The next twelve months of Clare's life were uneventful. He worked hard and wrote little; and, with increasing bodily and mental health, got more and more at ease in his worldly circumstances. Even his little attempt at farming was not altogether unsuccessful, for though it did not bring much direct gain, it secured to him the esteem of his neighbours, and a feeling of self-dependence which he had never before known. When Patty presented him with another baby—sixth in the list; baptized Sophia, on the 3d of October, 1830—he felt by no means despondent as on a former occasion, but joyful in the extreme. The dread vision of poverty, so long before his eyes, had suddenly vanished, giving way to fancies of roseate hue. He almost wondered why he had ever despaired—happiness, after all, seemed so cheap and within such easy reach. There was wealth and health sufficient springing from his daily labour, and abundant joy in the constant sight of green fields, rippling brooks, and the smiling faces of his little ones at home. And there was joy scarce ever known when sitting down, at rare intervals, to the inspiration of the muse. Here was the supreme bliss of existence. Clare knew that the poetry, offspring of these happy hours, was far superior to anything that had ever flown from his pen. He almost felt as if now, and now only, he was becoming a true poet.
In truth, Clare never was a writer of perfect melodious verse till this time. A poet he had always been—had been from the day when, a tottering child, with senses scarce awakened, he thought to discover at the faint outline of the distant horizon, the touch of heaven and earth. But hitherto, and up to this period, the tumultuous inspiration of his soul had never found vent in soft and even flow of language: the poet had never been completely able to clothe noble thoughts into noble form. Want of early training, with grief and care, and unceasing mental agitation, had hemmed in on all sides the fair stream of his imagination, and the bright flash of genius was hidden under more or less rugged form. It was only now, that, having nursed his mind at the source of the great masters of poetry, and enjoying harmonious peace and rest from cares in the calm life of labour, that the outward form came to be mastered by the inward spirit, as clay in the hands of the sculptor. The poet himself was surprised at this momentous change, which came upon him with a suddenness almost startling in its intensity. He had left off writing verses for many months, devoting every moment of leisure to calm study, and happy wanderings through, woods and fields, when one evening, with the setting sun before his eyes, he felt a powerful longing to make one more attempt in poetical composition. Full of this, feeling, he sat down at the borders of Helpston Heath, lost in heavenly visions, and as he sat there the verses came flowing from his pen:—
'Muse of the fields! Oft have I said farewellTo thee, my boon companion, loved so long,And hung thy sweet harp in the bushy dellFor abler hands to wake an abler song—
* * * * *
Aye, I have heard thee in the summer wind,As if commanding what I sung to thee;Aye, I have seen thee on a cloud reclined,Kindling my fancies into poesy;
I saw thee smile, and took the praise to me.In beauties, past all beauty, thou wert drest:I thought the very clouds around thee knelt,I saw the sun did linger in the WestPaying thee worship; and as eve did meltIn dews, they seemed thy tears for sorrows I had felt.
Sweeter than flowers on beauty's bosom hung,Sweeter than dreams of happiness above,Sweeter than themes by lips of beauty, sung,Are the young fancies of a poet's love.'
* * * * *
When Clare had written his song 'To the Rural Muse,' he went home and kissed his children, and, it being full moon, kept working in his garden for another couple of hours. And the next day, and for days after, he kept on digging and planting, hoeing and ploughing, without ever touching a pen. It was thus a great and noble poet grew out of the 'Northamptonshire Peasant.'
The short summer was followed by a long winter. Again Clare fell ill; and with suffering and disease there came a train of misfortune completely overwhelming the frail life of the poet. The year 1831 proved very unfavourable to his farming operations, and, having no capital whatever to fall back upon, he at once relapsed into his former state of indigence. It was in vain that he attempted to make up for his losses by increased exertions as a labourer. Working fifteen and sixteen hours a day during harvest time, and not unfrequently standing up to his knees in mud in the undrained fields, his health gave way before long, and then there was an end of all work. He was confined to his bed for longer than a month, and gaunt poverty now again made its appearance at the little hut. There were ten persons to be clothed and fed, and no money incoming save the small quarterly stipend settled upon the poet, which was scarce sufficient to pay off the debts incurred by the unsuccessful farming of the year. When Clare saw that his children were wanting bread, his heart trembled in agony of despair. He rushed forth once more to labour in the fields, but had to be carried home by his fellow workmen; a mere look at his feverish ague-stricken frame being sufficient to show them that he was utterly unfit to be out of doors. So he had to lay his head again on his couch, happily unconscious for a time of what was passing around him. There was deep sorrow and lamentation in the little hut of the poet.
When everything was at the worst, kind friends came to the rescue. The Rev. Mr. Mossop, vicar of Helpston, and his kind-hearted sister, who had often before assisted Clare and his family, gave once more active aid and succour; and from Milton Park, too, there came valuable presents of food and medicine. Thus when the poet was able again to leave his bed, he found a much brighter outlook around him. Nevertheless, though there was no more absolute want of the necessaries of life, grim poverty was still standing at the threshold. The baker threatened to stop the supply of bread if his debt should long remain unpaid, and even the owner of the little ruinous dwelling, fourth part of a hut, in which Clare lived, hinted that the inmates would be driven out, unless the arrears of rent were discharged. This last menace almost drove the poet wild with excitement. Narrow and dark as it was, he dearly loved the little hut in which he was born, and the thought of leaving it, with, perhaps, the ultimate prospect of going to the workhouse for shelter, was to him blank despair. Agitated beyond measure, he ran to his friends at Milton Park, imploring aid and advice. Mr. Edward Artis was, as usual, away on his antiquarian rambles, intending to leave the service of Earl Fitzwilliam altogether, and devote himself to authorship on Durobrivae and Roman pottery. But Henderson was at home, and to him Clare poured out his tale of woe. While talking in the garden, the earl happened to come near, and kindly addressed Clare. The latter, in his excitement, found courage to speak of all his troubles, and his fear of having to quit his little home, with no place in the world where to lay his head. His lordship was struck with the intensity of feeling exhibited by the poet. He told him that he would attend to his wants, and provide a little cottage for him somewhere in the neighbourhood. Clare was astonished; the offer seemed to him so excessively generous that he scarce knew how to express his thanks. Seeing his confusion, the earl turned to other subjects, asking Clare whether he intended to bring out a new volume of poems, and being answered in the negative, earnestly advised him to do so. The counsel of the noble lord, no doubt, was well meant, but nevertheless very injudicious. The grant of a few acres of land, in a healthy district and at a moderate rent, would have been more beneficial to him than all the fame he could ever hope to gain from book-making.
Clare returned to his cottage with a joyful heart, brimful of pleasant visions of the future. The next day he was visited by Dr. Smith, a physician of Peterborough, who came in consequence of orders received from the noble owner of Milton Park. Earl Fitzwilliam, in his interview with Clare, perceived, or fancied he perceived, a certain wildness of looks about him, and not knowing what to think of it, was anxious to get the opinion of a medical man, well known for his successful treatment of mental diseases. The poet was not at all pleased with the visit of Dr. Smith; however, in gratitude to his benefactor, he willingly submitted to a lengthened examination. It had for result a report by the Peterborough physician to Earl Fitzwilliam, stating that there was no mental derangement whatever visible in Clare; but that his brain, developed to an unusual degree, was liable to great and sudden fits of excitement, from which it ought to be guarded by constant employment and a fair share of physical labour. Here was useful advice; but which, unfortunately, was misunderstood by his lordship. The earl quite agreed with the counsel of giving employment; but fancied the most natural work for a poet was that of writing poetry, at almost any time, and to any extent. In consequence, he sent for Clare, and, repeating his promise of giving him a neat little cottage with garden for occupation, urged him strongly not to neglect writing poetry, and to publish his new volume as soon as possible. Clare was but too willing to follow the advice of the noble lord.
The visits of Dr. Smith to Helpston did not cease with the first. Having been very favourably impressed with the character of the poet, the Peterborough physician took a great liking to him, and lost no occasion for friendly intercourse. Clare being devoted anew to writing poetry, some of the verses fell under the notice of the doctor, who expressed his approbation of them in rapturous terms. This naturally won the heart of the author, and, being urgently pressed, he consented to pay a visit to his medical friend at Peterborough, and stay a few days at his house. The visit took place in the spring of 1832, and led to some not unimportant results. Having communicated to his friend his former unfavourable attempts of book-publishing, and how the four volumes which had been issued had brought him nothing more substantial than fame, Dr. Smith felt moved by compassion, and began earnestly to reflect upon the great problem of converting poetry into cash. The result of these meditations came out in the shape of strong advice to Clare to fall back upon the old plan he had once entertained of publishing his verses by subscription. This was coupled with the promise that he would do his best to procure subscribers, and otherwise assist in the matter. Clare joyfully entered into the scheme, and, before leaving Peterborough, made arrangements with a Mr. Nell, a bookseller, to be his local agent for getting subscriptions, as well as to make arrangements with a London publisher to bring out the new volume of poems as soon as sufficient subscribers had ensured the success of the work. Mr. Nell promised his most energetic support, and being on the point of undertaking a visit to the metropolis, Clare furnished him with the following note to his friend Allan Cunningham:—
'Angel Inn, Peterborough.
My Dear Allan,
Here is a friend of mine, a Mr. Nell, a very hearty fellow, and one who is very desirous of seeing you—a poet, and, as I have convinced him, as hearty a fellow as himself. Therefore I have taken the liberty of introducing a stranger without any apology, feeling that such an introduction was not needed. He will be particularly gratified in seeing what you can show him of the immortal specimens of Chantrey's genius, and any other matters that can interest a literary man; for his profession, that of a bookseller, is not his only recommendation, he being a man of no common taste, and also a great admirer of painting and sculpture, and a lover of the muses.
Here ends my introduction of my friend Mr. Nell. And now, my dear Allan, how are you? How is Mrs. Cunningham and your family, and our old friend George Darley? As for myself, I am as dull as a fog in November, and as far removed from all news of literary matters as the man in the moon; therefore I hope you will excuse this dull scrawl, and believe me, as I really am,
Yours heartily and affectionately,
John Clare.
Has Hogg visited London yet? When he does tell me, and I'll see if I don't muster up every atom of my strength to have a sight of him.
Having left your address at Helpston, I am obliged to trust this letter and my friend to Providence to find you, which I trust he will readily. Your J. C.
Allan Cuningham, Esq. London.
Favoured by my friend, Mr. Nell.'
Although 'as dull as a fog in November,' Clare was in a hopeful mood at this time. Sanguine as ever, and more than ever imbued with the consciousness of his poetical power, he dreamt that his new publication would be a success, and that his verses at last would gain a sufficient circle of admirers to encourage him in writing more, and thus securing independence for the rest of his days. This hopefulness was somewhat disturbed after a while by news from his friends at Peterborough, who told him that subscribers were coming in but very slowly. These unfavourable tidings he communicated to Mr. Artis, in a note dated May, 1832, in which he said: 'I want to get out a new volume; but the way in which I have started is not very practicable, for I Want to make it a source of benefit.' The words bear a striking melancholy sound. Evidently the poor poet, deeply impressed with his sad experience of the past, scarcely dared to expect the golden millennium when his verses should actually prove 'a source of profit' to him as well as to the booksellers. There probably never lived, a poet—a printing and publishing poet—full of more sublime meekness and resignation.
Earl Fitzwilliam punctually kept his promise to assign a new dwelling to Clare. The latter received notice at the beginning of May that he might remove in the course of the month to a pretty and substantial cottage which his lordship had erected for him at the hamlet of Northborough, three miles from Helpston, nearer to the Peterborough Great Fen. The news did not bring joy to the poet, but bitter sorrow. His heart was full of anguish at the thought of quitting the little hut where he was born, the village which he so dearly loved, and all the familiar scenes and objects amidst which the quiet course of his existence had rolled on for nearly forty years. He went over to Northborough, and saw the neat dwelling which the kindness of Earl Fitzwilliam had prepared for him; and though he liked the place, he could no more than before reconcile his mind to the thought of leaving his dear old home and all its cherished associations. The noble earl had fixed upon Northborough as the residence of the poet on account of the thoroughly sylvan scenery all around, the little hamlet lying hidden in a very sea of flowers, trees, and evergreens. The spot indeed was beautiful enough; yet to Clare it did not appear half so beautiful as the bare and bleak environs of his native village. Here he knew every shrub and every inch, of ground, and, through many years' converse with nature, had come to look upon the most minute objects with intense feelings of love. Though strangers might see nothing but a barren landscape all around, to him it was a Garden of Eden, animated with living thought, and full of soul-inspiring beauty. The mere thought of quitting this Eden filled his mind with terror.
The terror increased when the time came near that he was actually to leave. More than once he was on the point of requesting an audience at Milton Park, for the purpose of imploring the noble earl to take back his kind gift and leave him in his little hut. But his friends at Milton Park, Artis and Henderson, would not hear of this resolution, and got quite angry at the mere mentioning of the subject. They represented to Clare that it would be black ingratitude on his part not to accept the generous benefaction of his lordship, who had taken all along the greatest interest in his welfare, and in this very choice of a residence in the evergreen vale of Northborough had shown the most delicate taste and appreciation of his poetical genius. Clare could not deny the force of these arguments, and, after another inward struggle, decided to go to Northborough, at any sacrifice to his feelings. Yet even after this firm determination of his mind, he could scarcely bring himself to the execution of the task. 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 Helpston 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 around. 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 verses:—
'I've left my own old Home of Homes,Green fields, and every pleasant place;The summer like a stranger comes,I pause—and hardly know her face.
* * * * *
I miss the heath, its yellow furze,Mole-hills and rabbit-tracks, that leadThrough besom-ling and teasel burrsThat spread a wilderness indeed:The Woodland oaks, and all belowThat their white powder'd branches shield,The mossy paths—the very crowCroaks music in my native field.
I sit me in my corner chair,That seems to feel itself alone;I hear fond music—here and thereFrom hawthorn-hedge and orchard come.I hear—but all is strange and new:I sat on my old bench last June,The sailing puddock's shrill "pee-lew,"O'er Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune.
I walk adown the narrow close,The nightingale is singing now;But like to me she seems at lossFor Royce Wood and its shielding bough.I lean upon the window sill,The trees and summer happy seem,—Green, sunny green they shine—but stillMy heart goes far away to dreamOf happiness—and thoughts ariseWith home-bred pictures many a one—Green lanes that shut out burning skies,And old crook'd stiles to rest upon.
* * * * *
I dwell on trifles like a child—I feel as ill becomes a man;And yet my thoughts like weedlings wildGrow up and blossom where they can.'—
'Northborough, June 20, 1832,' these lines were written. They formed the beginning of a new era in the life of the sorrowing poet.
Happiness never came to Clare in his rose-enshrined cottage at Northborough. His poetical powers culminated at this period; but his mind gradually gave way under a burthen of sorrows and cares. Perhaps some of them were fanciful, and such 'as ill become a man;' but the bulk had their roots in bitter reality. Clare now had a pretty cottage to live in; yet, for all that, remained as poor as ever. In truth, he was, if anything, poorer; for having left his old neighbourhood, and come to dwell among strangers, he had lost his chances of finding work as a farm-labourer. His little garden, it was true, yielded a few fruits and vegetables for his family; yet there was not a tithe enough for their support, and dire want was standing at the door with as grim aspect as ever. Then there came new expenses for keeping the larger cottage in repair, and for fitting it with appropriate furniture, and a mountain of fresh debt was added to the old liabilities which so sorely pressed upon the poor poet. It was a pressure nigh overwhelming to a tenderly susceptible mind.
Clare's removal to Northborough had the immediate effect, not desirable by any means, of drawing upon him the attention of a number of persons more or less acquainted with his works, but by whom he had been forgotten. As usual, public rumour magnified to an enormous extent the nature of the bounty conferred by Earl Fitzwilliam; and while the most moderate statement was that the poet had an annual allowance of two hundred pounds a year from his lordship, besides a fine house to live in, others went so far as to raise the two hundred to a thousand, and the house to a mansion. Local newspapers busily printed these attractive items of public intelligence, and the consequence was that the cottage at Northborough was for some months quite besieged with visitors, all come to congratulate. Clare felt in no mood to give or receive compliments, and positively refused to entertain the stream of kind friends of whose friendships he had never before been aware. With a few of the visitors, however, with whom he had been previously acquainted, he entered into conversation, speaking frankly of his actual circumstances, and of the entire untruth of the rumours which asserted his sudden wealth. Among the friends who gained his confidence to this extent was a Mr. Clark, editor of a literary magazine, who, with the view of making a little article out of his visit, questioned and cross-questioned Clare in the most minute way as to his financial circumstances, and the number of his patrons. John Clare, as to all men, so here to this supposed friend, spoke in a frank and confiding manner, not hiding the fact that his poetry had never been remunerative, nor that, though having many patrons left, he was on the very brink of starvation. This was interesting news to Mr. Clark; and the matter being eminently fit for raising the old discussion about poets and their patrons, he spun it into a flaming article, duly painted and coloured, which was printed in the literary magazine.
The poet was immensely astonished when, at the beginning of October, he received a paper containing an account of himself and his troubles. It was stated that his publishers had robbed him of the profits of his works; that some noble patrons, alluded to in no complimentary terms, kept feeding him with compliments, but left him to starve; and much more to the same effect. The whole account deeply hurt his feelings, and he at once sent a letter to a friend at Stamford, contributor to Mr. Clark's magazine. The letter ran: 'My dear friend,—I am obliged to write to you to contradict the misrepresentations in your paper of October the 5th, which I received on Saturday. As long as my own affairs are misrepresented, I care nothing about it; but such falsehoods as are bandied about in this article not only hurt my feelings but injure me. Mr. Clark in making these statements must have known that he was giving circulation to lies; and had I been aware of his intentions to meddle in my affairs, I should most assuredly have treated him as a foe in disguise. For enemies I care nothing; from friends I have much to fear, it seems. There never was a more scandalous insult to my feelings than this officious misstatement…. I am no beggar; for my income is £36, and though I have had no final settlement with Taylor, I expect to have one directly.' The letter, after going into the details of his commercial transactions both with Mr. Drury and Mr. Taylor, not altogether complimentary to the former, ended with a positive demand that the statements made in the magazine should be retracted.
But no attention was paid to this demand. The result was that Clare got more gloomy and melancholy than ever, hiding himself for whole days in the neighbouring woods, and refusing to see even the most intimate of his friends. The publication of the unfortunate magazine article and 'officious misstatement,' of which there appeared no public contradiction, was likewise not without effect upon the demeanour of Clare's patrons. Earl Fitzwilliam, after providing him with a suitable dwelling in an unexpectedly generous manner, subsequently left him to his fate. Thus the poet sank deeper and deeper into poverty and wretchedness, until he could sink no further.
The publication of the new volume of verses made little progress for a long time to come. Notwithstanding the strenuous exertions of Dr. Smith and other friends, the desired subscribers were very slow in presenting themselves, poetry being evidently at a discount at the border of the fen regions. In the spring of 1833, Clare informed his kind friend, the Vicar of Helpston, who continued to assist him in his needs, that he had secured 'subscribers for forty-nine copies' of his intended new volume; adding, however, the dismal fact of eighteen among them being 'rather doubtful.' Thus a poet, whose fame the leading organ of criticism, the 'Quarterly Review,' had proclaimed a dozen years before, and who was now at the very zenith of his power, was actually unable to find more than thirty persons in his own neighbourhood, where he was best known, who would support him to the extent of a few pence. Nor was Clare more fortunate in his endeavours to find patronage among the great publishers of the metropolis. Although he sent specimens of some exquisite songs and ballads to many of the best-known dealers in poetical ware, they declined publishing them without having the previous signatures of a certain number of purchasers. One of the specimen poems thus sent to London was the following song, entitled 'Woman's Love:'—
'O the voice of woman's love!What a bosom stirring word!Was a sweeter ever uttered,Was a dearer ever heard,Than woman's love?
How it melts upon the ear!How it nourishes the heart!Cold, cold must his appearWho has never shared a partOf woman's love.
'Tis pleasure to the mourner,'Tis freedom to the thrall;The pilgrimage of many,And the resting place of all,Is woman's love.
'Tis the gem of beauty's birth,It competes with joys above;What were angels upon earthIf without woman's love?A woman's love.'
It did not seem to strike the publishers, to whom this poem, with many similar ones, was submitted, that there was anything beautiful in it; and after having travelled up and down Paternoster Row, the verses were returned to the author, 'with thanks.' One bookseller, indeed, offered to bring out the volume, but on condition that Clare was to advance one hundred pounds, to be spent in steel engravings and other 'embellishments.' Without embellishments, he told his correspondent, the verses would never attract public attention, the taste of the day being all for high art, as exhibited in the annuals. Clare wrote an angry note in return, deeming it an insult that a man should ask him to spend a hundred pounds upon steel engravings, when he was in want of bread.
The winter of 1832-3 proved the greatest trial the unhappy poet had yet undergone. With scarcely food for his children; with not money enough to satisfy even a fraction of the claims of his most importunate creditors; and with no expectations of earning anything, either by work in the fields or by the publication of his new volume of verses, he saw nothing but the dreariest prospect of misery staring him in the face. He wept bitterly when, on the 4th of January, 1833, his wife brought him another boy, his seventh child. Passionately fond of his little ones, and devoted to them heart and soul, he could not bear the thought of the coming day when he might have no bread to give them. The mere idea made him feel faint and giddy, and he rushed forth into the fields to cool his throbbing head. Not returning in time for the evening meal, his eldest daughter went in search through all the neighbourhood. After long inquiries and searching, she found her father lying on an embankment, close to a footpath leading from Northborough to the village of Etton. He looked deadly pale, and being quite insensible, had to be carried home on the shoulders of some labourers, who were called for assistance. Consciousness did not return till some hours after, and for nearly a month he was unable to leave his bed. The parish doctor, when called in, shook his head, talked something of ague and fever, and ended by sending some bottles full of yellowish stuff, which Clare refused to take. He knew, better than the doctor, that something else than medicine was required to restore his health—health of the mind, as well as of the body.
When the spring came, Clare had gathered sufficient strength to be able to leave the house. But he now, to the infinite surprise of his family, refused to leave it. He seemed to have lost, all at once, his old love for flowers, sunshine, and green trees, and kept sitting in his little study, silently writing verses, or poring over his books. In vain his children begged him to go with them into the smiling fields, spread out temptingly on all sides around their pretty cottage. He went, now and then, as far as the garden; but quickly returned, sitting down again to his books and papers. Some theological works in his collection, which had been presented to him years ago, but at which he had scarcely ever looked before, now chiefly engrossed his attention. He sat reading them all day long, and often till late at night, neglecting food and rest over the perusal of these works. Sometimes he ceased reading for a few hours, and took to writing religious verses, attempting paraphrases of the Psalms, the Proverbs, and the Book of Job. Visitors he now altogether refused to see, and even to his wife and children he spoke but little. Thus the news of his illness did not spread beyond the village, and remained unknown even to his friends at Milton Park. It was quite accidentally that Dr. Smith looked in upon his friend one day, and was admitted after some difficulty. The doctor was startled on seeing the pale and haggard face of Clare, and the fixed stare of his eyes. But a short examination of his friend went far to reassure the physician, for he found that Clare talked not only quite rationally, but with more than usual good sense and apparent firmness of purpose. He informed his visitor that, as his former productions had not been as favourably received as he hoped they would be, he had bethought himself of writing a volume of religious poetry; not controversial, but simple expositions of the truth proclaimed in the Bible. To show the work he was doing, Clare read two of his renderings of the Psalms, which pleased the doctor so much that he broke out into rapturous applause. He promised at the same time that he would leave no stone unturned to get subscribers both for the book of ballads and sonnets previously planned, and for the new volume of religious verse. The poet, usually so sensitive to words of kindness, received both the praise and the promise with great coldness. This again surprised the Peterborough physician.
Dr. Smith kept word in regard to the beating-up of subscribers. After indefatigable exertions, and by almost forcing his poor patients, lay and clerical, to take a poetical prospectus together with their pills, he succeeded in getting a couple of hundred names to the subscription list. He carried the paper in triumph to Northborough; but was again received in a cold and apathetic manner. Clare expressed no pleasure whatever on hearing that there was now a good prospect of bringing out his new volume. He scarcely listened to what the doctor said, and kept on interrupting him every minute with remarks of his own on biblical subjects. 'Is not this Book of Job a wonderful poem—one of the most wonderful elegies ever written?' he asked again and again. Dr. Smith was somewhat surprised; the man of science had never been thinking much about the Book of Job, and, perhaps, knew it only by repute. He looked Clare steadfastly in the face; but the latter averted the glance, bonding over the papers before him. 'Shall I read to you some of my verses?' he inquired, after a pause. The doctor willingly consented, and Clare began declaiming his paraphrase of the 38th chapter of Job:—
'Then God, half angered, answered Job aright,Out of the whirlwind and the darkening storm—'
When he had finished reading, with tremulous voice, the last lines, scarcely altered from the text:—
'And who providesThe raven with his food—His young ones cryTo God, and wander forth for lack of meat'—
Clare burst out crying, hiding his face in his hands. The medical man got alarmed, and went out to see Mrs. Clare. He asked her whether she had observed anything unusual about her husband of late; in fact, words or doings betoking mental disorder. She replied that she had not noticed anything, except his being unusually silent and reserved, and utterly disinclined to leave the house. Thereupon both went into Clare's room, and found that he had overcome his sudden burst of grief, and was looking out of the window. He now entered freely into conversation with the doctor, betraying not the slightest sign of incoherent thought or reflection. Thanking his friend for all his kindness in getting subscribers for the intended volume of poems, he told him that he was going to write immediately to London, and make arrangements for the publication of the book. The doctor then left, promising to call again.
He often called, and invariably met Clare in the same mood. Though somewhat reserved in manner, he was cheerful, and his talk completely rational; so that Dr. Smith almost reproached himself for having harboured suspicions about the mental condition of his friend. What dispelled the last remnant of these suspicions, was the character of some of the poems which Clare was writing in his presence, and afterwards reading aloud. The doctor was a fair judge of verses, and he confessed to himself that those which his friend was now composing were more exquisite in form than any which had ever before come from his pen. When visiting Clare early one morning, he found him in a happier mood than usual, and learned that he had just written some lines in praise of an old sweetheart, whom he had seen the day before from his window, when she was walking along the road. The poet, being asked to do so, willingly read the verses to his friend. But his voice quivered with emotion, when commencing:—
'First love will with the heart remainWhen all its hopes are bye,As frail rose-blossoms still retainTheir fragrance when they die;And joy's first dreams will haunt the mindWith shades from whence they sprung,As summer leaves the stems behindOn which spring's blossoms hung.
Mary! I dare not call thee dear,I've lost that right so long;Yet once again I vex thine earWith memory's idle song.Had time and change not blotted outThe love of former days,Thou wert the last that I should doubtOf pleasing with my praise.'
The doctor highly praised these and the following verses addressed to 'Mary;' and, on proffering the wish, was promised a copy of them. The poem seemed to him a convincing proof that, whatever Clare's sufferings had been, they had left no effect upon his mind. Had the man of science been aware of all the facts, he would have known that these very verses were indications of a partial disturbance of reason. Sweet 'Mary,' to whom Clare's verses were addressed, and whom he fancied to have seen in the road the day before, had long been lying in her grave.
Being under the impression that his friend was perfectly well, Dr. Smith soon discontinued his visits, and, not being called upon, never saw him again. But just at this time the poet's condition got rapidly worse, and the first tokens of insanity began to show themselves. Morbidly occupied with one set of thoughts, he had now lost the consciousness of his own identity, and addressed his wife and children as strangers. When the former first heard her husband speaking of 'John Clare' as a third person, she became terribly frightened; but thinking he might recover from his mental aberration by being carefully nursed and kept as quiet as possible, she resolved to do her own duty independent of the world. She was successful, to some extent; for after a while the clouds began, to disappear, and the poet again spoke in a rational manner. He seemed to feel as if awakening from a heavy, oppressive dream; his thoughts perfectly clear, yet with a conscious remembrance that his reason had been disturbed, and an infinite dread that the same calamity might happen again. Full of this apprehension, and in terrible anxiety to shield himself against the coming danger, he resolved to consult his friend, Mr. John Taylor, from whom he had not heard for a long time. He wrote a first note at the beginning of July, 1834; but, not getting an immediate reply, despatched a second letter. It ran:—
'Northborough, July 10, 1834.
My Dear Taylor,—I am in such a state that I cannot help feeling some alarm that I may be as I have been. You must excuse my writing; but I feel if I do not write now I shall not be able. What I wish is to get under Dr. Darling's advice, or to have his advice to go somewhere; for I have not been from home this twelvemonth, and cannot get anywhere. Yet I know if I could reach London I should be better, or else get to salt water. Whatever Dr. Darling advises I will do if I can.
Mrs. Emmerson, I think, has forsaken me. I do not feel neglect now as I have done: I feel only very anxious to get better. I cannot describe my feelings; perhaps in a day or two I shall not be able to do anything, or get anywhere. Write, dear Taylor, and believe me.
Yours sincerely, John Clare.'
The reply to this note was an invitation to come to London at once, and consult Dr. Darling, who would be glad to see his old friend and patient. But the advice was easier than its execution. There was such dire poverty within the pretty cottage at Northborough, that many a day its inmates had to go without a dinner; and to raise the money for paying the journey to London and back seemed sheer impossibility. Clare had made arrangements, some time previous, for the printing of his new volume of poems; but this, too, had not yet proved a remunerative affair. The publishers who had undertaken the task, Messrs. Whittaker and Co. of Ave Maria Lane, informed him that, before sending any remuneration for the book, they must see how it would sell; clearly hinting that, if not successful, there would be no payment. Thus the poor poet was again baffled in his endeavours to extricate himself from his dire misery by the want of a few pounds. Probably, could he but have raised at this moment sufficient money to pay for his journey to London and consult Dr. Darling, his life, and what was more than his life, might yet have been saved. But, again and again, there was not a hand stretched forth from among the host of high friends and patrons to save a glorious soul from perdition.
A last appeal for help and assistance issued forth from the cottage at Northborough at the beginning of August. Clare once more informed his friend Taylor that he felt terribly anxious to consult Dr. Darling, but could not undertake the journey for want of means. 'If I could but go to London,' he wrote, 'I think I should get better. How would you advise me to come? I dare not come up by myself. Do you think one of my children might go with me? Write to me as soon as you can. God bless you! Excuse the short letter, for I am not able to say more. Thank God, my wife and children are all well.' There was no answer to this note, nor to a final still more piercing cry for help. After that, all was quiet at the pretty cottage at Northborough. The last struggle was over.
Months and months passed, and no change took place in the mental condition of the poet. He kept reading and writing all day long; spoke but little, and seemed averse to the society of even his wife and children. At times, and for long consecutive periods, his remarks to his family, and some few neighbours or visitors who were admitted to the house, were quite rational; but again at other times his language betrayed the sad aberration of a noble intellect. At such moments he always spoke of himself as a stranger, in the third person, alternately praising and condemning the sayings and doings of the man John Clare. He was fond, too, of appealing to some invisible 'Mary,' as his wife, quite ignoring the faithful spouse at his side, and treating her with utter indifference. Throughout, however, he was calm and quiet; never complaining of anything, nor possessing, to all appearance, any other desire than that of being left alone in his little room, among his books and papers. Thus the winter passed, and the spring made its appearance—the spring of 1835. At the approach of it the dark clouds seemed to vanish once more for a short time. Throughout March and April, he did not show the least sign of mental derangement, and on there coming a letter from his publishers, asking him to write a preface to his little book of poems, just on the point of being issued, he did so without hesitation. This preface, dated 'Northborough, May 9, 1835'—containing nothing remarkable, except a melancholy allusion to 'old friends' long vanished from the scene, and to 'ill health,' which had left the writer 'incapable of doing anything,'—was duly issued with the new book in the month of June.
The book was entitled 'The Rural Muse,' and, by desire of the publishers, was dedicated to Earl Fitzwilliam. It was but a small volume of 175 pages, comprising some forty-four ballads and songs, together with eighty-six sonnets. Messrs. Whittaker and Co. fearful of risking money in printing too large a quantity of rural verse, so much out of fashion for the time, had picked these short pieces from about five times as many poems, furnished to them by the author. The pieces, however, were well chosen; and were likewise tastefully printed, besides being illustrated with the inevitable steel engravings—pictures of Clare's cottage and of the, church at Northborough. Short as most of the poems were, it was on the whole a splendid collection of exquisite verse, such, as had not been published for many a day. The 'Rural Muse,' compared to Clare's first book, the 'Poems of Rural Life,' was as much higher in thought as the works of the master are to those of the apprentice, and as much more beautiful in outward form as the butterfly is to the chrysalis. Nevertheless, the new volume, so far from passing, like the first, through four editions, and being praised by 'Quarterly Reviews' and other high organs of criticism, proved thoroughly unsuccessful. The reviewers refused to notice, and the public to buy, the 'Rural Muse.' There was no critic in all England to say one word in its recommendation; nor one of all the old friends and patrons who sent a cheering note of praise to the author. Of the ill success of his book Clare, however, heard soon enough. The publishers let him know that he could expect no remuneration, the entire receipts being insufficient to pay the expenses, including the cost of the much-admired steel engravings. Clare received the information very calmly. His soul, once more, was beyond the strife of hopes and fears.
Though there was no literary review in England to say a word in favour of the forgotten poet at Northborough, there was one in Scotland. Professor Wilson, of Edinburgh, had no sooner seen the new book when he broke forth in eloquent praise of it in 'Blackwood's Magazine.' In the number for August, 1835, he gave an article of sixteen pages, headed 'Clare's Rural Muse,' containing not a few strong honest words about the poet and the unjust neglect under which he was suffering. After comparing Clare with Burns, and setting him, at the same time, far above Bloomfield, Professor Wilson broke forth in indignant strain:—
'Our well-beloved brethren, the English—who, genteel as they are, have a vulgar habit of calling us the Scotch—never lose an opportunity of declaiming on the national disgrace incurred by our treatment of Burns. We confess that the people of that day were not blameless—nor was the bard whom now all the nations honour. There was some reason for sorrow, and perhaps for shame; and there was avowed repentance. Scotland stands where it did in the world's esteem. The widow outlived her husband nearly forty years; she wanted nothing, and was happy. The sons are prosperous, or with a competence; all along with that family all has been right. England never had a Burns. We cannot know how she would have treated him had he "walked in glory and in joy" uponhermountain-side. But we do know how she treated her Bloomfield. She let him starve. Humanly speaking, we may say that but for his imprisonment—his exclusion from light and air—he would, now have been alive. As it was, the patronage he received served but to prolong a feeble, a desponding, a melancholy existence; cheered at times but by short visits from the Muse, who was scared from that dim abode, and fain would have wafted him with her to the fresh fields and the breezy downs. But his lot forbad—and generous England. There was some talk of a subscription, and Southey, with hand "open as day to melting charity," was foremost among the poets. But somehow or, other it fell through, and was never more heard of—and meanwhile Bloomfield died. Hush then about Burns.'
When brave Christopher North wrote these lines in 'Blackwood,' he probably knew nothing about the actual position of Clare, except the general rumour that he was not very well off, though not absolutely poor. He therefore thought to do enough in inviting all the admirers of genuine poetry to purchase the 'Rural Muse,' in order that 'the poet's family be provided with additional comforts.' That some 'comforts' were theirs already, Professor Wilson judged from the elaborate steel engraving of Clare's dwelling, prefixed to the new volume. 'The creeping plants,' he said, 'look pretty in front of the poet's cottage, but they bear no fruit. There is, however, a little garden attached, and in it may he dig without anxiety, nor need to grudge among the esculents the gadding flowers…. Clare is contented, and his Patty has her handful for the beggar at the door, her heartful for a sick neighbour.'
Alas! had but Professor Wilson known the bitter actual truth, the frightful condition of another Burns, it might have been time yet to rouse with thunder voice the heart of England—of England and of Scotland—to prevent another 'national disgrace.'
The article in 'Blackwood's Magazine' occasioned some talk in the literary world of London; but on the whole made little impression, and probably did not contribute much to the sale of the 'Rural Muse.' The old patrons of Clare were glad to learn, on the authority of a great writer, that he was tolerably comfortable and,'contented,' with something to spare for 'the beggar at the door,' and for the rest people did not trouble themselves much about 'national disgrace,' engendered by the treatment of rural poets. Three months after the publication of his 'Rural Muse,' Clare was as much forgotten as ever; his name never mentioned in polite society; and the copies of his book lying unsold on the shelves of Messrs. Whittaker and Co. in Ave Maria Lane. The poet himself was not affected by it, for he had ceased to suffer from the neglect of the world and the rude buffetings of poverty and misery. Like Hamlet—
'He, repulsed,Fell into sadness, then into a fast,Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness,Thence to a lightness; and, by this declension,Into the madness wherein now he raves.'
In the winter of 1835-6 the poet's mental state became alarming. His ordinarily quiet behaviour gave way at times to fits of excitement, during which he would talk in a violent manner to those around him. However, his wife and children were as yet almost the only people who knew of his mental derangement, the world being still entirely ignorant that the 'Northamptonshire Peasant,' who had just issued a new book of poetry, was a madman. Even Clare's own neighbours knew little of his state; to them he always was an inexplicable, erratic being, with words and actions not to be measured by the ordinary standard, and they, therefore, took little notice of occasional strange scenes which they witnessed. This was fortunate, in so far as it contributed to put poor Mrs. Clare more at her ease. She rightly judged that if she could but induce her husband to leave his narrow room and his books, and enjoy again as of old the sight of flowers, trees, and green fields, his health would be greatly improved. With this constant aim in view, she succeeded at last in drawing her unhappy partner from his gloomy retirement. The spring of 1836 was unusually fine, and when nature had put on her first smiling green, and the whole little village was wrapped in a belt of fragrant blossoms and flowers, Patty instructed her two eldest daughters to lead their father for a short walk through the neighbourhood. The poet, this time, made no resistance whatever, but allowed himself to be guided by his children. He returned much pleased with his excursion, expressing a wish to go again the next day. From the second walk he came back still more delighted, and the daily rambles continuing for more than a month, Clare at last seemed almost recovered from his malady. Except at rare intervals, when his speech would become somewhat wild and incoherent, his behaviour showed not the least signs of eccentricity, and though more quiet and subdued than formerly, the conversation he carried on seemed perfectly judicious and rational. Once more, Patty fervently hoped Heaven would restore her husband.
It was not long before Clare's old love of nature came back with such renewed ardour that he could not be made to stop a single day at home. Whenever the weather was moderately fine, he sallied forth, mostly unaccompanied by any one, and seldom returned before the sun had set. He extended his excursions as far as Helpston Heath on the one side, and Peterborough on the other, seemingly as much as ever acquainted with every nook and piece of ground for miles around the neighbourhood of his ancient haunts. One day, when rambling about on the confines of the cathedral city, he met and was recognised by Mrs. Marsh. The good old lady was delighted to see her poet again, and insisted that he should make up for his former neglect by accompanying her at once, and staying a few days at the episcopal mansion. Clare said he was expected home by his wife, and could not go the same day; but promised to pay a visit to Peterborough in the course of a week. He kept his word, and on the appointed time presented himself before Mrs. Marsh. She was exceedingly pleased, and to prevent her poet from running away again, kept him constantly in her company. Conversing with him on all subjects, Mrs. Marsh at times thought his remarks rather singular; while his sudden swerving from one topic to another often astonished her not a little. But all this the good lady held to be perfectly natural in a poet and a man of genius. To her a poet was nothing if not eccentric.
Clare remained for several days a guest at the residence of the bishop, and on the last evening of his visit was taken by Mrs. Marsh to the theatre. A select band of roving tragedians had taken possession of the Peterborough stage—converted, by a more prosaic living generation, into a corn-exchange—and were delighting the inhabitants of the episcopal city with Shakespeare, and the latest French melodramas. On the evening when Clare went to the theatre in company with Mrs. Marsh, the 'Merchant of Venice' was performed. Clare sat and listened quietly while the first three acts were being played, not even replying to the questions as to how he liked the piece, addressed to him by Mrs. Marsh. But at the commencement of the fourth act, he got restless and evidently excited, and in the scene where Portia delivered judgment, he suddenly sprang up on his seat, and began addressing the actor who performed the part of Shylock. Great was the astonishment of all the good citizens of Peterborough, when a shrill voice, coming from the box reserved to the wife of the Lord Bishop, exclaimed, 'You villain, you murderous villain!' Such an utter breach of decorum was never heard of within the walls of the episcopal city. It was in vain that those nearest to Clare tried to keep him on his seat and induce him to be quiet; he kept shouting, louder than ever, and ended by making attempts to get upon the stage. At last, the performance had to be suspended, and Mrs. Marsh, after some difficulty, got away with her guest. The old lady, in her innocence, even now did not apprehend the real cause of the exciting scene which she had witnessed, but, as before, attributed the behaviour of her unfortunate visitor to poetic eccentricity. But she began thinking that he was almost too eccentric.
The next morning, Clare went back to Northborough, having received an intimation from Mrs. Marsh that it would be best he should go home at once. He wandered forth from the city in a dreamy mood, and lost his way before he had gone far. Some acquaintances found him sitting in a meadow, near the hamlet of Gunthorpe, and seeing his wild haggard looks and strange manners, they took him by the arm, and led him back to Peterborough, delivering him over to the porter at the episcopal mansion. Mrs. Marsh, on hearing that her poet had again made his appearance, was somewhat alarmed; her guest had ceased to be ornamental to her establishment, and her chief object now was to get rid of him as soon as possible. She therefore ordered a servant to take charge of Clare and deliver him up to his wife, with instructions not to let him go, under any pretence, to Peterborough. The order was duly obeyed, and the poet soon found himself in his little cottage. Patty was frightened to see what a sad change the few days' absence had wrought in her husband. He no longer talked sensibly as before, but addressed her and the children in an abrupt manner, asking for his 'Mary,' and complaining that all his friend's had left him. The poor wife soothed him as best she could, and after some efforts succeeded in calming his mind. At the end of a few days, Clare seemed again sufficiently well to leave the house, and renewed his daily walks in company with one or the other of his children. The inhabitants of the village, together with most of his acquaintances in the neighbourhood, were still ignorant that the poet whom they saw daily roving through the fields was at madman.
The ignorance was so general as to be shared by most, of Clare's friends and patrons. One of the latter, the Rev. Mr. Mossop, Vicar of Helpston, had frequent occasions of seeing him, but never detected the slightest sign of mental derangement. Thus one morning, soon after the poet's return from Peterborough, he invited him to his house, to meet a friend who wished to make the acquaintance of the author of the 'Rural Muse.' Mrs. Clare was rather unwilling to let her husband depart; but had not the courage to detain him, remembering the exceeding kindness, always shown to her family by the vicar and his sister. The poet accordingly made his appearance at Mr. Mossop's house; but had not been long there before he showed unmistakeable signs of a wandering intellect. In the midst of an animated conversation, he suddenly broke off, and pointing to the ceiling, cried that he saw figures moving up and down. Surprised as the host and hostess were at this exclamation, they at once perceived the real condition of their unhappy visitor. The reverend gentleman, without loss of time, hurried off to get medical assistance, while his sister, Miss Jane Mossop, did her best to quiet the poet by conversing with him on his favourite topics, and drawing his attention to the plants and flowers in the garden. It was not long before a surgeon arrived, in the person of a Mr. Skrimshaw, resident at Market Deeping. He pronounced at once—what, indeed, was obvious to all the persons in the house—that the poor poet was a lunatic. The kind-hearted vicar thereupon had Clare carefully conveyed back to his own home, making further arrangements for his comfort and safety.
Through Mr. Mossop, the Earl Fitzwilliam and other patrons of Clare were made acquainted with the mental state of the poet, of which they had been so long ignorant. The earl at once proposed to send the poet to the county lunatic asylum, at Northampton, where he would be kept under safe restraint; but this scheme met with some opposition on the part of Mrs. Clare, who thought that her husband might yet recover by being left quietly at home. For a short time, indeed, it seemed as if this was the case. During the next four or five months, and up to the spring of 1837, the cottage at Northborough bore as quiet an aspect as if disease and misery had never entered it. Clare kept working in his garden, and reading in his little study, week after week, speaking to his family in the most rational manner, and occasionally writing verses as sweet and beautiful as any that had ever come from his pen. But with the warm days of summer, his mind seemed again to get distracted, and the report reaching Milton Park, imprisonment at the Northampton asylum was once more advised, or ordered. By desire of the noble earl, negotiations were entered into with the authorities at the county establishment to receive Clare, against payment of a small weekly sum, at a somewhat better footing than the ordinary paupers; but while these were pending, there came letters from London offering to do a little more for the unhappy poet. Mr. John Taylor and other old friends and patrons, having now become fully acquainted with the condition of Clare, proposed to place him in a private lunatic asylum, near the metropolis, discharging all the expenses of his maintenance there. The earl, being a clear gainer by this new arrangement, had no objection whatever to make against it, and signified his desire of having his pensioner at Northborough at once removed to the new place of safety. This was done without loss of time. Early on the morning of the 16th of July, 1837, Clare was led away from his wife and children, by two stern-looking men, who placed him in a small carriage and drove rapidly away southward. Late the same day, the poet found himself an inmate of Dr. Allen's private lunatic asylum, at Fair Mead House, High Beech, in the centre of Epping Forest.
The news that Clare had been taken to a lunatic asylum did not become generally known till many months after the event had taken place. In the meanwhile, however, the few persons who still took an interest in the 'Northamptonshire Peasant' heard vague rumours that he was living at home in a state of extreme destitution, productive at times of mental derangement, and on the initiative of the most energetic of these old friends another appeal was made to the public for pecuniary aid. Allan Cunningham was the first to call upon the admirers of Clare to help him in his distress, and the editors of various more or less fashionable annuals, published in the autumn of 1837, followed the example. Though it did not lead to the desired result, the movement thus set on foot was curious, as showing the estimation in which the poet was held by some of those who wished to figure as his patrons. Among them was the Marquis of Northampton, a nobleman who, though never having in the least assisted Clare, fancied himself a sort of protector of the poet, for the sole reason that he was living in the county. This sort of county-property feeling, common to not a few of Clare's noble patrons, was expressed to a notable degree in a letter which the marquis wrote in reply to one of the appeals in favour of the 'Northamptonshire Peasant.'
The appeal in question appeared in the 'Book of Gems,' an annual edited by Mr. S. C. Hall. The writer, after stating that Clare had 'for many years existed in a state of poverty, as utter and hopeless as that in which he passed his youth;' that he had 'a wife and a very large family;' and that 'at times his mind is giving way under the sickness of hope deferred,' finished with an eloquent address to some nobleminded patron of poetry to come forward and help Clare. 'It is not yet too late,' the writer exclaimed, 'for a hand to reach him: a very envied celebrity may be obtained by some wealthy and good Samaritan. Strawberry Hill might be gladly sacrificed for the fame of having saved Chatterton.' The Marquis of Northampton replied to this address. His lordship evidently was hankering after the 'envied celebrity,' but wished to get it as cheap as possible. So he wrote a long letter to the editor of the 'Book of Gems,' making his bid for fame, and expressing at the same time his opinion about one whom he considered a 'county poet.' His lordship's letter—in which, it will be noticed, thecountypredominates over all heavenly and earthly things—ran as follows:—
'Castle Ashby, Northampton, Oct. 17th, 1837.
Sir,—Though an utter stranger, I think you will excuse my troubling you with this present letter: but I will not waste your time with a lengthened apology. I was this morning reading the collection of poetry which you have lately published—"The Book of Gems, 1838,"—and I was at the same time struck and shocked by what you say on the subject of our county poet, Clare. I must confess that I am not of his exceeding admirers, and should by no means be disposed to place him in the same rank with Hogg, or even with Bloomfield and Crockford. Still he is undoubtedly a great credit to our county, and it would, I think, be a great disgrace to it if Clare was left in the state in which you mention him to be. Now it appears to me that the most feasible means of relieving him would be for him to publish a collection of all his poems in a volume by subscription. Probably there would be found a good many persons in this county who would subscribe for five or ten copies each. Northamptonshire is not a large county, nor is it either wealthy from manufactures or from a dense population. It has, however, some considerable source of wealth. Many of its resident nobility and gentry have considerable properties elsewhere, as for instance the Dukes of Buccleuch and Grafton, and Lords Spencer, Fitzwilliam, Winchelsea; and you will see that the resources of the county are really in that sense larger than they appear. However, I must confess that I do not think that we are very literary, and probably such a speculation would hardly succeed unless in addition to the copies taken here there were hopes of a sale elsewhere. On this subject you are far better able to judge than I can be. You know also more exactly how Clare is situated, at least you could find out. If Her Majesty would allow the book to be dedicated to her that would probably be a considerable advantage, and through Lord Lilford, who, I think, is a Lord of the Bedchamber, permission might be obtained. But in this I speak at random. If such a plan was taken up, I should myself be willing to subscribe for ten or twenty copies, and I have no doubt that I could obtain subscriptions from others. But I could not myself do more for this scheme. In fact I should not be able to do quite so much now in this way in consequence of a late publication of mine, as I could not in general apply to the same subscribers. Still I could apply to many on the ground of it being a county question. But still, as I said before, the question is whether the public in general would be likely to join the effort. Pray let me know what you think of the matter. If a direct subscription for Clare should be proposed in lieu of the publication I should be happy to contribute towards it, but I should doubt its being as productive as the book. It would be probably well if there were some new poems in the book in addition to the old ones. Perhaps there may be a difficulty to get the copyright if he has sold it to a bookseller.
I am, Sir, your humble servant
Northampton.'
The philanthropic scheme of the Marquis of Northampton in favour of 'our county poet' was destined not to be realized. Whether the failure was owing to the mysterious 'Lord of the Bedchamber,' or to differences of opinion in respect to Clare being 'a great credit to our county,' and his relief 'a county question,' so much is certain, the not 'veryliterary' county subscribers declined to come forward, although a number of prospectuses were printed and issued to them. Thus there remained the 'great disgrace.' To Professor Wilson it simply was a 'national disgrace' but the most honourable the Marquis of Northampton undoubtedly felt it deeper by declaring it to be a 'disgrace to our county.'