The Life of John Clare | Page 6

walks, for miles around the country,
moving forward with long strides, and either talking to himself or
humming soft tunes; on which account his pupils styled him 'the
bumble-bee.' The old man was passionately fond of music, and devoted
every minute spared from school duties and his long walks, to his
violin. To the more promising of his pupils Mr. James Merrishaw
showed great kindness, allowing them, among other things, the run of
his library, somewhat larger than that of ordinary village schoolmasters.
John Clare had not been many times to Glinton, before he was enrolled

among these favourites of Mr. Merrishaw. Being able already to read,
through his own exertions, based on the fundamental principles
instilled by Dame Bullimore, little John dived with delight into the
treasures opened at the Glinton school, never tired to go through the
somewhat miscellaneous book stores of Mr. Merrishaw. In a short
while, the young student was seized with a real hunger for knowledge.
He toiled day and night to perfect himself, not only in reading and
writing, but in some impossible things which he had taken into his head
to learn, such as algebra and mathematics. Coming home late at night,
from his long walk to school, he astonished and not a little perplexed
his poor parents by crouching down before the fire, and tracing, in the
faint glimmer of a burning log, incomprehensible signs upon bits of
paper, or sometimes pieces of wood. Far too poor to buy even the
commonest kind of writing paper, John was in the habit of picking up
shreds of the same material, such as used by grocers and other village
shopkeepers, and to scratch thereon his signs and figures, sometimes
with a pencil, but oftener with a piece of charcoal. Perhaps there never
was a more unfavourable study of mathematics and algebra.
For two winters and part of a wet summer, John Clare went to Mr.
Merrishaw's school at Glinton, during short intervals of hard labour in
the fields. At the end of this period a curious accident seemed to give a
sudden turn to his prospects in life. A maternal uncle, called Morris
Stimson, one day made his appearance at Helpston, having been
previously on a visit to his father and sisters at Castor. Uncle Morris
was looked upon as a very grand personage, he holding the post of
footman to a lawyer at Wisbeach, and as such clad in the finest plush
and broadcloth. Being duly reverenced, the splendid uncle in his turn
thought it his duty to patronize his humble friends, and accordingly was
kind enough to offer little John a situation in his master's office. There
was a vacancy for a clerk at Wisbeach, and Uncle Morris was sure his
nephew was just the man to fill it. John himself thought otherwise; but
was immediately overruled in his opinion by father, mother, and uncle.
A boy who had been to Mr. Merrishaw's for ever so many evenings;
who could read a chapter from the Bible as well as the parson, and who
was drawing figures upon paper night after night: why, he was fit
enough to be not only a lawyer's clerk, but, if need be, a minister of the
church. So they argued, and it was settled that John should go to

Wisbeach, and be duly installed as a clerk in the office just above the
pantry in which dwelt Uncle Morris. Mr. Morris Stimson did not stop at
Helpston longer than a day; but, before leaving, made careful
arrangements that his nephew should follow him to Wisbeach precisely
at the end of seven days.
Those were stirring seven days in the little hut of Parker Clare. The
poor mother, anxious to assist to the best of her power in her son's rise
in life, ransacked her scanty wardrobe to the utmost, to put John in
what she deemed a proper dress. She mended all his clothes as neatly as
possible; she made him a pair of breeches out of an old dress, and a
waistcoat from a shawl; and then ran up and down the village to get a
few more necessary things, including an old white necktie, and a pair of
black woollen gloves. Thus equipped, John Clare started for Wisbeach
one Friday morning in spring--date not discoverable, but supposed to
be somewhere about the year 1807. The poor mother cried bitterly
when John shook hands for the last time at the bottom of the village;
the father tried hard to hide his tears, but did not succeed; and John
himself, light-hearted at first, had a good cry when he turned his face at
Elton, and got a final glimpse of the steeple of Helpston church.
Beyond Elton John Clare had never been in his life, and it was with