This visit proved a turning-point in Clare's life. Mr Drury had seen the prospectus, and being struck with its extreme simplicity, had determined to find out the author and have a look at his poems. But the singular appearance of the poet must have surprised him even more than the peculiar style of his prospectus. "A man of short stature, keen eager eyes, high forehead, long hair, falling down in wild and almost grotesque fashion over his shoulders, and garments tattered and torn, altogether little removed from rags"—such is the portrait his biographer, Mr Frederick Martin, draws of John Clare at this time.
At his visitor's request Clare produced a bundle of his poems, the first of which so pleased the bookseller that he at once made him a most generous offer—in effect to print the poems at his own expense, and give Clare the profits.
But when he read over another packet of poems which Clare sent him afterwards the bookseller began to be afraid he had gone too far, and accordingly asked the opinion of a learned clergyman, who, no doubt shocked at the bad spelling and grammar, pronounced decidedly against them. A few days after Clare went over to Stamford to learn what was going to be done. Mr Drury put the clergyman's letter into his hands; Clare read it, burst into tears, and rushed out of the shop. The kind-hearted bookseller, grieved at his want of tact, ran after him, and by dint of much talk consoled him. The poems were then sent up to London. Mr Taylor, the publisher, had the discrimination to see that their author was a real poet, and that his work only wanted a little polishing. From this time forth Mr Drury proved his friend. He had him continually to his house, lent him books, advised and talked with him, and used his influence over him in a very praiseworthy manner.
But alas for such poets as John Clare—there was little hope foi them in those days except they consented to yield themselves t< the enervating influence of patronage. It mattered little to sturdy, self-reliant man when he had fairly got on his own legs; but it was a continual source of pain to a sensitive, gentle, clinging nature such as Clare's. He was sure to rely too much upon he was sure to surrender too much to it, and then to resent its very natural dictation.
