I walk adown the narrow close, The nightingale is singing now; But like to me she seems at loss For Royce Wood and its shielding bough.

I lean upon the window sill, The trees and summer happy seem,-- Green, sunny green they shine--but still My heart goes far away to dream Of happiness--and thoughts arise With 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 wild Grow 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 t.i.the 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 circ.u.mstances, and of the entire untruth of the rumours which a.s.serted 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 n.o.ble 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 Sat.u.r.day. 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 a.s.suredly 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.

ALONE.

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 a.s.sist 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, ent.i.tled '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 appear Who has never shared a part Of 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 earth If 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. Pa.s.sionately 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 a.s.sistance.

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 rea.s.sure 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 G.o.d, 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 provides The raven with his food--His young ones cry To G.o.d, 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 remain When all its hopes are bye, As frail rose-blossoms still retain Their fragrance when they die; And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind With shades from whence they sprung, As summer leaves the stems behind On 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 ear With memory's idle song.

Had time and change not blotted out The love of former days, Thou wert the last that I should doubt Of 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.

THE LAST STRUGGLE.

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 ident.i.ty, 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 a.s.sistance 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. G.o.d bless you! Excuse the short letter, for I am not able to say more. Thank G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sed, 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed, 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 ent.i.tled '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 quant.i.ty 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 ill.u.s.trated 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 b.u.t.terfly is to the chrysalis.

Nevertheless, the new volume, so far from pa.s.sing, 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.