Received a letter from Mr. Emmerson which tells me that Lord Radstock died yesterday. He was the best friend I have met with. Though he possessed too much simple-heartedness to be a fashionable friend or hypocrite, yet it often led him to take hypocrites for honest friends and to take an honest man for a hypocrite.

September 11.--

Went to meet Mr. and Mrs. Emmerson at the New Inn at Deeping, and spent three days with them.

From "No. 5 in the Appendix."--

I will set down before I forget it a memorandum to say that I desire Mrs. Emmerson will do just as she pleases with any MSS. of mine which she may have in her possession, to publish them or not as she chooses; but I desire that any living names mentioned in my letters may be filled up by * * * and all objectionable pa.s.sages omitted--a wish which I hope will be invariably complied with by all. I also intend to make Mr. Emmerson one of the new executors in my new will.

I wish to lie on the north side of the churchyard, about the middle of the ground, where the morning and evening sun can linger the longest on my grave. I wish to have a rough unhewn stone, something in the form of a mile stone, [sketched in the margin] so that the playing boys may not break it in their heedless pastimes, with nothing more on it than this inscription:--"Here rest the hopes and ashes of John Clare." I desire that no date be inserted thereon, as I wish it to live or die with my poems and other writings, which if they have merit with posterity it will, and if they have not it is not worth preserving. October 8th, 1824. "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity."

The "Artis" and "Henderson" referred to in the Diary were respectively butler and head gardener at Milton Park. Artis made a name for himself as the discoverer of extensive Roman remains at Castor, the ancient Durobrivae, of which he published a description, and Henderson was an accomplished botanist and entomologist. Their uniform kindness to the poor poet did them great honour.

CORRESPONDENCE WITH JAMES MONTGOMERY

While Clare was amusing himself by rhyming in the manner of the poets of the seventeenth century, he had the following correspondence with James Montgomery:--

"Helpstone, January 5, 1825.

"My dear Sir,--

I copied the following verses from a MS. on the fly-leaves of an old book ent.i.tled 'The World's Best Wealth, a Collection of Choice Counsels in Verse and Prose, printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster Row, 1720:' they seem to have been written after the perusal of the book, and are in the manner of the company in which I found [them]. I think they are as good as many old poems that have been preserved with more care; and, under that feeling, I was tempted to send them, thinking they might find a corner from oblivion in your entertaining literary paper, the 'Iris;' but if my judgment has misled me to overrate their merit, you will excuse the freedom I have taken, and the trouble I have given you in the perusal; for, after all, it is but an erring opinion, that may have little less than the love of poesy to recommend it.

I am yours sincerely,

JOHN CLARE."

To this letter Montgomery replied in the following terms:--

"Dear Sir,--

Some time ago I received from you certain verses said to be copied from the fly-leaves of an old printed book on which they were written. The t.i.tle was 'The Vanity of Life,' and the book's t.i.tle 'The World's Best Wealth,' &c. Now though I suspected, from a little ambiguity in the wording of your letter, that these verses were not quite so old as they professed to be, and that you yourself perhaps had written them to exercise your own genius, and sent them to exercise my critical acuteness, I thought that the glorious offence carried its own redemption in itself, and I would not only forgive but rejoice to see such faults committed every day for the sake of such merits. It is, however, now of some importance to me to know whether they are of the date which they affect, or whether they are of your own production. The supposition of your being capable of such a thing is so highly in your favour, that you will forgive the wrong, if there be any, implied in my enquiry. But I am making a chronological collection of 'Christian Poetry,' from the earliest times to the latest dead of our contemporaries who have occasionally tried their talents on consecrated themes, and if these stanzas were really the work of some anonymous author of the last century I shall be glad to give them the place and the honour due, but if they are the 'happy miracle' of your 'rare birth' then, however reluctantly, I must forego the use of them. Perhaps the volume itself contains some valuable pieces which I have not seen, and which might suit my purpose. The t.i.tle tempts one to think that this may be the case, and as I am in search of such jewels as certainly const.i.tute 'the world's best wealth,' I hope to find a few in this old-fashioned casket, especially after the specimen you have sent, and which I take for granted to be a genuine specimen of the quality (whatever be its antiquity) of the hidden treasures. If you will oblige me by sending the volume itself by coach I will take great care of it, and thankfully return it in due time free of expense. Or if you are unwilling to trust so precious a deposit out of your own hands, will you furnish me with a list of those of its contents (with the authors' names, where these are attached) which you think are most likely to meet my views, namely, such as have direct religious subjects and are executed with vigour or pathos? I can then see whether there be any pieces which I have not already, and if there be, I dare say you will not grudge the labour of transcribing two or three hundred lines to serve, not a brother poet only, but the Christian public. At any rate, an early reply to this application will be greatly esteemed, and may you never ask in vain for anything which it is honest or honourable to ask for. I need not add that this letter comes from one who sincerely respects your talents and rejoices in the success which has so conspicuously crowned them, when hundreds of our fraternity can get neither fame nor profit--no, nor even a hearing--and a threshing for all their pains.

I am truly your friend and servant,

J. MONTGOMERY.

Sheffield, May 5, 1826."

Clare was a great admirer of Chatterton, and the melancholy fate of "the marvellous boy" was frequently referred to by him in his correspondence. The idea of imitating the older poets was no doubt suggested to him by Chatterton's successful efforts, but he possessed neither the special faculty nor the consummate artifice of his model, and therefore we are not surprised to find him confessing at once to the trick he had attempted. He replied to Montgomery:--

"Helpstone, May 8, 1826.

My dear Sir,--

I will lose no time in answering your letter, for I was highly delighted to meet so kind a notice from a poet so distinguished as yourself; and if it be vanity to acknowledge it, it is, I hope, a vanity of too honest a nature to be ashamed of--at least I think so, and always shall. But your question almost makes me feel ashamed to own to the extent of the falsehood I committed; and yet I will not double it by adding a repet.i.tion of the offence. I must confess to you that the poem is mine, and that the book from whence it was pretended to have been transcribed has no existence (that I know of) but in my invention of the t.i.tle. And now that I have confessed to the crime, I will give you the reasons for committing it. I have long had a fondness for the poetry of the time of Elizabeth, though I have never had any means of meeting with it, farther than in the confined channels of Ritson's 'English Songs,' Ellis's 'Specimens,' and Walton's 'Angler;' and the winter before last, though amidst a severe illness, I set about writing a series of verses, in their manner, as well as I could, which I intended to pa.s.s off under their names, though some whom I professed to imitate I had never seen. As I am no judge of my own verses, whether they are good or bad, I wished to have the opinion of some one on whom I could rely; and as I was told you were the editor of the 'Iris,' I ventured to send the first thing to you, with many 'doubts and fears.' I was happily astonished to see its favourable reception. Since then I have written several others in the same style, some of which have been published; one in Hone's 'Everyday Book,' on 'Death' under the name of Marvell, and some others in the 'European Magazine;' 'Thoughts in a Churchyard,' the 'Gipsy's Song,' and a 'Farewell to Love.' The first was intended for Sir Henry Wootton; the next for Tom Davies; the last for Sir John Harrington. The last thing I did in these forgeries was an 'Address to Milton,' the poet, under the name of Davenant. And as your kind opinion was the first and the last I ever met with from a poet to pursue these vagaries or shadows of other days, I will venture to transcribe them here for the 'Iris,' should they be deemed as worthy of it as the first were by your judgment, for my own is nothing: I should have acknowledged their kind reception [sooner] had I not waited for the publication of my new poems, 'The Shepherd's Calendar,' which was in the press then, where it has been ever since, as I wish, at its coming, to beg your acceptance of a copy, with the other volumes already published, as I am emboldened now to think they will be kindly received, and not be deemed intrusive, as one commonly fears while offering such trifles to strangers. I shall also be very glad of the opportunity in proving myself ready to serve you in your present undertaking; and could I light on an old poem that would be worth your attention, 300 or even 1,000 lines, would be no objection against my writing it out; but I do a.s.sure you I would not make a forgery for such a thing, though I suppose now you would suspect me; for I consider in such company it would be a crime, where blossoms are collected to decorate the 'Fountain of Truth.' But I will end, for I get very sleepy and very unintelligible.

I am, my dear Sir,

Yours very sincerely and affectionately,

JOHN CLARE."

PUBLICATION OF "THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR"

At intervals during the years 1825-26 Clare was occupied in supplying his publishers with poems for his next volume--"The Shepherd's Calendar," which was brought out in May, 1827, with a frontispiece by De Wint. The descriptive poem which gives the t.i.tle to the volume consists of twelve cantos, of various measures, and is followed by "Village Stories" and other compositions. Of the stories, that ent.i.tled "Jockey and Jenny or, the Progress of Love," appears to have made the most favourable impression upon Clare's contemporaries. In this poem will be found the following bold and original apostrophe to Night:--

Ah, powerful Night! Were but thy chances mine!

Had I but ways to come at joys like thine!

Spite of thy wizard look and sable skin, The ready road to bliss 't is thine to win.

All nature owns of beautiful and sweet In thy embraces now unconscious meet: Young Jenny, ripening into womanhood, That hides from day, like lilies while in bud,

To thy grim visage blooms in all her charms, And comes, like Eve, unblushing to thy arms.

Of thy black mantle could I be possest, How would I pillow on her panting breast, And try those lips where trial rude beseems.

Breathing my spirit in her very dreams, That ne'er a thought might wander from her heart, But I possessed it, or ensured a part!

Of all the blessings that belong to thee, Had I this one how happy should I be!

In "The Dream," which appeared in the same volume, Clare's muse took a still more ambitious flight--with what success the reader has here an opportunity to judge for himself. The obscurities in the composition must find their excuse in the nature of the subject:--

THE DREAM

Thou scarest me with dreams.--JOB.

When Night's last hours, like haunting spirits, creep With listening terrors round the couch of sleep, And Midnight, brooding in its deepest dye, Seizes on Fear with dismal sympathy, "I dreamed a dream" something akin to fate, Which Superst.i.tion's blackest thoughts create-- Something half natural to the grave that seems, Which Death's long trance of slumber haply dreams; A dream of staggering horrors and of dread, Whose shadows fled not when the vision fled, But clung to Memory with their gloomy view, Till Doubt and Fancy half believed it true.

That time was come, or seem'd as it was come, When Death no longer makes the grave his home; When waking spirits leave their earthly rest To mix for ever with the d.a.m.n'd or blest; When years, in drowsy thousands counted by, Are hung on minutes with their destiny: When Time in terror drops his draining gla.s.s, And all things mortal, like to shadows, pa.s.s, As 'neath approaching tempests sinks the sun-- When Time shall leave Eternity begun.

Life swoon'd in terror at that hour's dread birth; As in an ague, shook the fearful Earth; And shuddering Nature seemed herself to shun, Whilst trembling Conscience felt the deed was done.

A gloomy sadness round the sky was cast, Where clouds seem'd hurrying with unusual haste; Winds urged them onward, like to restless ships; And light dim faded in its last eclipse; And Agitation turn'd a straining eye; And Hope stood watching like a bird to fly, While suppliant Nature, like a child in dread, Clung to her fading garments till she fled.

Then awful sights began to be reveal'd, Which Death's dark dungeons had so long conceal'd, Each grave its doomsday prisoner resign'd, Bursting in noises like a hollow wind; And spirits, mingling with the living then, Thrill'd fearful voices with the cries of men.

All flying furious, grinning deep despair, Shaped dismal shadows on the troubled air: Red lightning shot its flashes as they came, And pa.s.sing clouds seem'd kindling into flame; And strong and stronger came the sulphury smell, With demons following in the breath of h.e.l.l, Laughing in mockery as the doom'd complain'd, Losing their pains in seeing others pain'd.

Fierce raged Destruction, sweeping o'er the land, And the last counted moment seem'd at hand: As scales near equal hang in earnest eyes In doubtful balance, which shall fall or rise, So, in the moment of that crushing blast, Eyes, hearts, and hopes paused trembling for the last.

Loud burst the thunder's clap and yawning rents Gash'd the frail garments of the elements; Then sudden whirlwinds, wing'd with purple flame And lightning's flash, in stronger terrors came, Burning all life and Nature where they fell, And leaving earth as desolate as h.e.l.l.

The pleasant hues of woods and fields were past, And Nature's beauties had enjoyed their last: The colour'd flower, the green of field and tree, What they had been for ever ceased to be: Clouds, raining fire, scorched up the hissing dews; Gra.s.s shrivell'd brown in miserable hues; Leaves fell to ashes in the air's hot breath, And all awaited universal Death.

The sleepy birds, scared from their mossy nest, Beat through the evil air in vain for rest; And many a one, the withering shades among, Wakened to perish o'er its brooded young.

The cattle, startled with the sudden fright, Sicken'd from food, and madden'd into flight; And steed and beast in plunging speed pursued The desperate struggle of the mult.i.tude, The faithful dogs yet knew their owners' face.