him from going quite astray at this juncture. He enjoyed the freedom, the merriment, the wit of his nomadic friends, but he could not stomach their greasy pot. So after a time he returned to honest labour, and began working in a limekiln at 10s. a week.
One Sunday afternoon, having had his glass at the village inn, he sat down under a hedge, when the vision of Patty—Patty of the Vale—Patty, who was to prove his faithful wife, came across him.
His thoughts rose high again. Bright forms once more appeared above the horizon. He set his heart on three objects. To possess his charming Patty, to see his poems printed in a book, and to wear an olive-green coat!
However, John was a born poet, and in spite of all his illusions he could not help bursting forth with the words—
"What are vain hopes? The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each flow'ret of its gem—and dies;
A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which slings more keenly through the deep disguise."
Some one had put it into his head that the only way to get his poems printed was to issue a prospectus, and so to induce a number of persons to become subscribers. The prospectus was printed and distributed, but although Clare got seven names put down, he only had one real subscriber to the book.
He now became restless and determined to quit his native village, he and another man named Coblee. The night before they were to depart, the jovial crew who held their revels at the Bachelors' Hall had a farewell feast. By way of settling to what part of the country Clare and his friend should journey, it was proposed that a stick should be put up in the middle of the room, that they should all join hands and dance around it, and that the way it fell should indicate the direction the travellers were to take. In the midst of this singular proceeding there was a loud tap at the door. When it was opened, a voice was heard calling for John Clare to come home at once, as there were two real gentlemen waiting to see him. John went without delay, and the two real gentlemen proved to be Mr Edward Drury, bookseller, of Stamford, and his friend the editor of the Stamford Mercury.
