In about a week after the despatch of the pitch-sealed letter, there came a reply from Mr. Henson, of Market Deeping. It intimated that the prospectuses, with appended specimen poem, were nearly ready, and would be handed over to John Clare, on a given day, at the Dolphin inn, Stamford. Accordingly, on the day named, Clare went over to Stamford, his heart fluttering high with expectations. When Mr. Henson handed him the 'Address to the Public,' with the 'Sonnet to the Setting Sun' on the other side, both neatly corrected and printed in large type, he was beside himself for joy. In its new dress, his poetry looked so charmingly beautiful, that he scarcely knew it again. His hopes rose to the highest pitch when he found that the admiration of his printed verses was shared by others. While they were sitting in the parlour of the Dolphin inn, drinking and talking, there came in a clerical-looking gentleman, who, after having listened a while to the conversation about the forthcoming volume of poetry, politely inquired for the title of the book. Mr. Henson, with business-like anxiety, at once came forward, explaining all the circumstances of the case, not forgetting to praise the verses and the writer to the skies. The gentleman, evidently touched by the recital, at once told Mr. Henson to put his name down as a subscriber, giving his address as the Rev. Mr. Mounsey, Master of the Stamford Grammar-school. John Clare was ready to fall on the neck of the kind subscriber, first admirer of his poetry; but prudently restraining himself, he only mumbled his thanks, with an ill-suppressed tear in his eye. After having made arrangements for the circulation of the prospectuses, boldly undertaking to distribute a hundred himself, John Clare then went back to his lodgings at Pickworth, dancing more than walking.

The first bright vision of fame and happiness thus engendered was as short as it was intense. It was followed, for a time, by a long array of troubles and misfortune, making the poor poet more wretched than he had ever been before. Soon after his meeting with Mr. Henson at the Dolphin inn, he had a quarrel with his mistress, and a more serious disagreement with her parents, followed by a harsh interdict to set his foot again within the confines of Walkherd Lodge. A few weeks subsequently, his master discharged him, under the probably well-justified accusation that he was neglecting his work, scribbling verses all day long, and running about to distribute his prospectuses. This discharge came in the autumn of 1818, and put Clare to the severest distress. The expenses connected with his poetical speculation had swallowed up all his hoardings, and left him absolutely without a penny in the world. After several ineffectual efforts to find work as a lime-burner either at Pickworth or Casterton, he bethought himself to seek again employment as a farm-labourer, and for this purpose went back to Helpston. His parents, now quite reduced to the mercies of the workhouse, and subsisting entirely upon parish relief, received him with joy; but nearly all other doors were shut against him. The wide-spread rumour that he was going to publish a book, had created a great sensation in the village, but, so far from gaining him any friends, had raised up a host of jealous detractors and enemies. Among the most ignorant of the villagers, the cry prevailed that he was a schemer and impostor; while the better-informed people, including the small farmers of the neighbourhood, set him down as a man who had taken up pursuits incompatible with his position. Perhaps the latter view was not an altogether unjust one; at any rate, the farmers, all of them people of small means, acted upon good precedent in refusing John Clare work, after he had been discharged, by his last employer, for gross neglect of duty. It was in vain that Clare offered to do 'jobs,' or work by contract; his very anxiety to get into employment, of whatever kind it might be, was held to be presumptuous, and all his offers and promises met with nothing but distrust. In this frightful state of things, there was only one resource remaining to John Clare, to escape starvation—to do as his parents, and beg a dry loaf of bread from the tender mercies of the parish. His name, accordingly, was enrolled in the list of paupers.

But as if the cup of his distress was not yet full enough, John Clare, while reduced to this lowest state of misery, got a note from Mr. Henson, of Market-Deeping, informing him that the distributed prospectuses had only brought seven subscribers, and that the scheme of printing the poems would have to be dropped entirely, unless he could advance fifteen pounds to meet the necessary expenses. To Clare, this information sounded like mockery. To ask him, while in absolute want of food, to raise fifteen pounds, appeared to him an insult—which probably it was not meant to be. Mr. Henson, the printer and bookseller, had very little knowledge of the actual state of his correspondent, and looking upon the whole scheme of publishing poetry as the driest matter of business, addressed Clare as he would have any other customer. This, however, was not the way in which the deeply-distressed poet viewed the proceedings. He gave way to his feelings in a very angry letter, after despatching which he sank into deep despondency. It seemed to him as if he had now made shipwreck of his life and all his hopes.

Recovering from this sudden access of grief, he made a fresh resolve. At twenty-five, men seldom die of despondency—not even poets. John Clare, too, decided not to give up the battle of life at once, but prolong it a short while by becoming a soldier. However, he was afraid to add to the distress of his father and mother by informing them of this plan, and, therefore, left home under the pretence that he was going to seek work. It was a fine spring morning—year 1819—when he took once more the road to Stamford. Passing by Burghley Park, he was strongly reminded of that other sunny day in spring when he came the same way with Thomson's 'Seasons' in hand; when he was seized with the sudden passion for poetry, and when he wrote his first verses under the hedge of the gardens, fall of joy and happiness. And he pondered upon the sad change which had taken place in these ten years. He had written many more verses—far better verses, he fully believed; and yet was poorer than ever, and more wretched and miserable than he had imagined he could possibly be. Thus ran the flow of his thoughts: sad and gloomy, though not without an undercurrent of more hopeful nature. There was a deep-rooted belief in his heart that the poems he had written were not entirely worthless, and that notwithstanding the coldness and antipathy of the world, notwithstanding his own poverty and wretchedness, the day would come when their value would be appreciated. The new sanguine spirit took more and more hold of him while looking over the hedge into the park, and around on the fields, smiling in their first green of new-born loveliness, and enlivened with the melodious song of birds. Once more, his heart was warmed as of old, and he sat down under a tree, to compose another song. It was a poem in praise of nature, gradually changing into a love-song; and while writing down the lines, his heart grew melancholy in thoughts of his absent mistress, his sweet 'Patty of the Vale,' separated from him, perhaps, for ever. To see her once more, before enlisting as a soldier, now came to be the most ardent desire of his heart.

The shades of evening were sinking fast, when John Clare reached Bridge Casterton, on his way to Walkherd Cottage. He was just in view of the smiling little garden in front of the house, when a figure, but too well known, crossed has path. It was Patty. She wanted to speak, and she wanted to fly; her lips moved, but she did not utter a word. Clare, too, was lost, for a minute, in mute embarrassment; but, recovering himself, he rushed towards her, and with fervent passion pressed her to his heart. Patty was too much a child of nature not to respond to this burst of affection, and for some minutes the lovers held each other in sweet embrace. They might have prolonged their embrace for hours, but were disturbed by calls from the neighbouring lodge. The anxious parent within heard words, and sounds, and stifled kisses, and doubting whether they came from the shoemaker, sent forth shrill cries for Martha to come in without delay. But darkness made Patty bold; she assured her mother that there was 'nobody,' accompanying the word by another kiss. Then, with loving caress, she tore herself from Clare's arms, flying up the narrow path to the cottage. John Clare was transfixed to the spot for a few minutes, and, having gazed again and again at the rose-embowered dwelling, made his way back to Stamford, joyful, yet sad at heart. On the road, close to Casterton, he met some old acquaintances of the lime-kiln, going to the same destination, intent on an evening's drinking bout. John was asked to join, and after some reluctance, consented. The lime-burners had their pockets well-filled for the night, and the jug of ale went round with much rapidity. When gaiety was at the culminating point, a tall gentleman, in the uniform of the Royal Artillery, joined the merry company. The jug passed to him, and he returned the compliment by ordering a fresh supply of good old ale. Now the talk grew fast and loud, opening the sluices of mutual confidence. John Clare loudly proclaimed his intention of becoming a soldier, ready to fight his way up to generalship.

'Do you mean it?' inquired the tall gentleman in uniform.

'Of course I do,' retorted John, somewhat nettled at the incredulity of his neighbour.

'Well, if you really mean it,' resumed the artilleryman, 'take that shilling.'

John, without hesitation, took the shilling. After which, he fell fast asleep.

When he awoke, the next morning, he found that he was lying on a bench, behind a long table, strewn with jugs, bottles, and glasses. The room was filled with fumes of tobacco and stale beer, through which the sun shone with a dull uncertain light. Rubbing his eyes, Clare jumped from his hard couch, and in a moment was out of doors. The first person he met in the passage was the military gentleman of the previous evening. John Clare was astonished; and so was the man in uniform. John was surprised to find the gentleman so very tall, and the gentleman was surprised to find John so very small—two facts observed by neither of them at the convivial table the evening before. The man in uniform was the first to recover his astonishment, and, approaching Clare with a cordial shake of the hand, expressed his regret that, in the excitement of the previous night, things should have happened which would not have occurred otherwise. But it was not likely that one of his Majesty's officers in the artillery would take an advantage of such an accident, keeping as a recruit a friend who, he was sure, meant the whole only a joke. A burden fell from John's heavily-oppressed heart when he heard these words. Of course, it was only a joke, he muttered forth; and the proof of it was that he kept the shilling intact, just as it had been given to him. With which he handed the potent coin back to the tall gentleman. It was the identical shilling he had received; there could he no mistake, inasmuch as it was the only shilling he had had in his possession for many a day. The man in uniform smiled; smiled still more when John Clare searched in his pockets, withdrawing a much-creased, dirty-looking piece of paper. 'Original Trifles,' exclaimed the tall gentleman; reading the paper; 'Ah, I thank you, thank you very much. Not in my line.' Which saying, he vanished behind the counter of the tap-room. John Clare was lost, as to many other things, so to the Royal Artillery.

In a very uncertain mood, his head still somewhat heavy, John Clare took his way back to Helpston. He congratulated himself of having had a very lucky escape from a kind of servitude for which, of all others, he was most unfit; and yet, notwithstanding this piece of good fortune, he felt by no means easy in his mind. What to do next? was the great question he was unable to solve, and which got more intricate the more he thought of it. While giving the spur to his reflections for the hundredth time, he ran against an old fellow-labourer from Helpston, a man named Coblee. The latter was exactly in the same position as John Clare. He had no work, and wanted very much to get a living; but did not know how to get it. Talking the matter over, the two agreed temporarily to join their efforts, under the supposition that such a partnership might possibly be useful to both—as, indeed, it could not make their position worse. This matter settled, plans came to be proposed on both sides. To leave Helpston, and leave it immediately, was a point at once agreed upon; but next came the more difficult matter, as to subsequent proceedings. John Clare was in favour of going northward, into Yorkshire, which county he had heard spoken of as one of milk and honey; while friend Coblee was anxious to seek work in an easterly direction, in the fen-country, where he had some friends and acquaintances. There was great waste of good arguments on both sides, until friend Coblee's experience suggested to decide the matter by a toss. Being the fortunate possessor of a halfpenny, he produced it forthwith, and chance was called upon for an answer. It declared in favour of John, whereupon Coblee—a man seemingly born to be a lawyer—raised various minor questions. He argued that as the subject was one of high importance, it ought not to be left to the decision of a single toss; and, moreover, chance itself, and not the winner, ought to declare in which direction they ought to go. After protracted discussion, the final settlement of the question was postponed to the following day, a Sunday—a very important Sunday in the life of John Clare.

Early on the Sunday morning, the two friends met, as agreed upon, at Bachelors' Hall, the general club and meeting place of the young men of Helpston. The news that Clare and Coblee were on the point of leaving the village together, to seek fortune in distant places, had spread rapidly, and attracted a large number of old friends and acquaintances. Clare was not a popular man, but Coblee was; and to honour the latter, various bottles were brought in from the neighbouring public-house. Due justice having been done to the contents of these flasks, the discussion respecting the final consultation of Dame Fortune was renewed, and happily brought to an end. It was proposed by the brothers Billing, tenants of the Hall, and adopted by a majority of votes, that a stick should be put firmly in the ground, in the middle of the room, and that they should dance around it in a ring till it fell from its erect position. The way in which it fell was to indicate the direction in which the two emigrants were to go. John Clare and Coblee both promised to abide by this award, the latter specially agreeing not to raise any minor questions afterwards. All this having been duly arranged, the stick was put into the clay, the circle was formed, and the visitors at Bachelors' Hall began their dance. They danced fast and furiously; danced like men with a great object before them, and empty bottles behind. Suddenly a loud knocking was heard at the gate. The stick stood still upright, and there was a moment's pause in the dance. 'John Clare must come home at once,' said a shrill little voice outside; 'there are two gentlemen waiting for him: two real gentlemen.' 'Shall I go?' inquired John. 'Go, by all means,' dictated the elder of the Bachelor Brothers, 'we will wait for you.' They waited long, but John did not return.