It was on the occasion of his third visit to London that Dr. Darling exacted from Clare the promise, already referred to, that he would observe the strictest moderation in drinking, and if possible abstain altogether. Clare kept his word, but his domestic difficulties remaining unabated he suffered much, not only from physical weakness but from melancholy forebodings which were destined to be only too completely realized. He made many ineffectual attempts to obtain employment in the neighbourhood of Helpstone, and it is especially to be regretted that his applications, first to the Marquis of Exeter's steward and then to Earl Fitzwilliam's, for the situation of gardener were unsuccessful, because the employment would have been congenial to his tastes, and the wages, added to his annuities, would have been to him a competence.
During the years 1824-23 Clare kept a diary, which, for those who desire to know the man as well as the poet, is full of interest, on account of the side-lights which it throws upon his character, and also upon his pursuits during this period of involuntary leisure. The following extracts are selected:—
September 7, 1824.—
I have read "Foxe's Book of Martyrs" and finished it to-day, and the sum of my opinion is, that tyranny and cruelty appear to be the inseparable companions of religious power, and the aphorism is not far from truth that says "all priests are the same."
September 11.—
Wrote an essay to-day on the sexual system of plants, and began one on the fungus tribe, and on mildew, blight, &c., intended for "A Natural History of Helpstone," in a series of letters to Hessey, who will publish it when finished. Received a kind letter from C.A. Elton.
September 12.—
Finished another page of my life. I have read the first chapter of Genesis, the beginning of which is very fine, but the sacred historian took a great deal upon credit for this world when he imagined that God created the sun, moon, and stars, those mysterious hosts of heaven, for no other purpose than its use. It is a harmless and universal propensity to magnify consequences that pertain to ourselves, and it would be a foolish thing to test Scripture upon these groundless assertions, for it contains the best poetry and the best morality in the world.
September 19.—
Read snatches of several poets and the Song of Solomon: thought the supposed allusions in that luscious poem to our Saviour very overstrained, far-fetched, and conjectural. It appears to me an Eastern love poem, and nothing further, but an over-heated religious fancy is strong enough to fancy anything. I think the Bible is not illustrated by that supposition: though it is a very beautiful poem it seems nothing like a prophetic one, as it is represented to be.
September 22.—
Very ill, and did nothing but ponder over a future existence, and often brought up the lines to my memory said to have been uttered by an unfortunate nobleman when on the brink of it, ready to take the plunge:—
In doubt I lived, in doubt I die,Nor shrink the dark abyss to try,But undismayed I meet eternity.
The first line is natural enough, but the rest is a rash courage in such a situation.
September 23.—
A wet day: did nothing but nurse my illness: could not have walked out had it been fine. Very disturbed in conscience about the troubles of being forced to endure life and die by inches, and the anguish of leaving my children, and the dark porch of eternity, whence none return to tell the tale of their reception.
September 24.—
Tried to walk out and could not: have read nothing this week, my mind almost overweighting me with its upbraidings and miseries: my children very ill, night and morning, with a fever, makes me disconsolate, and yet how happy must be the death of a child! It bears its sufferings with an innocent patience that maketh man ashamed, and with it the future is nothing but returning to sleep, with the thought, no doubt, of waking to be with its playthings again.
September 29.—
Took a walk in the fields: saw an old wood stile taken away from a familiar spot which it had occupied all my life. The posts were overgrown with ivy, and it seemed akin to nature and the spot where it stood, as though it had taken it on lease for an undisturbed existence. It hurt me to see it was gone, for my affections claim a friendship with such things; but nothing is lasting in this world. Last year Langley Bush was destroyed—an old white-thorn that had stood for more than a century, full of fame. The gipsies, shepherds, and herdsmen all had their tales of its history, and it will be long ere its memory is forgotten.
October 8.—
Very ill to-day and very unhappy. My three children are all unwell. Had a dismal dream of being in hell: this is the third time I have had such a dream. As I am more than ever convinced that I cannot recover I will make a memorandum of my temporal concerns, for next to the spiritual they ought to be attended to for the sake of those left behind. I will insert them in No. 5 in the Appendix.
October 9.—
Patty has been to Stamford, and brought me a letter from Ned Drury, who came from Lincoln to the mayor's feast on Thursday. It revives old recollections. Poor fellow: he is an odd one, but still my recollections are inclined in his favour. What a long way to come to the mayor's feast! I would not go one mile after it to hear the din of knives and forks, and to see a throng of blank faces about me, chattering and stuffing, "that boast no more expression than a muffin."
October 12.—
Began to teach a poor lame boy the common rules of arithmetic, and find him very apt and willing to learn.
October 16.—
Wrote two more pages of my life: find it not so easy as I at first imagined, as I am anxious to give an undisguised narrative of facts, good and bad. In the last sketch which I wrote for Taylor I had little vanities about me to gloss over failings which I shall now take care to lay bare, and readers, if they ever are published, to comment upon as they please. In my last four years I shall give my likes and dislikes of friends and acquaintances as free as I do of myself.
December 25.—
Christmas Day: gathered a handful of daisies in full bloom: saw a woodbine and dogrose in the woods putting out in full leaf, and a primrose root full of ripe flowers. What a day this used to be when I was a boy! How eager I used to be to attend the church to see it stuck with evergreens (emblems of eternity), and the cottage windows, and the picture ballads on the wall, all stuck with ivy, holly, box, and yew! Such feelings are past, and "all this world is proud of."
January 7, 1825.—
Bought some cakes of colours with the intention of trying to make sketches of curious snail horns, butterflies, moths, sphinxes, wild flowers, and whatever my wanderings may meet with that are not too common.
January 19.—
Just completed the 9th chapter of my life. Corrected the poem on the"Vanities of the World," which I have written in imitation of the oldpoets, on whom I mean to father it, and send it to Montgomery's paper"The Iris," or the "Literary Chronicle," under that character.
February 26.—
Received a letter in rhyme from a John Pooley, who ran me tenpence further in debt, as I had not money to pay the postage.
March 6.—
Parish officers are modern savages, as the following will testify: "Crowland Abbey.—Certain surveyors have lately dug up several foundation stones of the Abbey, and also a great quantity of stone coffins, for the purpose of repairing the parish roads."—Stamford Mercury.
March 9.—
I had a very odd dream last night, and take it as an ill omen, for I don't expect that the book will meet a better fate. I thought I had one of the proofs of the new poems from London, and after looking at it awhile it shrank through my hands like sand, and crumbled into dust. The birds were singing in Oxey Wood at six o'clock this evening as loud and various as in May.
March 31.—
Artis and Henderson came to see me, and we went to see the Roman station agen Oxey Wood, which he says is plainly Roman.
April 16.—
Took a walk in the fields, bird-nesting and botanizing, and had like to have been taken up as a poacher in Hilly Wood, by a meddlesome, conceited gamekeeper belonging to Sir John Trollope. He swore that he had seen me in the act, more than once, of shooting game, when I never shot even so much as a sparrow in my life. What terrifying rascals these woodkeepers and gamekeepers are! They make a prison of the forest, and are its gaolers.
April 18.—
Resumed my letters on Natural History in good earnest, and intend to get them finished with this year, if I can get out into the fields, for I will insert nothing but what has come under my notice.
May 13.—
Met with an extraordinary incident to-day, while walking in Openwood. I popt unawares on an old fox and her four young cubs that were playing about. She saw me, and instantly approached towards me growling like an angry dog. I had no stick, and tried all I could to fright her by imitating the bark of a fox-hound, which only irritated her the more, and if I had not retreated a few paces back she would have seized me: when I set up an haloo she started.
May 25.—
I watched a bluecap or blue titmouse feeding her young, whose nest was in a wall close to an orchard. She got caterpillars out of the blossoms of the apple trees and leaves of the plum. She fetched 120 caterpillars in half an hour. Now suppose she only feeds them four times a day, a quarter of an hour each time, she fetched no less than 480 caterpillars.
May 28.—
Found the old frog in my garden that has been there four years. I know it by a mark which it received from my spade four years ago. I thought it would die of the wound, so I turned it up on a bed of flowers at the end of the garden, which is thickly covered with ferns and bluebells. I am glad to see it has recovered.
June 3.—
Finished planting my auriculas: went a-botanizing after ferns and orchises, and caught a cold in the wet grass, which has made me as bad as ever. Got the tune of "Highland Mary" from Wisdom Smith, a gipsy, and pricked another sweet tune without name as he riddled it.
June 4.—
Saw three fellows at the end of Royce Wood, who I found were laying out the plan for an iron railway from Manchester to London. It is to cross over Round Oak spring by Royce Wood corner for Woodcroft Castle. I little thought that fresh intrusions would interrupt and spoil my solitudes. After the enclosure they will despoil a boggy place that is famous for orchises at Royce Wood end.
June 23.—
Wrote to Mrs. Emmerson and sent a letter to "Hone's Every-day Book," with a poem which I fathered on Andrew Marvel.
July 12.—
Went to-day to see Artis: found him busy over his antiquities and fossils. He told me a curious thing about the manner in which the golden-crested wren builds her nest: he says it is the only English bird that suspends its nest, which it hangs on three twigs of the fir branch, and it glues the eggs at the bottom of the nest, with the gum out of the tree, to keep them from being thrown out by the wind, which often turns them upside down without injury.
August 21.—
Received a letter from Mr. Emmerson which tells me that Lord Radstock died yesterday. He was the best friend I have met with. Though he possessed too much simple-heartedness to be a fashionable friend or hypocrite, yet it often led him to take hypocrites for honest friends and to take an honest man for a hypocrite.
September 11.—
Went to meet Mr. and Mrs. Emmerson at the New Inn at Deeping, and spent three days with them.
From "No. 5 in the Appendix."—
I will set down before I forget it a memorandum to say that I desire Mrs. Emmerson will do just as she pleases with any MSS. of mine which she may have in her possession, to publish them or not as she chooses; but I desire that any living names mentioned in my letters may be filled up by * * * and all objectionable passages omitted—a wish which I hope will be invariably complied with by all. I also intend to make Mr. Emmerson one of the new executors in my new will. I wish to lie on the north side of the churchyard, about the middle of the ground, where the morning and evening sun can linger the longest on my grave. I wish to have a rough unhewn stone, something in the form of a mile stone, [sketched in the margin] so that the playing boys may not break it in their heedless pastimes, with nothing more on it than this inscription:—"Here rest the hopes and ashes of John Clare." I desire that no date be inserted thereon, as I wish it to live or die with my poems and other writings, which if they have merit with posterity it will, and if they have not it is not worth preserving. October 8th, 1824. "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity."
The "Artis" and "Henderson" referred to in the Diary were respectively butler and head gardener at Milton Park. Artis made a name for himself as the discoverer of extensive Roman remains at Castor, the ancient Durobrivae, of which he published a description, and Henderson was an accomplished botanist and entomologist. Their uniform kindness to the poor poet did them great honour.
While Clare was amusing himself by rhyming in the manner of the poets of the seventeenth century, he had the following correspondence with James Montgomery:—
"Helpstone, January 5, 1825.
"My dear Sir,—
I copied the following verses from a MS. on the fly-leaves of an old book entitled 'The World's Best Wealth, a Collection of Choice Counsels in Verse and Prose, printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster Row, 1720:' they seem to have been written after the perusal of the book, and are in the manner of the company in which I found [them]. I think they are as good as many old poems that have been preserved with more care; and, under that feeling, I was tempted to send them, thinking they might find a corner from oblivion in your entertaining literary paper, the 'Iris;' but if my judgment has misled me to overrate their merit, you will excuse the freedom I have taken, and the trouble I have given you in the perusal; for, after all, it is but an erring opinion, that may have little less than the love of poesy to recommend it.
I am yours sincerely,
To this letter Montgomery replied in the following terms:—
"Dear Sir,—
Some time ago I received from you certain verses said to be copied from the fly-leaves of an old printed book on which they were written. The title was 'The Vanity of Life,' and the book's title 'The World's Best Wealth,' &c. Now though I suspected, from a little ambiguity in the wording of your letter, that these verses were not quite so old as they professed to be, and that you yourself perhaps had written them to exercise your own genius, and sent them to exercise my critical acuteness, I thought that the glorious offence carried its own redemption in itself, and I would not only forgive but rejoice to see such faults committed every day for the sake of such merits. It is, however, now of some importance to me to know whether they are of the date which they affect, or whether they are of your own production. The supposition of your being capable of such a thing is so highly in your favour, that you will forgive the wrong, if there be any, implied in my enquiry. But I am making a chronological collection of 'Christian Poetry,' from the earliest times to the latest dead of our contemporaries who have occasionally tried their talents on consecrated themes, and if these stanzas were really the work of some anonymous author of the last century I shall be glad to give them the place and the honour due, but if they are the 'happy miracle' of your 'rare birth' then, however reluctantly, I must forego the use of them. Perhaps the volume itself contains some valuable pieces which I have not seen, and which might suit my purpose. The title tempts one to think that this may be the case, and as I am in search of such jewels as certainly constitute 'the world's best wealth,' I hope to find a few in this old-fashioned casket, especially after the specimen you have sent, and which I take for granted to be a genuine specimen of the quality (whatever be its antiquity) of the hidden treasures. If you will oblige me by sending the volume itself by coach I will take great care of it, and thankfully return it in due time free of expense. Or if you are unwilling to trust so precious a deposit out of your own hands, will you furnish me with a list of those of its contents (with the authors' names, where these are attached) which you think are most likely to meet my views, namely, such as have direct religious subjects and are executed with vigour or pathos? I can then see whether there be any pieces which I have not already, and if there be, I dare say you will not grudge the labour of transcribing two or three hundred lines to serve, not a brother poet only, but the Christian public. At any rate, an early reply to this application will be greatly esteemed, and may you never ask in vain for anything which it is honest or honourable to ask for. I need not add that this letter comes from one who sincerely respects your talents and rejoices in the success which has so conspicuously crowned them, when hundreds of our fraternity can get neither fame nor profit—no, nor even a hearing—and a threshing for all their pains.
I am truly your friend and servant,
Sheffield, May 5, 1826."
Clare was a great admirer of Chatterton, and the melancholy fate of "the marvellous boy" was frequently referred to by him in his correspondence. The idea of imitating the older poets was no doubt suggested to him by Chatterton's successful efforts, but he possessed neither the special faculty nor the consummate artifice of his model, and therefore we are not surprised to find him confessing at once to the trick he had attempted. He replied to Montgomery:—
"Helpstone, May 8, 1826.
My dear Sir,—
I will lose no time in answering your letter, for I was highly delighted to meet so kind a notice from a poet so distinguished as yourself; and if it be vanity to acknowledge it, it is, I hope, a vanity of too honest a nature to be ashamed of—at least I think so, and always shall. But your question almost makes me feel ashamed to own to the extent of the falsehood I committed; and yet I will not double it by adding a repetition of the offence. I must confess to you that the poem is mine, and that the book from whence it was pretended to have been transcribed has no existence (that I know of) but in my invention of the title. And now that I have confessed to the crime, I will give you the reasons for committing it. I have long had a fondness for the poetry of the time of Elizabeth, though I have never had any means of meeting with it, farther than in the confined channels of Ritson's 'English Songs,' Ellis's 'Specimens,' and Walton's 'Angler;' and the winter before last, though amidst a severe illness, I set about writing a series of verses, in their manner, as well as I could, which I intended to pass off under their names, though some whom I professed to imitate I had never seen. As I am no judge of my own verses, whether they are good or bad, I wished to have the opinion of some one on whom I could rely; and as I was told you were the editor of the 'Iris,' I ventured to send the first thing to you, with many 'doubts and fears.' I was happily astonished to see its favourable reception. Since then I have written several others in the same style, some of which have been published; one in Hone's 'Everyday Book,' on 'Death' under the name of Marvell, and some others in the 'European Magazine;' 'Thoughts in a Churchyard,' the 'Gipsy's Song,' and a 'Farewell to Love.' The first was intended for Sir Henry Wootton; the next for Tom Davies; the last for Sir John Harrington. The last thing I did in these forgeries was an 'Address to Milton,' the poet, under the name of Davenant. And as your kind opinion was the first and the last I ever met with from a poet to pursue these vagaries or shadows of other days, I will venture to transcribe them here for the 'Iris,' should they be deemed as worthy of it as the first were by your judgment, for my own is nothing: I should have acknowledged their kind reception [sooner] had I not waited for the publication of my new poems, 'The Shepherd's Calendar,' which was in the press then, where it has been ever since, as I wish, at its coming, to beg your acceptance of a copy, with the other volumes already published, as I am emboldened now to think they will be kindly received, and not be deemed intrusive, as one commonly fears while offering such trifles to strangers. I shall also be very glad of the opportunity in proving myself ready to serve you in your present undertaking; and could I light on an old poem that would be worth your attention, 300 or even 1,000 lines, would be no objection against my writing it out; but I do assure you I would not make a forgery for such a thing, though I suppose now you would suspect me; for I consider in such company it would be a crime, where blossoms are collected to decorate the 'Fountain of Truth.' But I will end, for I get very sleepy and very unintelligible.
I am, my dear Sir,
Yours very sincerely and affectionately,
At intervals during the years 1825-26 Clare was occupied in supplying his publishers with poems for his next volume—"The Shepherd's Calendar," which was brought out in May, 1827, with a frontispiece by De Wint. The descriptive poem which gives the title to the volume consists of twelve cantos, of various measures, and is followed by "Village Stories" and other compositions. Of the stories, that entitled "Jockey and Jenny or, the Progress of Love," appears to have made the most favourable impression upon Clare's contemporaries. In this poem will be found the following bold and original apostrophe to Night:—
Ah, powerful Night! Were but thy chances mine!Had I but ways to come at joys like thine!Spite of thy wizard look and sable skin,The ready road to bliss 't is thine to win.All nature owns of beautiful and sweetIn thy embraces now unconscious meet:Young Jenny, ripening into womanhood,That hides from day, like lilies while in bud,
To thy grim visage blooms in all her charms,And comes, like Eve, unblushing to thy arms.Of thy black mantle could I be possest,How would I pillow on her panting breast,And try those lips where trial rude beseems.Breathing my spirit in her very dreams,That ne'er a thought might wander from her heart,But I possessed it, or ensured a part!Of all the blessings that belong to thee,Had I this one how happy should I be!
In "The Dream," which appeared in the same volume, Clare's muse took a still more ambitious flight—with what success the reader has here an opportunity to judge for himself. The obscurities in the composition must find their excuse in the nature of the subject:—
Thou scarest me with dreams.—JOB.
When Night's last hours, like haunting spirits, creepWith listening terrors round the couch of sleep,And Midnight, brooding in its deepest dye,Seizes on Fear with dismal sympathy,"I dreamed a dream" something akin to fate,Which Superstition's blackest thoughts create—Something half natural to the grave that seems,Which Death's long trance of slumber haply dreams;A dream of staggering horrors and of dread,Whose shadows fled not when the vision fled,But clung to Memory with their gloomy view,Till Doubt and Fancy half believed it true.
That time was come, or seem'd as it was come,When Death no longer makes the grave his home;When waking spirits leave their earthly restTo mix for ever with the damn'd or blest;When years, in drowsy thousands counted by,Are hung on minutes with their destiny:When Time in terror drops his draining glass,And all things mortal, like to shadows, pass,As 'neath approaching tempests sinks the sun—When Time shall leave Eternity begun.Life swoon'd in terror at that hour's dread birth;As in an ague, shook the fearful Earth;And shuddering Nature seemed herself to shun,Whilst trembling Conscience felt the deed was done.
A gloomy sadness round the sky was cast,Where clouds seem'd hurrying with unusual haste;Winds urged them onward, like to restless ships;And light dim faded in its last eclipse;And Agitation turn'd a straining eye;And Hope stood watching like a bird to fly,While suppliant Nature, like a child in dread,Clung to her fading garments till she fled.
Then awful sights began to be reveal'd,Which Death's dark dungeons had so long conceal'd,Each grave its doomsday prisoner resign'd,Bursting in noises like a hollow wind;And spirits, mingling with the living then,Thrill'd fearful voices with the cries of men.All flying furious, grinning deep despair,Shaped dismal shadows on the troubled air:Red lightning shot its flashes as they came,And passing clouds seem'd kindling into flame;And strong and stronger came the sulphury smell,With demons following in the breath of hell,Laughing in mockery as the doom'd complain'd,Losing their pains in seeing others pain'd.
Fierce raged Destruction, sweeping o'er the land,And the last counted moment seem'd at hand:As scales near equal hang in earnest eyesIn doubtful balance, which shall fall or rise,So, in the moment of that crushing blast,Eyes, hearts, and hopes paused trembling for the last.Loud burst the thunder's clap and yawning rentsGash'd the frail garments of the elements;Then sudden whirlwinds, wing'd with purple flameAnd lightning's flash, in stronger terrors came,Burning all life and Nature where they fell,And leaving earth as desolate as hell.The pleasant hues of woods and fields were past,And Nature's beauties had enjoyed their last:The colour'd flower, the green of field and tree,What they had been for ever ceased to be:Clouds, raining fire, scorched up the hissing dews;Grass shrivell'd brown in miserable hues;Leaves fell to ashes in the air's hot breath,And all awaited universal Death.The sleepy birds, scared from their mossy nest,Beat through the evil air in vain for rest;And many a one, the withering shades among,Wakened to perish o'er its brooded young.The cattle, startled with the sudden fright,Sicken'd from food, and madden'd into flight;And steed and beast in plunging speed pursuedThe desperate struggle of the multitude,The faithful dogs yet knew their owners' face.And cringing follow'd with a fearful pace,Joining the piteous yell with panting breath,While blasting lightnings follow'd fast with death;Then, as Destruction stopt the vain retreat,They dropp'd, and dying lick'd their masters' feet.
When sudden thunders paus'd, loud went the shriek,And groaning agonies, too much to speak,From hurrying mortals, who with ceaseless fearsRecall'd the errors of their vanish'd years;Flying in all directions, hope bereft,Followed by dangers that would not be left;Offering wild vows, and begging loud for aid,Where none was nigh to help them when they pray'd.None stood to listen, or to soothe a friend,But all complained, and sorrow had no end.Sons from their fathers, fathers sons did fly,The strongest fled, and left the weak to die;Pity was dead: none heeded for another;Brother left brother, and the frantic motherFor fruitless safety hurried east and west,And dropp'd the babe to perish from her breast;All howling prayers that would be noticed never,And craving mercy that was fled for ever;While earth, in motion like a troubled sea,Open'd in gulfs of dread immensityAmid the wild confusions of despair,And buried deep the howling and the prayerOf countless multitudes, and closed—and thenOpen'd and swallow'd multitudes again.
Stars, drunk with dread, roll'd giddy from the heaven,And staggering worlds like wrecks in storms were driven;The pallid moon hung fluttering on the sight,As startled bird whose wings are stretch'd for flight;And o'er the East a fearful light begunTo show the sun rise-not the morning sun,But one in wild confusion, doom'd to riseAnd drop again in horror from the skies.To heaven's midway it reel'd, and changed to blood,Then dropp'd, and light rushed after like a flood,The heaven's blue curtains rent and shrank away,And heaven itself seem'd threaten'd with decay;While hopeless distance, with a boundless stretch,Flash'd on Despair the joy it could not reach,A moment's mockery-ere the last dim lightVanish'd, and left an everlasting Night;And with that light Hope fled and shriek'd farewell,And Hell in yawning echoes mock'd that yell.
Now Night resumed her uncreated vest,And Chaos came again, but not its rest;The melting glooms that spread perpetual stains,Kept whirling on in endless hurricanes;And tearing noises, like a troubled sea,Broke up that silence which no more would be.
The reeling earth sank loosen'd from its stay,And Nature's wrecks all felt their last decay.The yielding, burning soil, that fled my feet,I seem'd to feel and struggled to retreat;And 'midst the dread of horror's mad extremeI lost all notion that it was a dream:Sinking I fell through depths that seem'd to beAs far from fathom as Eternity;While dismal faces on the darkness cameWith wings of dragons and with fangs of flame,Writhing in agonies of wild despairs,And giving tidings of a doom like theirs.I felt all terrors of the damn'd, and fellWith conscious horror that my doom was hell:And Memory mock'd me, like a haunting ghost,With light and life and pleasures that were lost;As dreams turn night to day, and day to night,So Memory flash'd her shadows of that lightThat once bade morning suns in glory rise,To bless green fields and trees, and purple skies,And waken'd life its pleasures to behold;—That light flash'd on me like a story told;And days mis-spent with friends and fellow-men,And sins committed,-all were with me then.The boundless hell, whose demons never tire,Glimmer'd beneath me like a world on fire:That soul of fire, like to its souls entomb'd,Consuming on, and ne'er to be consum'd,Seem'd nigh at hand, where oft the sulphury dampsO'er-aw'd its light, as glimmer dying lamps,Spreading a horrid gloom from side to side,A twilight scene of terrors half descried.Sad boil'd the billows of that burning sea,And Fate's sad yellings dismal seem'd to be;Blue roll'd its waves with horrors uncontrolled,And its live wrecks of souls dash'd howlings as they roll'd.
Again I struggled, and the spell was broke,And 'midst the laugh of mocking ghosts I woke;My eyes were open'd on an unhoped sight—The early morning and its welcome light,And, as I ponder'd o'er the past profound,I heard the cock crow, and I blest the sound.
"The Shepherd's Calendar" sold very slowly, for several months after its publication Mr. Taylor wrote to Clare:—
"The season has been a very bad one for new books, and I am afraid the time has passed away in which poetry will answer. With that beautiful frontispiece of De Wint's to attract attention, and so much excellent verse inside the volume, the 'Shepherd's Calendar' has had comparatively no sale. It will be a long time, I doubt, before it pays me my expenses, but ours is the common lot. I am almost hopeless of the sale of the books reimbursing me. Of profit I am certain we have not had any, but that I should not care for: it is to be considerably out of pocket that annoys me, and by the new works my loss will probably be heavy."
And again, after the lapse of four or five months:—
"The poems have not yet sold much, but I cannot say how many are disposed of. All the old poetry-buyers seem to be dead, and the new ones have no taste for it."
And now for a time Clare eked out his scanty income by writing poems for the annuals, the silk-bound illustrated favourites of fashion, which for ten or twelve years almost sufficed to satisfy the languid appetite of the English public for poetry. Clare was sought after by several editors; among the rest, Allan Cunningham, editor of the "Anniversary;" Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, who severally conducted the "Amulet" and the "Juvenile Forget-me-not." Alaric A. Watts, editor of the "Literary Souvenir;" Thomas Hood, and others. "The Rural Muse," the last volume which Clare published, was composed almost entirely of poems which had appeared in the annuals, or other periodicals. The remuneration which Clare received was respectable, if not munificent. His kind-hearted Scotch friend, Allan Cunningham, was certain to see that he was treated with liberality: Mrs. Hall, on behalf of Messrs. Ackermann, sent him in October, 1828, three guineas for "The Grasshopper," and in the following month Mr. Hall wrote "Enclosed you will receive L5, for your contributions to the 'Amulet' and the 'Juvenile Forget-Me-Not.' I am however still L2 in your debt, L7 being the sum I have set apart for you. How shall I forward you the remaining L2?" Mr. Alaric Watts frequently importuned Clare for contributions for the "Literary Souvenir" and the "Literary Magnet," but he was exceedingly fastidious and plain-spoken, and although he sent Clare presents of books he never said in his letters anything about payment. At length Clare hinted to him that some acknowledgment of that kind would be acceptable, and then Mr. Watts replied, "I have no objection to make you some pecuniary return if you send me any poem worthy of yourself, but really those you have sent me of late are so very inferior, with the exception of a little drinking song, which I shall probably print, that it would do you no service to insert them." This appears to have closed the correspondence.
A sketch of Clare's life would be incomplete which did not notice the subject of his relations with his publishers. His first two works— "Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery" and "The Village Minstrel"—were published conjointly by Messrs. Taylor and Hessey and Mr. Drury, of Stamford, on the understanding that Clare was to receive one half of the profits, and that the London and local publishers should divide the remaining half of the profits between them. Before the publication of the third work—the "Shepherd's Calendar"—an arrangement was come to by which Mr. Drury ceased to have any interest in Clare's books, and the London firm renewed the agreement which gave Clare one half of the profits. It was the practice of Taylor and Hessey to remit to Clare money on account, in sums of L10 or L20, and evidently at their own discretion—a discretion which, considering Clare's position and circumstances, appears to have been wisely and considerately exercised. Added together, these remittances made, for a person in Clare's condition, a considerable sum of money, but the poet fretted and chafed under the want of confidence in his judgement which he thought was implied by this mode of treatment, and he repeatedly applied to Taylor and Hessey for a regular and businesslike statement of account. During the time Mr. Drury had a pecuniary interest in the sale of Clare's books, the London publishers excused themselves from furnishing an account on the ground that it had been complicated by Mr. Drury's claims, but years passed away after the latter had been arranged with, and still the rendering of the account was postponed. This irritated Clare, and he frequently spoke and wrote of his publishers with a degree of bitterness which he afterwards regretted. His suspicions, for which there was no real foundation, were at one time encouraged rather than otherwise by influential friends in London, and therefore in February, 1828, he resolved to take another journey to Town, with the two-fold object of having a settlement with his publishers and consulting Dr. Darling respecting a distressing ailment with which he was then afflicted.
"My dear and suffering Clare," wrote Mrs. Emmerson at this time, "your painful letter of to-day is no sooner read by me than I take up my pen, and an extra-sized sheet of paper, to pour out the regrets of my heart for your illness. God knows I am little able to give thee 'comfort,' for indeed, my Clare, thy friend is a beggar in philosophy, so heavily have the ills of humanity pressed upon her of late; but such 'comfort' as confiding and sympathizing souls can offer do I give in full to thee. Receive it then, my poor Clare, and let the utterings of my pen (which instead of gloomy ink I would dip into the sweet balm of Gilead for thy afflictions) prove again and again thy 'physician.' Forget not what you told me in your former letter: 'your letters come over my melancholy musings like the dews of the morning. I am already better, and you are my physician.' Now, my dear Clare, let me, instead of listening to, or rather acting upon your melancholy forebodings, entreat you to cheer up, and in the course of another week make up a little bundle of clothes, and set yourself quietly inside the Deeping coach for London. I will get your 'sky chamber' ready to receive you, or my niece Eliza shall yield to you her lower apartment, the blue room. We can then, 'in council met,' talk over wills, and new volumes of poems, and all other worldly matters relating to yourself, myself, and posterity."
And again, on the 20th of February:—
"I was yesterday obliged to receive a whole family of foreigners to dinner. I now hasten, my dear Clare, to entreat you will not allow your kind resolves of coming to visit us to take an unfavourable change. I would send down the money for your journey, but am fearful it might be lost. Let me merely say then, that I shall have the pleasure to give it you when we meet. I am sure you will benefit in your health by coming to see us. I have a most worthy friend, a physician, who will do everything, I am sure, to aid you. We shall have a thousand things to chat over when we meet, and it will require a calm head and a quiet heart to effect all we propose. Bring your MSS. With you, and I will do all in my power."
The cordiality of this invitation was irresistible, and Clare, a few days afterwards, presented himself in Stratford Place, where he was entertained during his stay in London, which extended over five weeks.
Shortly after his arrival he called upon Mr. Taylor, who told him that the sale of the "Shepherd's Calendar" had not been large, and that if he chose to sell his books himself in his own neighbourhood he might have a supply at cost price, or half-a-crown per volume. Clare consulted his intimate friends on this project: Allan Cunningham indignantly inveighed against Mr. Taylor for making a suggestion so derogatory to the dignity of a poet, and Mrs. Emmerson at first took a similar view, but afterwards changed her mind, on seeing Clare himself pretty confident that he could sell a sufficient number of copies not only to clear himself from debt but enable him to rent a small farm. After Clare had accepted the offer she wrote to him as follows:—
"I am sincerely happy to hear from your last communications about Mr. Taylor that you can now become the merchant of your own gems, so get purchasers for them as fast as possible, and, as Shakspeare says, 'put money in thy purse.' I hope your long account with T. may shortly and satisfactorily be settled. 'Tis well of you to do things gently and with kindly disposition, for indeed I think Mr. Taylor is a worthy man at heart."
The promised statement of account was furnished in August or September 1829, but Clare disputed its accuracy and some of his corrections were accepted. Years elapsed before he could feel quite satisfied that he had been fairly treated, and in the meantime a rupture with his old friend and trustee, Mr. Taylor, was only averted by that gentleman's kindness and forbearance. Clare gave the pedlar project a fair trial, but it brought him little beyond fatigue, mortification, and disappointment. About this time his fifth child was born.
Not long after Clare's return from London, the Mayor of Boston invited him to visit that town. He accepted the invitation and was hospitably entertained. A number of young men of the town proposed a public supper in his honour, and gave him notice that he would have to reply to the toast of his own health. Clare shrank from this terrible ordeal and quitted Boston with scant ceremony. This he regretted on discovering that his warm-hearted friends and admirers had, unknown to him, put ten pounds into his travelling bag. His visit to Boston was followed by an attack of fever which assailed in turn every member of his family, and rendered necessary the frequent visits of a medical man for several months. For a long time Clare was quite unable to do any work in the fields, or sell any of his poems, and hence arose fresh embarrassments.
In the autumn of 1829 Clare once more made a farming venture on a small scale, and for about eighteen months he was fairly successful. This raised his spirits to an unwonted pitch, and his health greatly improved; but the gleam of sunshine passed away and poverty and sickness were again his portion. In 1831 his household consisted of ten persons, a sixth child having been born to him in the previous year. To support so large a family it was not sufficient that he frequently denied himself the commonest necessaries of life: this for years past he had been accustomed to do, but still he could not "keep the wolf from the door." In his distress he consulted his confidential friends, Artis and Henderson. While talking with Henderson one day at Milton Park, Clare had the good fortune to meet the noble owner, to whom he told all his troubles. His lordship listened attentively to the story, and when Clare had finished promised that a cottage and a small piece of land should be found for him. The promise was kept, for we find Mr. Emmerson writing on the 9th of November, 1831:—
"Why have you not, with your own good pen, informed me of the circumstance of your shortly becoming Farmer John? Yes, thanks to the generous Lord Milton, I am told in a letter from your kind friend, the Rev. Mr. Mossop (dated October 27th) that you have the offer of a most comfortable cottage, which will be fitted up for your reception about January the 1st 1832, that it will have an acre of orchard and garden, inclusive of a common for two cows, with a meadow sufficient to produce fodder for the winter."
The cottage which Lord Milton set apart for Clare was situated at Northborough, a village three miles from Helpstone, and thus described by the author of "Rambles Roundabout":—
"Northborough is a large village, not in the sense of its number of houses or its population, but of the space of ground which it covers. The houses are mostly cottages, half-hidden in orchards and luxuriant gardens, having a prodigality of ground. There is not an eminence loftier than a molehill throughout, yet the spacious roads and the wealth of trees and flowers make it a very picturesque and happy-looking locality. Clare's cottage stands in the midst of ample grounds."
It has been generally supposed that the cottage was provided for Clare rent-free, but that this was not the case is shown by the fact that in one of his letters to Mrs. Emmerson he told her that he had had to sub-let the piece of common for less than he was himself paying for it. The rent was either L13 or L15 a year, but whether the regular payment of that amount was insisted upon is very doubtful. To the astonishment and even annoyance of many of Clare's friends, when he was informed that the cottage was ready for its new tenants, he showed the utmost reluctance to leave Helpstone. Mr. Martin gives the following account of what took place:—
"Patty, radiant with joy to get away from the miserable little hut into a beautiful roomy cottage, a palace in comparison with the old dwelling, had all things ready for moving at the beginning of June, yet could not persuade her husband to give his consent to the final start. Day after day he postponed it, offering no excuse save that he could not bear to part from his old home. Day after day he kept walking through fields and woods among his old haunts, with wild, haggard look, muttering incoherent language. The people of the village began to whisper that he was going mad. At Milton Park they heard of it, and Artis and Henderson hurried to Helpstone to look after their friend. They found him sitting on a moss-grown stone, at the end of the village nearest the heath. Gently they took him by the arm, and, leading him back to the hut, told Mrs. Clare that it would be best to start at once to Northborough, the Earl being dissatisfied that the removal had not taken place. Patty's little caravan was soon ready, and the poet, guided by his friends, followed in the rear, walking mechanically, with eyes half shut, as if in a dream. His look brightened for a moment when entering his new dwelling place, a truly beautiful cottage, with thatched roof, casemented windows, wild roses over the porch, and flowery hedges all round. Yet before many hours were over he fell back into deep melancholy, from which he was relieved only by a new burst of song. His feelings found vent in the touching verses beginning 'I've left my own old home of homes.'"
Shortly after removing to Northborough Clare made another ineffectual attempt to induce his trustees to draw out a portion of his fund money. Writing in connection with this subject Mr. Emmerson says:—
"Mrs. Emmerson and myself take a lively interest in your welfare, and we shall be glad to know exactly how you stand in your affairs, what debts you owe, and what stock you require for your present pursuit: by stock, I mean a cow or cows, pigs, &c. Pray give me an early reply to all these particulars, that we may see if anything can be done here to serve you."
Clare replied at once, and in a few days Mrs. Emmerson wrote as follows:—
"We have consulted with Mr. Taylor. Mr. Emmerson went to him yesterday on the receipt of your letter, and informed him of its contents, and it was concluded to set on foot a private friendly subscription to help Farmer John in his concerns. E. L. E. will give L10, which must be laid out in the purchase of a cow, which she begs may be called by the poetic name of Rose or Blossom, or May. Mr. Taylor will kindly give L5 to purchase two pigs, and I dare say we shall succeed in getting another L5 to buy a butter churn and a few useful tools for husbandry, so that you may all set to work and begin to turn your labour to account, and by instalments pay off the various little debts which have accumulated in your own neighbourhood. Your garden, and orchard, and dairy will soon release you from these demands, I hope; at any rate you will thus have a beginning, and with the blessing of Providence, and health on your side, and care and industry on the part of your wife and children, I hope my dear Clare will sit down happy ere long in his new abode, rather than have cause to regret leaving his 'own old home of homes.' It is a very natural and tender lament."
Clare had not lived long at Northborough when he was waited upon by the editor of a London magazine who wormed from him an account of his private affairs, and having dressed up that account in what would now be called a sensational style, published it to the world. The article contained many unjust insinuations against Clare's patrons and publishers, and Mr. Taylor commenced actions, afterwards abandoned, against the magazine in which it originally appeared, the "Alfred," and also against a Stamford paper, into which the article was copied. Clare indignantly protested against the use to which his conversation with his meddlesome visitor had been put, but it is impossible entirely to acquit him of blame. Mr. Taylor remonstrated with him upon his indiscretion, but with a consideration for his inexperience which it is very pleasant to notice, refrained from a severity of rebuke to which Clare had no doubt exposed himself. "I have been much hurt," he says, "at finding that my endeavours to do you service have ended no better than they have, but if you supposed that I had been benefited by it, or that I had withheld from you anything you were entitled to—any profit whatever on any of your works—you have been grievously mistaken." Mr. Taylor was constant to the end, for after this he promoted Clare's interests by every means in his power, conferring with Dr. Darling on his behalf, discharging in conjunction with Mrs. Emmerson a heavy account sent in by a local medical man, advising him in all his troubles, offering him a home whenever he chose to come to London to see Dr. Darling, editing his last volume of poems, although it was brought out by a house with which he had no connection, and, finally, contributing to his maintenance when it became necessary to send him to a private asylum. Among the indications which Clare gave of the approaching loss of reason were frequent complaints that he was haunted by evil spirits, and that he and his family were bewitched. Writing on this subject in February, 1833, Mr. Taylor said:—
"As for evil spirits, depend upon it, my dear friend, that there are none, and that there is no such thing as witchcraft. But I am sure that our hearts naturally are full of evil thoughts, and that God has intended to set us free from the dominion of such thoughts by his good Spirit. You will not expect me to say much on this subject, knowing that I never press it upon my friends. I must, however, so far depart from my custom as to say, that I am perfectly certain a man may be happy even in this life if he will listen to the Word which came down from heaven, and be as a little child in his obedience and willingness to do what it requires of him. I am sure of this, that if we receive the Spirit of God in our hearts we shall never die. We shall go away from this scene, and our bodies will be consigned to the grave, but with less pain than we have often felt in life we shall be carried through what seem to be the pangs of death, and then we shall be with that holy and blessed company at once who have died fully believing in Christ, and who shall never again be separated from him and happiness.
Farewell, my dear Clare.
Believe me ever most sincerely yours,
In 1832 Clare projected a new volume of poems, and with the assistance of his friends obtained in a few months two hundred subscribers. Mr. Taylor having represented that as publisher to the London University poetry was no longer in his line of business, Mr. Emmerson undertook the task of finding another publisher, and opened a correspondence with Mr. How, a gentleman connected with the house of Whittaker & Co. A large number of manuscript poems and of fugitive pieces from the annuals were submitted to Mr. How, who was requested by Mr. Emmerson to make the poet an offer. The negotiation was successful, for on the 8th of March, 1834, Mr. Emmerson was enabled to write to Clare as follows:—
"My very dear Clare,—
At length with great pleasure, although after great anxiety and trouble, I have brought your affair with Mr. How to a conclusion. I have enclosed a receipt for your signature, and if you will write your name at the bottom of it and return it enclosed in a letter to me, I shall have the L40 in ready money for you immediately. You will perceive by the receipt that I have sold only the copyright of the first edition, and that Mr. How stipulates shall consist of only 750 copies, or at the utmost 1000. And now, with the license of a friend, I am about to talk to you about your affairs. This money has been hardly earned by your mental labour, and with difficulty obtained by me for you, only by great perseverance. We are therefore most anxious it should be the means of freeing you from all debt or incumbrance, in order that your mind may be once more at ease, and that you may revel with your muse at will, regardless of all hauntings save hers, and when she troubles you can pay her off in her own coin. The sum you stated some time since I think was L35 as sufficient to clear all your debts, and thus you will be able to start fairly with the world again."
While the "Rural Muse" was in the press, Mr. How, one of the very few of Clare's earlier friends who are still living, suggested to him the advisableness of his applying to the committee of the Literary Fund for a grant, and promising to exert himself to the utmost to secure the success of the application. Clare applied for L50, and obtained it, whereupon Mrs. Emmerson, to whose heart there was no readier way than that of showing kindness to poor Clare, writes:—
"In my last, I told you I had written to Mr. How on the subject of the Literary Fund, &c. Yesterday morning the good little man came to communicate to me the favourable result of the application. The committee have nobly presented you with fifty pounds. Blessings on them! for giving you the means to do honour to every engagement, and leave you, I hope, a surplus to fly to when needed. Mr. How is just the sort of man for my own nature. He is willing to do his best for Clare. He has shown himself in the recent event as one of the few who perform what they promise. God bless him for his kindly exertions to emancipate you from your thraldom!"
"The Rural Muse" was published in July, and was cordially received by the "Athenaeum," "Blackwood's Magazine," the "Literary Gazette," and other leading periodicals. It was well printed and embellished with engravings of Northborough Church and the poet's cottage. It has been already intimated that the poems included within this volume, while retaining all the freshness and simplicity of Clare's earlier works, exhibit traces of the mental cultivation to which for years so large a portion of his time had been devoted. The circle of subjects is greatly expanded, the passages to which exception may be taken on the score of carelessness or obscurity are few, and the diction is often refined and elevated to a degree of which the poet had not before shown himself capable. The following extracts are made almost at random:—
Syren of sullen moods and fading hues,Yet haply not incapable of joy,Sweet Autumn! I thee hailWith welcome all unfeigned;
And oft as morning from her lattice peepsTo beckon up the sun, I seek with theeTo drink the dewy breathOf fields left fragrant then,
In solitudes, where no frequented pathsBut what thine own foot makes betray thine home,Stealing obtrusive thereTo meditate thy end;
By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks,With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge,Which woo the winds to play,And with them dance for joy;
And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods,Where waterlilies spread their oily leaves,On which, as wont, the flyOft battens in the sun;
Where leans the mossy willow half way o'er,On which the shepherd crawls astride to throwHis angle, clear of weedsThat crown the water's brim;
Or crispy hills and hollows scant of sward,Where step by step the patient, lonely boy,Hath cut rude flights of stairsTo climb their steepy sides;
* * * * *
Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woodsWith tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath,Some sickly cankered leafLet go its hold and die.
And now the bickering storm, with sudden start,In flirting fits of anger carps aloud,Thee urging to thine end,Sore wept by troubled skies.
And yet, sublime in grief, thy thoughts delightTo show me visions of most gorgeous dyes,Haply forgetting nowThey but prepare thy shroud;
Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades,Improvident of wealth, till every boughBurns with thy mellow touchDisorderly divine.
Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dreamDroop faintly, and so reckon for thine end,As sad the winds sink lowIn dirges for their queen;
While in the moment of their weary pause,To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing larkStarts from his shielding clod,Snatching sweet scraps of song.
Thy life is waning now, and Silence triesTo mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds,As stooping low she bends,Forming with leaves thy grave;
To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods,Till parch-lipped Summer pines in drought away;Then from thine ivied tranceAwake to glories new.
Now comes the bonny May, dancing and skippingAcross the stepping-stones of meadow streams,Bearing no kin to April showers a-weeping,But constant Sunshine as her servant seems.Her heart is up—her sweetness, all a-maying,Streams in her face, like gems on Beauty's breast;The swains are sighing all, and well-a-daying,Lovesick and gazing on their lovely guest.The Sunday paths, to pleasant places leading,Are graced by couples linking arm in arm,Sweet smiles enjoying or some book a-reading,Where Love and Beauty are the constant charm;For while the bonny May is dancing by,Beauty delights the ear, and Beauty fills the eye.
Birds sing and build, and Nature scorns aloneOn May's young festival to be a widow;The children, too, have pleasures all their own,In gathering lady-smocks along the meadow.The little brook sings loud among the pebbles,So very loud, that water-flowers, which lieWhere many a silver curdle boils and dribbles,Dance too with joy as it goes singing by.Among the pasture mole-hills maidens stoopTo pluck the luscious marjoram for their bosoms;The greensward's littered o'er with buttercups,And whitethorns, they are breaking down with blossoms.'T is Nature's livery for the bonny May,Who keeps her court, and all have holiday.
Princess of Months (so Nature's choice ordains,)And Lady of the Summer still she reigns.In spite of April's youth, who charms in tears,And rosy June, who wins with blushing face;July, sweet shepherdess, who wreathes the shearsOf shepherds with her flowers of winning grace;And sun-tanned August, with her swarthy charms,The beautiful and rich; and pastoral, gaySeptember, with her pomp of fields and farms;And wild November's sybilline array;—In spite of Beauty's calendar, the YearGarlands with Beauty's prize the bonny May.Where'er she goes, fair Nature hath no peer,And months do love their queen when she's away.