It was on one of the first days in April when Clare commenced his trade as pedlar. With a dozen volumes of his poems in a canvas bag, slung by a strap over his shoulders, he bravely issued forth from his little hut, taking the road to Market Deeping. The people of the village, well acquainted with all his doings, peeped at him from out of doors and windows, shaking their heads in wonder at the strange sight. To his Helpston countrymen, Clare's new calling did not seem at all degrading, but, on the contrary, too ambitious. They looked upon a bagman as a person of superior social rank--decidedly higher than a poet. Their conclusions were fully justified from their own point of view, in a material sense. The hawkers who passed through Helpston were mostly men of substance, putting-up at the 'Blue Bell,' and ordering the best of everything from kitchen and cellar; while the poet among them was a starving wretch, over head and ears in debt, and with one foot in the workhouse. When Clare set out as a pedlar, therefore, they all declared that his ambition was carrying him too high. 'Pride comes before the fall,' said the old ones, tottering to, the door, and stretching their necks to get a sight of neighbour John. He took no heed of all the signs of curiosity, but walked briskly up the road towards the north. The sun shone bright when he started; but before long it began to rain heavily, so that he was wet all through when arrived at Market Deeping. According to his carefully-arranged plan, he first called upon the rector. The reverend gentleman was at home, and condescended to see the poet. But his brow darkened when learning the errand of his visitor. He told Clare sharply that he did not intend buying his poems, and that, moreover, he held it unbecoming to see them hawked about in this manner. Having said this, he bowed his visitor out of the room, perceiving that his clothes were dripping wet, and likely to spoil his carpet. The poor pedlar-poet left the house with, an ill-suppressed tear in his eye.
It still rained heavily, and Clare took refuge in a covered yard attached to an inn. There were some horse-dealers lolling about, talking of the state of the weather and the forthcoming races. One of them, a jolly-looking man with red hair and a red nose, after scanning Clare for a while, engaged him in conversation. 'You have got something to sell there: what is it?' The answer was, 'Books.'--'Whose books?'--'My own.'--'Yes, I know they are your own; or at least I suppose so. But what kind of books, and by what author?'--'Poems, written by myself.' The horse-dealer stared. He looked fixedly at Clare, who was sitting on a stone, utterly dejected, and scarcely noticing his interlocutor. The latter seemed to feel stirred by sympathy, and in a more respectful tone than before exclaimed, 'May I ask your name?'--'My name is John Clare,' was the reply, pronounced in a faint voice. But the words were no sooner uttered, when the jolly man with the red nose seized Clare by both hands. 'Well, I am really glad to meet you,' he cried; 'I often heard of you, and many a time thought of calling at Helpston, but couldn't manage it.' Then, shouting at the top of his voice to some friends at the farther end of the yard, he ejaculated, 'Here's John Clare: I've got John Clare.' The appeal brought a score of horse-jobbers up in a moment. They took hold of the poet without ceremony, dragged him off his stone, and round the yard into the back entrance of the inn. 'Brandy hot, or cold?' inquired the eldest of Clare's friends. There was a refusal under both heads, coupled with the remark that a cup of tea would be acceptable. An order for it was given at once, and after a good breakfast, and a long conversation with his new acquaintances, Clare left the inn, delighted with the reception he had met with. He had sold all his books, and received for them more than the full price, several of his customers refusing to take change. It altogether seemed a good beginning of a good trade.