Dr. Matthew Allen, of Fair Mead House, into whose asylum Clare had been taken, was among the first reformers who adopted the mild system of treatment for the insane, both on medical and philanthropic grounds. He argued, in the teeth of a whole legion of irate professional brethren, that kindness would be more powerful than cruelty in curing human beings deranged in intellect, and that, even if incurable, the poor creatures whom God had afflicted did not deserve being laid in fetters and treated like savage animals. The doctor necessarily made a great many enemies by preaching this new doctrine; but he likewise was fortunate enough to gain a few friends, who advocated his cause and rendered active aid in carrying it into practice. It was with the help of these friends that Dr. Allen was enabled to set up a large private asylum in the centre of Epping Forest, the establishment consisting of half-a-dozen houses, connected together, and surrounded by large gardens. Here the unhappy sufferers from mental derangement were kept under no more restraint than was absolutely necessary for their own safety and that of others; and, while under the best medical care and attention, were allowed an abundant amount of indoor recreation as well as out-door exercise. When Clare arrived, there were about fifty inmates at Fair Mead House, all of them belonging to the middle and upper classes. Feeling deep sympathy with the unfortunate position of the poet, Dr. Allen admitted him at a mere nominal rate of payment, treating him nevertheless exactly on the same footing as the most favoured of his patients.
The poet's existence at Fair Mead House for several years flowed on monotonous enough; even more so than that of the other inmates of the asylum. He longed to see his family, to meet familiar faces, and to read and write poetry; but neither wife, nor children, nor any friends ever came to visit him, and the supply of books was necessarily scant and not altogether to his taste. Dr. Allen's treatment of his patients was based on the principle of giving them as much physical labour and exercise as possible, so as to destroy all tendency to a morbid concentration of thought; and thus Clare was kept away from books and paper, and made to go into the garden, to plant, and dig, and water the flowers. He seemed to fret at first on being deprived of the solace of his poetry, and eagerly seized every occasion to scribble verses upon odd slips of paper, or with, chalk against the wall. But as the months passed on, his new forced habits grew upon him, and he left off writing to a great extent, and was foremost among the workers in the fields and garden. His mental state, however, did not improve, although his physical strength appeared to gain by this change. He got stout and robust, and able to go through a greater amount of physical labour than in former days. What seemed to contribute to sooth and quiet—or, perhaps, deaden—his mental energies, was the habit of smoking, which he acquired from his companions. He would smoke for whole days and weeks, either working in the garden, or sitting on the stump of a tree in Epping Forest, without uttering a word.
Yet notwithstanding the visible and increasing derangement of his mental faculties, Clare's poetical powers seemed to be nearly as great and as brilliant as ever. Rare as were the opportunities when he was allowed to indulge in the luxury of writing verses, whenever they offered, the stream of poetry came flowing on swiftly and sweetly. Some accidental visitors to Fair Mead House one day offered him a pencil and sheet of paper, when he sat down on a bench in the garden, and without further musing wrote the following lines:—
'By a cottage near the woodWhere lark and thrushes sing,In dreaming hours I stood,Through summer and through spring:There dwells a lovely maidenWhose name I sought in vain—Some call her pretty Lucy,And others honest Jane.
By that cottage near a woodI often stood aloneIn sad or happy mood,And wished she was my own.The birds kept sweetly singing,But nature pleased in vain;For the dark and lovely maidenI never saw again.
By the cottage near the woodI wished in peace to be:The blossoms where she stoodWere more than gems to me.More fair or sweeter blossomsMy rambles sought in vain;But the dark and lovely maidenI never found again.
By that cottage near a woodThe children held her gown,And on the turf before herRan laughing up and down.They played around her beauty,While I sought joys in vain;She fled—the lovely maidenI could not find again.
By that cottage near the wood,Where children used to play,Spring often burst the bud,And as often passed away.And with them passed my visionsOf her whom I adore;For the dark and lovely maiden,I love her evermore.'
When Clare had been above a year at the asylum, and it was found that he was perfectly harmless and inoffensive, he was allowed to roam at his will all over the neighbourhood and through the whole of the forest. This freedom he greatly enjoyed, and not a day passed without his taking long excursions in all directions. In these wanderings he was mostly accompanied by T. Campbell, the only son of the author of 'The Pleasures of Hope,' with whom he had come to form an intimate acquaintance. Clare wrote a sketch of his forest promenades in a sonnet which he handed to Dr. Allen. It ran:—
'I love the forest and its airy hounds,Where friendly Campbell takes his daily rounds;I love the break-neck hills, that headlong go,And leave me high, and half the world below.
I love to see the Beech Hill mounting high,The brook without a bridge, and nearly dry.There's Bucket's Hill, a place of furze and clouds,Which evening in a golden blaze enshrouds:
I hear the cows go home with tinkling bell,And see the woodman in the forest dwell,Whose dog runs eager where the rabbit's gone;He eats the grass, then kicks and hurries on;Then scrapes for hoarded bone, and tries to play,And barks at larger dogs and runs away.
His acquaintance with young Thomas Campbell brought to Clare occasional presents, and now and then, the pleasant face of a visitor. Among them was Mr. Cyrus Bedding, who left a record of his visit in the 'English Journal.' Describing Dr. Allen's asylum, he says:—'The situation is lofty; and the patients inhabit several houses at some distance from each other. These houses stand in the midst of gardens, where the invalids may be seen walking about, or cultivating the flowers, just as they feel inclined.'
The visitor, who was accompanied by a friend who had known Clare previously, found him working in a field, 'apart from his companions, busily engaged with a hoe, and smoking. On being called, he came at once, and very readily entered into conversation. Our friend was surprised to see how much the poet was changed in personal appearance, having gained flesh, and being no longer, as he was formerly, attenuated and pale of complexion. We found a little man, of muscular frame and firmly set, his complexion fresh and forehead high, a nose somewhat aquiline, and long full chin. The expression of his countenance was more pleasing but somewhat less intellectual than that in the engraved portrait prefixed to his works in the edition of "The Village Minstrel," published in 1821. He was communicative, and answered every question put to him in a manner perfectly unembarrassed. He spoke of the quality of the ground which he was amusing himself by hoeing, and the probability of its giving an increased crop the present year, a continued smile playing upon his lips. He made some remarks illustrative of the difference between the aspect of the country at High Beech and that in the fens from whence he had come—alluded to Northborough and Peterborough—and spoke of his loneliness away from his wife, expressing a great desire to go home, and to have the society of women. He said his solace was his pipe—he had no other: he wanted books. On being asked what books, he said Byron; and we promised to send that poet's works to him.
'The principal token of his mental eccentricity was the introduction of prize-fighting, in which he seemed to imagine he was to engage; but the allusion to it was made in the way of interpolation in the middle of the subject on which he was discoursing, brought in abruptly, and abandoned with equal suddenness, and an utter want of connexion with any association of ideas which it could be thought might lead to the subject at the time; as if the machinery of thought were dislocated, so that one part of it got off its pivot, and protruded into the regular workings; or as if a note had got into a piece of music which had no business there. This was the only symptom of aberration of mind we observed about Clare; though, being strangers to him, there might be something else in his manner which those who knew him well could have pointed out. To our seeming, his affection was slight; and it is not at all improbable that a relief from mental anxiety might completely restore him. The finer organization of such a humanity, if more easily put out of order than that of a more obtuse character, is in all probability more likely to re-tune itself, the evil cause being removed.'
Mr. Cyrus Bedding was mistaken in the anticipation that Clare's 'machinery of thought' would ever get again 'into the regular workings.' At the very time when the visit described here took place, the poet's mental state was worse than before, and there seemed less chance than ever of restoring 'the finer organization of such a humanity.' Clare was haunted now, wherever he went, by the vision of his first ideal love, his ever-sought 'Mary.' He fancied that she was his wife, torn from him by evil spirits, and that he was bound to seek her all over the earth. In his wild hallucinations, he confounded his real with his ideal spouse, addressing the latter in language wonderfully sweet, though exhibiting strange flights of imagination. On one occasion, the poet handed to Dr. Allen the following piece of poetry, which he called 'A Sonnet,' with the remark that it should be sent to his wife:—
'Maid of Walkherd, meet again,By the wilding in the glen;By the oak against the door,Where we often met before.By thy bosom's heaving snow,By thy fondness none shall know;Maid of Walkherd, meet again,By the wilding in the glen.
By thy hand of slender make,By thy love I'll ne'er forsake,By thy heart I'll ne'er betray,Let me kiss thy fears away!I will live and love thee ever,Leave thee and forsake thee never!Though far in other lands to be,Yet never far from love and thee.'
Dr. Allen told his patient that he thought his verses very beautiful, at which Clare seemed pleased, and expressed his intention to take them home to his wife, his 'Mary.' The doctor paid little heed to this remark, which, however, was seriously meant. To see his beloved Mary again, now became the one all-absorbing thought of the poet's mind. He appeared to have a vague notion that she was far away; but determined, nevertheless, to seek her, even at the risk of his life. In the spring of 1841—having been nearly four years at Fair Mead House—he made several attempts to escape, but was frustrated each time, being brought back by people who met him wandering at a distance. Dr. Allen, notwithstanding these warnings, continued to allow full liberty to his patient, ascribing his occasional flights to a mere propensity for roaming about. Clare, as before, took his daily excursions, sometimes in company with his friend Campbell, but oftener alone. One day, in the middle of July, 1841, he stayed away unusually long. When the sun had set without his returning home, attendants were despatched in all directions; but after a long and minute search over the whole neighbourhood, they came back, late at night, reporting that they had been unsuccessful in tracing the lost patient. Some persons who knew him by sight had seen him passing through Enfield in a northerly direction; but beyond this fact nothing could be ascertained. Dr. Allen felt very uneasy at this mysterious disappearance, and the next day despatched two horsemen in search of Clare. But even they could discover no trace of him beyond Enfield. John Clare was never seen again at Fair Mead House, Epping Forest.
Clare's flight from Dr. Allen's custody was accomplished by dint of extraordinary perseverance, involving an amount of physical suffering almost unexampled, and approaching starvation and the most horrible of deaths. The poet started early on the morning of the 20th of July, with not a penny in his pocket, and no other knowledge of the road than that given to him by a gipsy whom he had met a few days before. This gipsy at first promised more active assistance in his flight; but did not keep his word, owing, probably, to the inability of the poor lunatic to procure any tangible reward. However, urged onward by his intense desire to see his 'Mary' again, Clare did not hesitate to start alone on his unknown journey, and, groping his way along, like one wrapt in blindness, he at once succeeded so far as to get into the right track homewards. The first day he walked above twenty miles, to Stevenage, in Hertfordshire, where he arrived late at night, footsore and faint, having been without any refreshment the whole day. He rested for the night in an old barn, on some trusses of clover, taking the singular precaution, before lying down, of placing his head towards the north, so as to know in which direction to start the next morning. This day, the 21st of July, he rose early, pursuing his way northward, and crawling more than walking along the road. A man threw him a penny which he used to get a glass of ale; but beyond this he had again no refreshment. After a second night, spent in the open air, he rose once more to crawl onward, slowly but steadily. To stifle the torments of hunger, he now took to the frightful expedient of eating grass with the beasts in the field. The grass served to appease the dreadful pains of his stomach, yet left him in the same drowsy condition in which he was before. His feet were bleeding, the dry gravel of the road having penetrated his old worn-out shoes; but he heeded it not, and stedfastly pursued his way northward. Alternately sleeping and walking, sometimes wandering about in a circle, lying down in ditches at the roadside, and continuing to eat grass, together with a few bits of tobacco which he found in his pocket, he at length reached the neighbourhood of Peterborough and scenes familiar to his eye. But he was now fast breaking down under hunger and fatigue, having had no food for more than ninety hours. Hearing the well-known place, he could get no further, but sank down on the road, more dead than alive. A great many people passed—people rich and poor, on foot and in carriages, in clerical habit and in broadcloth; but not one gave alms, or even noticed, or had a kind word for the dying man at the roadside. There was not one good Samaritan among all the wayfarers from the rich episcopal city.
At last there passed a cart, containing some persons from Helpston. They recognised their old neighbour, although he was terribly altered, with the livid signs of starvation impressed upon his face. The wanderer, in a faint voice, told those friends his tale of woe; but even they were not Christians enough to lift him into their vehicle and take him home. All that they did was to give him a few pence; not even placing the money in his hand, with, perhaps, a kindly greeting, but throwing it at him from their cart. The wretched poet crept along the road to gather the coppers, and then crawled a little farther on to a public-house, where he procured some refreshment. The food—the first he had taken for nigh four days—enabled him to pursue his journey slowly, and he hobbled on through Peterborough, the blood still trickling from his wounded feet. At every stone-heap at the roadside he rested himself, until he came to the hamlet of Werrington, where a cart ran up against him, out of which sprang a woman who took him in her arms. It was Patty, who had heard from the charitable Helpston people that her husband was lying on the road, and had come in search of him. But Clare did not know her. He refused even to take a seat at her side, until he was told that she was his 'second wife.' Then he allowed himself to be taken to Northborough, where he arrived in the evening of the 23d of July, utterly exhausted, and in a state bordering upon delirium.
But already the next day he felt considerably better, and at once asked for writing materials. Having obtained pen and ink, together with an old blank ledger, in which he formerly entered his poems, he sat down to write an account of his 'Journey from Essex.' Such another account, probably, was never written before. Here it stands, unaltered from the original, save in slight attempts at punctuation. The paper commences:—
'July 24th 1841.—Returned home out of Essex, and found no Mary. Her and her family are nothing to me now, though she herself was once the dearest of all. And how can I forget!'
After this entry begins what is headed the 'Journal':—
'July 18, 1841, Sunday.—Felt very melancholy. Went for a walk in the forest in the afternoon. Fell in with some gypsies, one of whom offered to assist in my escape from the madhouse by hiding me in his camp, to which I almost agreed. But I told him I had no money to start with; but if he would do so, I would promise him fifty pounds, and he agreed to do so before Saturday. On Friday I went again, but he did not seem so willing, so I said little about it. On Sunday I went and they were all gone. An old wide-awake hat and an old straw bonnet, of the plum-pudding sort, was left behind, and I put the hat in my pocket, thinking it might be useful for another opportunity. As good lack would have it, it turned out to be so.
July 19, Monday.—Did nothing.
July 20, Tuesday.—Reconnoitred the road the gypsey had taken, and found it a legible (!) one to make a movement; and having only honest courage and myself in my army, I led the way and my troops soon followed. But being careless in mapping down the road as the gypsey told me, I missed the lane to Enfield Town, and was going down Enfield Highway, till I passed the "Labour-in-vain" public-house, where a person who came out of the door told me the way. I walked down the lane gently, and was soon in Enfield Town, and by and by on the great York Road, where it was all plain sailing. Steering ahead, meeting no enemy and fearing none, I reached Stevenage, where, being night, I got over a gate, and crossed the corner of a green paddock. Seeing a pond or hollow in the corner, I was forced to stay off a respectable distance to keep from falling into it. My legs were nearly knocked up and began to stagger. I scaled over some old rotten palings into the yard, and then had higher palings to clamber over, to get into the shed or hovel; which I did with difficulty, being rather weak. To my good luck, I found some trusses of clover piled up, about six or more feet square, which I gladly mounted and slept on. There were some drags in the hovel, on which I could have reposed had I not found a better bed. I slept soundly, but had a very uneasy dream. I thought my first wife lay on my left arm, and somebody took her away from my side, which made me wake up rather unhappy. I thought as I awoke somebody said "Mary;" but nobody was near. I lay down with my head towards the north, to show myself the steering point in the morning.
July 21.—Daylight was looking in on every side, and fearing my garrison might be taken by storm, and myself be made prisoner, I left my lodging by the way I got in, and thanked God for His kindness in procuring it. For anything in a famine is better than nothing, and any place that giveth the weary rest is a blessing. I gained the North Road again, and steered due north. On the left hand side, the road under the bank was like a cave; I saw a man and boy coiled up asleep, whom I hailed, and they awoke to tell me the name of the next village. Somewhere on the London side, near the "Plough" public-house, a man passed me on horseback, in a slop frock, and said, "Here's another of the broken-down haymakers," and threw me a penny to get a half pint of beer, which I picked up, and thanked him for, and when I got to the "Plough," I called for a half pint and drank it. I got a rest, and escaped a very heavy shower in the bargain, by having a shelter till it was over. Afterwards I would have begged a penny of two drovers, but they were very saucy; so I begged no more of anybody.
Having passed a lodge on the left hand, within a mile and a half, or less, of a town—I think it might be St. Ives, or it was St. Neot's, but I forget the name—I sat down to rest on a flint heap, for half an hour or more. While sitting here, I saw a tall gypsey come out of the lodge gate, and make down the road to where I was. When she got up to me, I saw she was a young woman, with a honest-looking countenance, and rather handsome. I spoke to her, and asked her a few questions, which she answered readily and with evident good humour. So I got up, and went on to the next town with her. She cautioned me on the way to put something in my hat to keep the crown up, and said in a lower tone, "You'll be noticed." But not knowing at what she hinted, I took no notice and made no reply. At length she pointed to a small church tower, which she called Shefford Church, and advised me to go on a footway, which would take me direct to it, and would shorten my journey fifteen (!) miles by doing so. I would gladly have taken the young woman's advice, feeling that it was honest, and a nigh guess towards the truth; but fearing I might lose my way, and not be able to find the North Road again, I thanked her, and told her I should keep to the road. She then bid me "good day," and went into a house or shop on the left hand side of the road.
Next I passed three or four good built houses on a hill, and a public-house on the roadside in the hollow below them. I seemed to pass the milestones very quick in the morning, but towards night they seemed to be stretched further asunder. I now got to a village of which I forget the name. The road on the left hand was quite overshadowed by trees, and quite dry. So I sat down half an hour, and made a good many wishes for breakfast. But wishes were no meal; so I got up as hungry as I sat down. I forget here the names of the villages I passed through, but recollect at late evening going through Potton, in Bedfordshire, where I called in a house to light my pipe. There was a civil old woman, and a country wench making lace on a cushion as round as a globe, and a young fellow; all civil people. I asked them a few questions as to the way, and where the clergyman and overseer lived; but they scarcely heard me, and gave no answer. I then went through Potton, and happened to meet with a kind-talking countryman, who told me the parson lived a good way from where I was. So I went on hopping with a crippled foot; for the gravel had got into my old shoes, one of which had now nearly lost the sole. Had I found the overseer's house at hand, or the parson's, I should have given my name, and begged for a shilling to carry me home; but I was forced to brush on penniless, and be thankful I had a leg to move on. I then asked him whether he could tell me of a farmyard anywhere on the road, where I could find a shed and some dry straw, and he said, "Yes, if you will go with me, I will show you the place; it is a public-house on the left hand side of the road, at the sign of the Ram." But seeing a stone heap, I longed to rest, as one of my feet was very painful. So I thanked him for his kindness, and bid him go on. But the good-natured fellow lingered awhile, as if wishing to conduct me; but suddenly recollecting that he had a hamper on his shoulder, and a lock-up bag in his hand, to meet the coach, he started hastily, and was soon out of sight.
I followed, looking in vain for the countryman's straw bed. Not being able to find it, I laid down by the wayside, under some elm trees. Between the wall and the trees there was a thick row, planted some five or six feet from the buildings. I laid there and tried to sleep; but the wind came in between the trees so cold that I quaked like having the ague, and I quitted this lodging to seek another at the "Ram," which I scarcely hoped to find. It now began to grow dark apace, and the odd houses on the road began to light up, and show the inside lot very comfortable, and my outside lot very uncomfortable and wretched. Still I hobbled forward as well as I could, and at last came the "Ram." The shutters were not closed, and the lighted window looked very cheering; but I had no money, and did not like to go in. There was a sort of shed, or gig-house, at the end; but I did not like to lie there, as the people were up; so I still travelled on. The road was very lonely and dark, being overshaded with trees. At length I came to a place where the road branched off into two turnpikes, one to the right about, and the other straight forward. On going by, I saw a milestone standing under the hedge, and I turned back to read it, to see where the other road led to. I found it led to London. I then suddenly forgot which was north or south, and though I narrowly examined both ways, I could see no tree, or bush, or stone heap that I could recollect having passed.
I went on mile after mile, almost convinced I was going the same way I had come. These thoughts were so strong upon me, and doubts and hopelessness made me turn so feeble, that I was scarcely able to walk. Yet I could not sit down or give up, but shuffled along till I saw a lamp shining as bright as the moon, which, on nearing, I found was suspended over a tollgate. Before I got through, the man came out with a candle, and eyed me narrowly; but having no fear I stopped to ask him whether I was going northward. He said, "When you get through the gate you are." I thanked him, and went through to the other side, and gathered my old strength as my doubts vanished. I soon cheered up, and hummed the air of "Highland Mary" as I went on. I at length came to an odd house, all alone, near a wood; but I could not see what the sign was, though it seemed to stand, oddly enough, in a sort of trough, or spout. There was a large porch over the door, and being weary I crept in, and was glad enough to find I could lie with my legs straight. The inmates were all gone to rest, for I could hear them turn over in bed, while I lay at full length on the stones in the porch. I slept here till daylight, and felt very much refreshed. I blest my two wives and both their families when I laid down and when I got up in the morning.
I have but a slight recollection of my journey between here and Stilton, for I was knocked up, and noticed little or nothing. One night I laid in a dyke-bottom, sheltered from the wind, and went asleep for half an hour. When I awoke, I found one side wet through from the water; so I got out and went on. I remember going down a very dark road, hung over on both sides with thick trees; it seemed to extend a mile or two. I then entered a town, where some of the chamber windows had lights shining in them. I felt so weak here that I was forced to sit on the ground to rest myself, and while I sat here a coach that seemed heavily laden came rattling up, and splashing the mud in my face wakened me from a doze. When I had knocked the gravel out of my shoes I started again. There was little to notice, for the road very often looked as stupid as myself. I was often half asleep as I went on.
The third day I satisfied my hunger by eating the grass on the roadside, which seemed to taste something like bread. I was hungry, and eat heartily till I was satisfied; in fact, the meal seemed to do me good. The next and last day I remembered that I had some tobacco, and my box of lucifers being exhausted, I could not light my pipe. So I took to chewing tobacco all day, and eat it when I had done. I was never hungry afterwards. I remember passing through Buckden, and going a length of road afterwards; but I do not recollect the name of any place until I came to Stilton, where I was completely footsore, bleeding, and broken down. When I had got about half way through the town, a gravel causeway invited me to rest myself; so I laid down and nearly went to sleep. A young woman, as I guessed by the voice, came out of a house, and said, "Poor creature;" and another more elderly said, "Oh, he shams." But when I got up the latter said, "Oh no, he don't," as I hobbled along very lame. I heard the voices, but never looked back to see where they came from. When I got near the inn at the end of the gravel walk, I met two young women, and asked one of them whether the road branching to the right by the inn did not lead to Peterborough. She said, "Yes." As soon as ever I was on it, I felt myself on the way home, and went on rather more cheerful, though I was forced to rest oftener than usual.
Before I got to Peterborough, a man and woman passed in a cart; and on hailing me as they passed, I found they were neighbours from Helpston, where I used to live. I told them I was knocked-up, which they could easily see, and that I had neither food nor drink since I left Essex. When I had told my story they clubbed together and threw me fivepence out of the cart. I picked it up, and called at a small public-house near the bridge, where I had two half pints of ale, and twopennyworth of bread and cheese. When I had done, I started quite refreshed; only my feet were more crippled than ever, and I could scarcely bear walk over the stones. Yet I was half ashamed to sit down in the street, and forced myself to keep on the move.
I got through Peterborough better than I expected. When I came to the high road, I rested on the stone-heaps, till I was able to go on afresh. By-and-by I passed Walton, and soon reached Werrington. I was making for the "Beehive" as fast as I could when a cart met me, with a man, a woman, and a boy in it. When nearing me the woman jumped out and caught fast hold of my hands, and wished me to get into the cart. But I refused; I thought her either drunk or mad. But when I was told it was my second wife, Patty, I got in, and was soon at Northborough. But Mary was not there; neither could I get any information about her further than the old story of her having died six years ago. But I took no notice of the lie, having seen her myself twelve months ago, alive and well, and as young as ever. So here I am hopeless at home.'
This wonderfully graphic narrative—extraordinary compound of facts and dreams, illuminated by the lurid flame of a marvellous imagination—Clare accompanied by a letter to his visionary spouse. The letter, addressed, 'To Mary Clare, Glinton,' and dated 'Northborough, July 27, 1841,' ran as follows:—
'My Dear Wife,—I have written an account of my journey, or rather escape, from Essex, for your amusement. I hope it may divert your leisure hours. I would have told you before that I got here to Northborough last Friday night; but not being able to see you, or to hear where you were, I soon began to feel homeless at home, and shall by and by be nearly hopeless. But I am not so lonely as I was in Essex; for here I can see Glinton Church, and feeling that my Mary is safe, if not happy, I am gratified. Though my home is no home to me, my hopes are not entirely hopeless while even the memory of Mary lives so near me. God bless you, my dear Mary! Give my love to our dear beautiful family and to your mother, and believe me, as ever I have been and ever shall be,
My dearest Mary,
Your affectionate husband,
John Clare.'
The poet's glorious intellect was gone; he sat there bereft of reason; body and soul alike shattered and broken to pieces. Yet on the wreck and ruins of all this mass of marvellous life, there still sat enthroned the memory of his First Love. 'For Love is strong as Death,' says the Song of Songs.
Happy for Clare if his weary life had been allowed to end here, in dreams of his first, his purest love. But it was ordained otherwise, and he had yet to drag a miserable course of earthly existence for more than twenty years. The period was one of great physical and mental suffering. Much of it might have been, if not prevented, at least softened and alleviated, but for the fresh interference of troublesome foes and ignorant friends. There was clearly no harm in leaving the poet in his little cottage at Northborough, allowing him to tend his flowers, to listen to the song of birds, and to write verses to his Mary in heaven. Now as ever, he was as harmless and guileless as a child; he would not hurt the worm under his feet, and even in his most excited moods not an unkind word to those around him escaped his lips. A little additional assistance—if only from the 'county,' of which a noble earl held him to be 'a great credit'—might have made his own and his wife's existence perfectly free from cares, and softened the evening of their lives. But the great patrons would have it otherwise. Clare had no more books to dedicate to Honourables and Most Honourables, and they thought that the best thing to be done was to get such a useless 'county poet' out of the way and out of sight.
Clare had not been many weeks at his little home, resting from his fatigue, and enjoying the caresses of his children, when he was visited by the Mr. Skrimshaw, of Market Deeping, who had attended him on a former occasion. This person, who called himself a doctor, had a notion that poets were always and naturally insane, and that the very fact of a man being given to write verses was decisive proof of his madness. Mr. Skrimshaw, therefore, had little trouble in consigning Clare to another lunatic asylum. All that was necessary was to engage the help of a brother-doctor to go through a slight legal formality. This was soon done, and 'Fenwick Skrimshaw,' together with 'William Page,' both of Market Deeping, signed the due certificate that John Clare was to be kept under restraint at a madhouse, for the definitely stated reason of having written poetry, or, as literally given by the doctors:—
'After years addicted to poetical prosings.'
On the ground of this new crime, punishable, according to the wise men of Market Deeping, with life-long imprisonment, Clare was torn away from his wife and children, and carried off to the madhouse. He struggled hard when the keepers came to fetch him, imploring them, with tears in his eyes, to leave him at his little cottage, and seeing all resistance fruitless, declaring his intention to die rather than to go to such another prison as that from which he had escaped. Of course, it was all in vain. The magic handwriting of Messrs. Fenwick Skrimshaw and William Page, backed by all the power of English law, soon got the upper hand, and the criminal 'addicted to poetical prosings' was led away, and thrust into the gaol for insane at Northampton.
It was, perhaps, with some regard to Clare being considered, on high authority, 'our county poet,' that he was consigned to the county lunatic asylum at Northampton, instead of being taken hack to the more respectable refuge of Dr. Allen, who was anxious to see him again under his charge, and even expressed strong hopes of an ultimate cure. The change was not a hopeful one; though, as far as the patient's physical comforts were concerned, there was no suffering attached to it. During the whole of his long sojourn at Northampton, the poet was treated with a kindness and consideration beyond all praise, and which, indeed, he had scarcely a right to expect from his position. Earl Fitzwilliam, who had taken him under his charge, only allowed eleven shillings a week for his maintenance, which small sum entitled Clare to little better than pauper treatment. Nevertheless, the authorities at Northampton, with a noble disregard for conventionalities, placed Clare in the best ward, among the private patients, paying honour to him as well as themselves by recognising the poet even in the pauper.
The Northampton General Lunatic Asylum stands at a little distance from the town, on the brow of a hill, in a very beautiful position, overlooking the smiling plain traversed by the River Nene. It is a large establishment, containing, on the average, some four hundred patients, the great majority of them paupers. The private patients have to themselves a large sitting-room, somewhat similar to a gentleman's library, the windows of which overlook the front garden, the valley of the Nene, and the town of Northampton. In the recess of one of these windows, Clare spent the greater part of his time during the twenty-two years that he was an inmate of the asylum. Very melancholy at first, and ever yearning after his 'Mary,' he became gradually resigned to his fate, and after that never a murmur escaped his lips. He saw that the world had left him; and was quite prepared himself to leave the world. During the whole twenty-two years, not one of all his former friends and admirers, not one of his great or little patrons ever visited him. This he bore quietly, though he seemed to feel it with deep sorrow that even the members of his own family kept aloof from him. 'Patty' never once showed herself in the twenty-two years; nor any of her children, except the youngest son, who came to see his father once. The neglect thus shown long preyed upon his mind, till it found vent at last in a sublime burst of poetry:—
'I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?My friends forsake me like a memory lost.I am the self-consumer of my woes,They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.And yet I am—I live—though I am toss'd
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,Into the living sea of waking dream,Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,But the huge shipwreck of my own esteemAnd all that's dear. Even those I loved the bestAre strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man has never trod,For scenes where woman never smiled or wept;There to abide with my Creator, God,And sleep as I in childhood sweetly sleptFull of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,The grass below; above the vaulted sky.'
This was the last poem which Clare wrote—the last, and, we think, the noblest of all his poems. Clare's swan-song, we fervently hope, will live as long as the English language.
For the last ten or twelve years of his existence the poet suffered much from physical infirmities. Previously he was allowed to go almost daily into the town of Northampton, where he used to sit raider the portico of All Saints' Church, watching the gambols of the children around him, and the fleeting clouds high up in the sky. When these excursions came to be forbidden, he retired to his window-recess in the asylum, reading little and speaking little; dreaming unutterable dreams of another world. Sometimes his face would brighten up as if illuminated by an inward sun, overwhelming in its glory and beauty. This life of contemplation, extending over many years, was followed by a singular change in the physical constitution. The head seemed to expand vastly; the bushy eyebrows grew downward until they almost obscured the eyes, and the abundant hair, white as snow, came to fall in long curls over the massive shoulders. In outward appearance the poet became the patriarch.
The inmates of the asylum treated Clare with the greatest respect—far greater than that previously allotted to him by the world without. To his fellow-sufferers he always was John Clare the poet; never Clare the farm-labourer or the lime-burner. An artist among the patients was indefatigable in painting his portrait, in all possible attitudes; others never wearied of waiting upon him, or rendering him some slight service. The poet accepted the homage thus rendered, quietly and unaffectedly, as a king would that of his subjects. He gave little utterance to his thoughts, or dreams, whatever they were, and only smiled upon his companions now and then. When he became very weak and infirm, they put him into a chair, and wheeled him about in the garden. The last day he was thus taken out, and enjoyed the fresh air and the golden sunshine, was on Good Friday, 1864. He was too helpless to be moved afterwards; yet would still creep, now and then, from his bed to the window, looking down upon the ever-beautiful world, which he knew he was leaving now, and which he was not loth to leave, though he loved it so much.
Towards noon on the 20th of May, the poet closed his eyes for ever. His last words were, 'I want to go home.' So gentle was his end that the bystanders scarcely knew when he had ceased to breathe. God took his soul away without a struggle.
Clare had always expressed a wish to sleep his last sleep in the churchyard of his native village, close to his 'own old home of homes.' In the very first poem of his earliest published book of verses, he summed up all his aspirations in the one that he should—
'As reward for countless troubles past,Find one hope true: to die at home at last.'
Accordingly, when the poet's spirit had fled, the superintendent of the Northampton asylum wrote to his patron, Earl Fitzwilliam, asking for a grant of the small sum necessary to carry the wish of the deceased into effect. The noble patron replied by a refusal, advising the burial of the poet as a pauper at Northampton.
But this lasting disgrace, fortunately, was not to be. Through the active exertions of some true Christian souls, real friends of poetry, the requisite burial fund was raised in a few days, and the poet's body, having been conveyed to Helpston, was reverently interred there on Wednesday, the 25th of May, 1864. There now lies, under the shade of a sycamore-tree, with nothing above but the green grass and the eternal vault of heaven, all that earth has to keep of John Clare, one of the sweetest singers of nature ever born within the fair realm of dear old England—of dear old England, so proud of its galaxy of noble poets, and so wasteful of their lives.
* * * * *
Allen, Dr. Matthew, of Fair Mead House.
'Anniversary,' annual, edited by Allan Cunningham.
Artis, Edward, friend of Clare.
Bachelors' Hall, Helpston, meeting at.
Bains, Granny, cowherd of Helpston.
Baring, Sir Thomas, patron of Clare.
Bedford, Duke of, patron of Clare.
Behnes, Henry, sculptor, makes a bust of Clare; spends an evening with.
Bell, Dr. makes Clare's acquaintance; defends his friend; threatens him with the 'canister of the Blue Devils'.
Bellamy, 'Mr. Councillor' of Wisbeach.
Benyon, Tom, head-porter of Messrs. Taylor and Hessey; teaches political economy.
Billings, John and James, of 'Bachelor's Hall.'
'Blackwood's Magazine,' on Clare.
Bloomfield, Robert, letter from; death.
'Book of Job,' Clare's rendering of.
Boston, Clare's visit to; the mayor of.
Boswell, king of the gipsies.
Bowles, Rev. Wm. L. editor of Pope; quarrel with Mr. Gilchrist.
Bridge, Casterton, Clare working at.
Bullimore, Mrs. schoolmistress.
Burghley Park, Clare's first visit to; working as gardener at; received as visitor.
Burkhardt, Herr, watchmaker of the Strand.
Burns and Clare, compared by Professor Wilson.
Byron, Lord, funeral of.
Campbell, Mr. at Dr. Allen's asylum.
Cardigan, Earl, patron of Clare.
Gary, Rev. H. T. receives Clare at his home; at the 'London Magazine' dinner.
Chiswick, Clare's residence at.
Clare, John, birth; parents; in search of other worlds; at the dame-school; first pleasures of song; learns threshing; is attacked by the ague; goes to Mr. Merrishaw's school; studies algebra; travels to Wisbeach; interview with Mr. Councillor Bellamy; fails in becoming a lawyer's clerk; promoted to be potboy at the 'Blue Bell;' growing love of nature; takes to reading fairy tales; first love; meets with Thomson's 'Seasons;' efforts to obtain the book; the first poem; attempts to learn a trade; apprenticed to the head gardener at Burghley Park; dissipation; flight from Burghley Park; returns home; poetical aspirations; verses 'wanting fire'; consults a rural critic; becomes conscious of terrible ignorance; devours 'Lowe's Spelling-book;' unable to master 'quartacutes' and 'quintacutes;' in search of a patron; visits 'Bachelors' Hall;' enlists in the militia; swears fidelity to King George; is taught the goose-step; returns to Helpston; Love and the Apocalypse; turns gipsy under King Boswell; limeburning; zeal in writing verses; first meeting with 'Patty;' narrow escape from being drowned; attempts to publish a book; writes a prospectus; issues an 'Address to the Public;' quarrels with his mistress; bids farewell to 'Patty;' enlists in the Royal Artillery; determines to quit Helpston; meets with a patron; makes arrangements for printing his poems; gets intimate with Mr. Drury; meeting with Mr. John Taylor; first interview with Mr. Gilchrist; hears of the success of his 'Poems of Rural Life;' visit to Holywell Park; romance of fugitive love; patronized by Viscount Milton; by Earl Fitzwilliam; by the Marquis of Exeter; marries 'Patty;' first visit to London; troubles of fame; defends himself against patronage; has an annuity settled upon him; ignored by Sir Walter Scott; publication of the 'Village Minstrel;' correspondence with Bloomfield; visited by Mr. John Taylor; second trip to London; adventure in a hackney coach; short stay at Chiswick; visit to Charles Lamb; attempts to purchase a freehold; falls very ill; third visit to London; Fleet Street philosophy; is present at a meeting of lions; returns to Helpston; fails in getting work as a labourer; great poverty; takes to farming; publication of the 'Shepherd's Calendar;' writes for the annuals; Platonic love; last visit to London; turns pedlar; journey to Boston; glimpse of happiness; removal to Northborough; mental alienation; cry for help; publication of the 'Rural Muse;' excitement at the Peterborough Theatre; burst of delirium; is taken to Dr. Allen's asylum; escape from the madhouse; writes the diary of his escape; taken to Northampton asylum; his last poem; physical changes; death.
Clare, Parker, birth; marriage; poverty and sufferings; dependent upon alms; accompanies his son to Burghley Park; reproves John for writing verses; struck down by illness.
Clark, Mr. editor of a literary magazine.
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, at a soirée.
'Cottage near the wood,' Clare's poem of.
'County poet,' our, and county patronage.
Crouch, Mr. issues Clare's poems.
Cunningham, Allan, at Mr. Taylor's house; letter to, from Clare; interview with; attempts to assist him.
Dalia, Mademoiselle, of the Regency theatre.
Darley, George, meeting with Clare.
Darling, Dr. attends Clare in illness; acts as his guide.
De Quincey, Thomas, at the 'London Magazine' dinner.
Deville, Mr. professor of phrenology.
Devonshire, Duke of, patron of Clare.
Drury, Mr. Edward, first meeting with Clare; offers to print his book; inspects the MSS.; submits them to a critic; intimacy with Clare.
Durobrivae, Roman station.
Elton, Charles, makes Clare's acquaintance.
Emmerson, Mrs. first interview with Clare; receives Clare at her house; renews her acquaintance; acts as hostess.
Etton, village near Helpston.
Exeter, Marquis of, first interview with Clare; visits the poet at home; finds Clare unfit for patronage.
Fair Mead House lunatic asylum, Clare's stay at.
Pane, Lady, visit to Clare.
Farrow, Jim, cobbler of Helpston.
Field, Baron, literary country gentleman.
'First Love,' Clare's poem of.
Fitzwilliam, Earl, becomes a patron of Clare; presents him with £100; gives him a cottage; maintains him at the asylum; advises to bury him as a pauper.
'Gentleman's Magazine,' the, on Clare's Poems.
Gilford, William, interview with Clare.
Gilchrist, Octavius, first meeting with Clare; becomes his patron; accompanies him to London; gives his opinion on Sir Walter Scott; disputes with the Rev. Mr. Bowles; engaged in 'Battle of the Windmills;' falls seriously ill; meets Clare at London; last interview with Clare; death.
Glinton, the home of 'Mary;' Memorial of Clare's first love.
Grantham, visit of John Clare to.
Gregory, Francis, landlord of the 'Blue Bell.'
Grill, Monsieur, cook at Milton Park.
Hall, Mr. S. C. editor of the 'Book of Gems.'
Hazlitt, William, at Mr. Taylor's house.
Helpo, founder of Helpston; 'mystic stipendiary knight.'
Helpston, origin of; the parish clerk patronises Clare; removal of Clare from.
Henderson, Mr. friend of Clare.
Henson, Mr. first interview with Clare; agrees to publish his 'OriginalTrifles;' returns Clare's manuscripts.
Hilton, William, paints Clare's portrait.
Hogarth's house, at Chiswick.
'Hole-in-the-Wall' public-house, the.
Holland, Rev. Mr. makes Clare's acquaintance; brings news of his success.
Holywell Park, Visit to.
'Home of Homes,' Clare's poem of.
Hood, Thomas, sub-editor of 'London Magazine.'
'Iris,' the, contribution of Clare to.
Joyce, Mary, John Clare's first love.
Keats, John, gift to, from Earl Fitzwilliam.
Lamb, Charles, visited by Clare; at the 'London Magazine' dinner.
Landon, Miss, error of dedication.
Langley Bush, sketched by Clare.
Leopold, King of Belgium, gift to Clare.
Lolham Brigs, near Helpston.
London, as seen from the distance.
'London Magazine,' the, on Clare's poems.
Lowe's 'Critical Spelling-book.'
Manton, Bill, stone-cutter at Market-Deeping.
Market-Deeping, visit to horsedealers at.
Marsh, Mrs. visits Clare; receives him at her mansion; takes him to the theatre.
Maxey, village near Helpston.
Merrishaw, Mr. schoolmaster at Glinton.
Milton Park, Clare's first visit to.
Milton, Viscount, interview with John Clare; takes Clare under his patronage.
Militia, life in the.
'Morning Walk,' the, Clare's first poem.
Mossop, Rev. Mr. patron of Clare.
Mounsey, Rev. Mr. of Stamford.
Murray, Mr. John, interview with.
Nell, Mr. bookseller of Peterborough.
Newark-upon-Trent, John Clare at.
Newcomb, Mr. proprietor of the 'Stamford Mercury.'
'New Monthly Magazine,' the, on Clare's poems.
North, Christopher, on Clare.
Northborough, Clare's removal to.
Northampton, Marquis of, threatens to patronise Clare.
Northampton asylum, Clare's stay at.
Northumberland, Duke of, patron of Clare.
Offley's tavern, visit of Clare to.
'Original Trifles,' a first poetical speculation.
Oundle, militia drill at.
Page, Mr. certifies to Clare's insanity.
Parker, grandfather of John Clare.
'Patty,' Clare's first sight of; meeting with; wavering between two suitors; supposed last interview; reconciliation; marriage.
Peterborough, Bishop of, visit to Clare.
Peterborough, the 'Red Lion;' episcopal palace, Clare's visit to; theatre, Clare's visit to.
Pickworth, Clare working at.
'Poems of Rural Life,' publication of.
'Poetical Prosings,' new form of insanity.
Poets, their patronage and income.
Poets and the poor-rates.
Porter, Thomas, of Ashton Green.
Preston, Mr. a 'brother poet.'
'Quarterly Review,' the, on Clare's poems.
Radstock, Lord, first meeting with Clare; refuses to assist him; interferes with Mr. Taylor; death.
Redding, Cyrus, visit to Clare.
Regency Theatre, Tottenham-court-road.
Reynardson, General, meets Clare; shows his residence.
Reynolds, William, at the 'London Magazine' dinner.
Rippingille, Mr. friend of Clare; leaves him in difficulties.
Rossini, sets Clare's verses to music.
'Rural Muse,' address to.
'Rural Muse,' the, publication of.
Russell, Lord John, patron of Clare.
Scott, Sir Walter, and John Clare; judged by Mr. Gilchrist.
'Shepherd's Calendar,' publication of.
Sherwell, Captain, friend of Sir Walter Scott.
Skrimshaw, Mr. sees Clare; certifies to his insanity.
Smith, Dr. physician of Peterborough.
Spencer, Earl, grants an annuity to Clare.
Stamford, the 'Dolphin' Inn; the 'New Public Library.'
Stamford bookseller, the, and John Clare.
Stimson, John, shepherd of Castor.
Stimson, Morris, visits John Clare; tries to lift him into a profession.
Taylor, Mr. John, first interview with Clare; receives him at London; procures an annuity for Clare; visit to Helpston; receives Clare a second time; reproves him for his ambition; receives Clare on his third visit to London; last interview with.
Taylor and Hessey, publishers, gift to Clare.
Tickencote, hamlet near Stamford.
Townsend, Mr. Chauncey Hare, visits Clare.
Twopenny, the Rev. Mr., incumbent of Little Casterton.
Turnill, John, teaches Clare algebra.
Ventouillac, Monsieur, publisher of the 'Iris.'
Vestris, Madam, reciting Clare's poems.
'Village Minstrel,' publication of.
Walkherd Lodge, home of 'Patty.'
Watts, Alaric, makes Clare's acquaintance.
Wilders, Mr. of Bridge Casterton.
Wilson, Professor, on Clare's poetical genius.
Wisbeach, John Clare's journey to.
Withers, nurseryman, employs Clare.
'Woman's Love,' Clare's poem of.
* * * * *
End of Project Gutenberg's The Life of John Clare, by Frederick Martin