ready.

The gardens of Holywell Park were laid out with great taste, and John Clare soon lost himself in admiration of the many beautiful views opened before him. While wandering along the banks of an artificial lake, fed by a cascade at the upper end, he was joined by a young lady of extraordinary beauty. He believed it was the wife of the General; yet, though showing the deepest respect to the lady who addressed him while walking at his side, he could not help looking up into her face now and then, in mute admiration of her exquisite loveliness. The General, after a while, joined the promenaders, when John, somewhat to his surprise, learnt that his fair companion was not the hostess of the establishment, but the governess. Notwithstanding the presence of the master of the house, the young lady continued speaking to Clare in the freest and most unrestrained manner, bewitching him alike by the tones of her voice and the soft words of flattering praise she poured into his ear. She told him that she had read twice through the volume of poetry which the General had brought home the preceding evening, having sat up for this purpose the greater part of the night. Clare's face got scarlet when he heard these bewitching words; never before had praise sounded so sweet to his ear; never before had it come to him from such honeyed lips. He was beside himself for joy, when, as a proof of her good memory, she began reciting one of his poems: 'My love, thou art a nosegay sweet.' And when she came to the last line, 'And everlasting love thee,' Clare's eyes and those of the beautiful girl met, and he felt her glances burning into his very soul. The general did not seem to take much notice of his companions, being busy picking up stones in the footpath, and examining the state of the grass on the borders of his flower beds. On returning towards the house, he informed Clare that the servants were about sitting down to their dinner, and told him to join them in the hall. The young governess appeared intensely surprised at the words; she looked up, first at the General and then at Clare. Probably it seemed to her a gross insult that a poet should be sent to take his meal with the footmen and scullery-maids. But Clare's face looked bright and serene; to him, as much as to the master of the house, it appeared perfectly natural to be returned to his proper social sphere, after a momentary dream-like rise into higher social regions.

He walked into the hall, and humbly sat down at the lower end of the servants' table. The big lackeys whispered among themselves, looking with a haughty air upon the base intruder. John Clare heeded it not; his soul was far away in a world of bliss. Before him, in his imagination still hovered that sweet beautiful face which he had seen in the gardens; in his ear still sounded the soft tones of her voice: 'And everlasting love thee.' Thus he sat at the table, among the footmen and kitchen wenches, tasting neither food nor drink—an object of utter contempt to his neighbours. Before long, however, there came a message from the housekeeper's room, inviting Clare to proceed to the select apartments of this potent lady. He followed the servant mechanically, careless where he was going; but was joyfully surprised on entering the room to see his dream changed into reality. There, opposite the table, sat his beautiful garden-companion, smiling more sweetly, and looking more exquisitely enchanting than ever. She stretched out her little white hand, and Clare sat down near her, utterly unmindful of the presence of the mistress of the apartment, the lady housekeeper. The latter felt somewhat offended in her dignity, yet overlooked it for the moment, being desirous to proffer a request. Having succeeded in rousing Clare's attention, she informed her visitor, with becoming condescension, that she was very fond of poetry; also that she had a son who was very fond of poetry. But it so happened that, though very fond of reading verses, neither she nor her son was able to produce any. Now hearing, from her friend the governess, that there was a poet in the house, she had taken the liberty to send for him, to do some trifling work. What she wanted was an address of filial love, as touching and affectionate as possible; this she would send to her son, and her dear son would return it to her, signed by his own name. She hoped it could be done at once, while she was getting the tea ready. Could it be done at once? Clare started on hearing himself addressed a second time by the high-toned lady—he did not remember a word of all that had been said to him. But he bowed in silence, and the dignified elderly person left the room to make the tea, firmly persuaded that her poetry would be got ready in the meantime. When she was gone, Clare looked up, and found a pair of burning eyes fixed upon him. He tried to speak, but could not; the words, rising from his heart, seemed to perish on his tongue. After a long pause, the young governess, flushed with emotion, found courage to address her neighbour: 'I hope to see you again, Mr. Clare; I hope you will write to me sometimes.' He had no time to reply before the bell rang and a servant entered the room, reporting that General Birch Reynardson wished to see John Clare before leaving. The intimation was understood. John went up to the library, bowed before his stately host, muttered a few words of thanks, he knew not exactly for what, and left the house. When the gate closed after him, he felt as if expelled from the garden of Eden.

Slowly he walked up the road, when suddenly a white figure started up on his path. The young governess again stood before Clare. 'I could not hear of your going,' cried the beautiful girl, her bright face suffused with blushes, and her long auburn hair fluttering in the wind; 'I could not hear of your going, without saying good-bye.' Clare again tried to speak, and again the words died upon his lips. But she continued addressing him; 'Oh, do not forget to write to me,' she said earnestly, with a tinge of melancholy in her soft voice. It thrilled through his soul, and opened his lips at last. 'I will write,' he answered, 'and I will send you some new poems.' Thus saying, he bent forward and took both her hands, and their eyes met, full of unspeakable passion. But a sudden noise from the distance startled Clare and his fair companion. There was a man on horseback coming up with full speed, riding in the direction of Holywell Park. The young governess softly loosened her hands, turned a last fond look upon the poet, and fled away like a frightened hind into a neighbouring wood.

John Clare hurried forward, his face flushed, his head trembling; forgetful of all the things around him. At last, feeling exhausted, he sat down on a stone, at the turning of two roads. The one of the roads was leading to Stamford; the other to Bridge Casterton and Walkherd Lodge. Clare felt like one entranced. Joy unutterable was struggling in his bosom together with infinite sadness, and the wild pulsation of his heart seemed to drive his blood, like living fire, to his very soul. And he held his burning head in his hands, sitting at the corner of the two roads. The image of the beautiful girl he had just left, an image more perfect, more sweet and angelic than ever conceived by his imagination, appeared standing in one of the roads, and the picture of a sad, suffering woman, surrounded by angry parents, in the other. Lower sank the sun on the horizon; it was beginning to get dark; but Clare still kept sitting at the corner of the two roads, his throbbing head bent to his knees. The clouds in the west glowed with a fierce purple, when he started up at last. He started up and walked, swiftly and with firm step, towards Walkherd Lodge. The clouds in the west seemed to glow with an unearthly light.