Chapter 7

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

I am truly your friend and servant,

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

I am, my dear Sir,

Yours very sincerely and affectionately,

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 title to the volume consists of twelve cantos, of various measures, and is followed by "Village Stories" and other compositions. Of the stories, that entitled "Jockey and Jenny or, the Progress of Love," appears to have made the most favourable impression upon Clare's contemporaries. In this poem will be found the following bold and original apostrophe to Night:--

Ah, powerful Night! Were but thy chances mine! Had I but ways to come at joys like thine! Spite of thy wizard look and sable skin, The ready road to bliss 't is thine to win. All nature owns of beautiful and 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 Superstition's blackest thoughts create-- Something half natural to the grave that seems, Which Death's long trance of slumber haply dreams; A dream of staggering horrors and of dread, Whose shadows fled not when the vision fled, But clung to Memory with their gloomy view, Till Doubt and Fancy half believed it true.

That time was come, or seem'd as it was come, When Death no longer makes the grave his home; When waking spirits leave their earthly rest To mix for ever with the damn'd or blest; When years, in drowsy thousands counted by, Are hung on minutes with their destiny: When Time in terror drops his draining glass, And all things mortal, like to shadows, pass, As 'neath approaching tempests sinks the sun-- When Time shall leave Eternity begun. Life swoon'd in terror at that hour's dread birth; As in an ague, shook the fearful Earth; And shuddering Nature seemed herself to shun, Whilst trembling Conscience felt the deed was done.

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

Then awful sights began to be reveal'd, Which Death's dark dungeons had so long conceal'd, Each grave its doomsday prisoner resign'd, Bursting in noises like a hollow wind; And spirits, mingling with the living then, Thrill'd fearful voices with the cries of men. All flying furious, grinning deep despair, Shaped dismal shadows on the troubled air: Red lightning shot its flashes as they came, And passing clouds seem'd kindling into flame; And strong and stronger came the sulphury smell, With demons following in the breath of hell, Laughing in mockery as the doom'd complain'd, Losing their pains in seeing others pain'd.

Fierce raged Destruction, sweeping o'er the land, And the last counted moment seem'd at hand: As scales near equal hang in earnest 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 hell. The pleasant hues of woods and fields were past, And Nature's beauties had enjoyed their last: The colour'd flower, the green of field and tree, What they had been for ever ceased to be: Clouds, raining fire, scorched up the hissing dews; Grass shrivell'd brown in miserable hues; Leaves fell to ashes in the air's hot breath, And all awaited universal Death. The sleepy birds, scared from their mossy nest, Beat through the evil air in vain for rest; And many a one, the withering shades among, Wakened to perish o'er its brooded young. The cattle, startled with the sudden fright, Sicken'd from food, and madden'd into flight; And steed and beast in plunging speed pursued The desperate struggle of the multitude, The faithful dogs yet knew their owners' face. And cringing follow'd with a fearful pace, Joining the piteous yell with panting breath, While blasting lightnings follow'd fast with death; Then, as Destruction stopt the vain retreat, They dropp'd, and dying lick'd their masters' feet.

When sudden thunders paus'd, loud went the shriek, And groaning agonies, too much to speak, From hurrying mortals, who with ceaseless fears Recall'd the errors of their vanish'd years; Flying in all directions, hope bereft, Followed by dangers that would not be left; Offering wild vows, and begging loud for aid, Where none was nigh to help them when they pray'd. None stood to listen, or to soothe a friend, But all complained, and sorrow had no end. Sons from their fathers, fathers sons did fly, The strongest fled, and left the weak to die; Pity was dead: none heeded for another; Brother left brother, and the frantic mother For fruitless safety hurried east and west, And dropp'd the babe to perish from her breast; All howling prayers that would be noticed never, And craving mercy that was fled for ever; While earth, in motion like a troubled sea, Open'd in gulfs of dread immensity Amid the wild confusions of despair, And buried deep the howling and the prayer Of countless multitudes, and closed--and then Open'd and swallow'd multitudes again.

Stars, drunk with dread, roll'd giddy from the heaven, And staggering worlds like wrecks in storms were driven; The pallid moon hung fluttering on the sight, As startled bird whose wings are stretch'd for flight; And o'er the East a fearful light begun To show the sun rise-not the morning sun, But one in wild confusion, doom'd to rise And drop again in horror from the skies. To heaven's midway it reel'd, and changed to blood, Then dropp'd, and light rushed after like a flood, The heaven's blue curtains rent and shrank away, And heaven itself seem'd threaten'd with decay; While hopeless distance, with a boundless stretch, Flash'd on Despair the joy it could not reach, A moment's mockery-ere the last dim light Vanish'd, and left an everlasting Night; And with that light Hope fled and shriek'd farewell, And Hell in yawning echoes mock'd that yell.

Now Night resumed her uncreated vest, And Chaos came again, but not its rest; The melting glooms that spread perpetual stains, Kept whirling on in endless hurricanes; And tearing noises, like a troubled sea, Broke up that silence which no more would be.

The reeling earth sank loosen'd from its stay, And Nature's wrecks all felt their last decay. The yielding, burning soil, that fled my feet, I seem'd to feel and struggled to retreat; And 'midst the dread of horror's mad extreme I lost all notion that it was a dream: Sinking I fell through depths that seem'd to be As far from fathom as Eternity; While dismal faces on the darkness came With wings of dragons and with fangs of flame, Writhing in agonies of wild despairs, And giving tidings of a doom like theirs. I felt all terrors of the damn'd, and fell With conscious horror that my doom was hell: And Memory mock'd me, like a haunting ghost, With light and life and pleasures that were lost; As dreams turn night to day, and day to night, So Memory flash'd her shadows of that light That once bade morning suns in glory rise, To bless green fields and trees, and purple skies, And waken'd life its pleasures to behold;-- That light flash'd on me like a story told; And days mis-spent with friends and fellow-men, And sins committed,-all were with me then. The boundless hell, whose demons never tire, Glimmer'd beneath me like a world on fire: That soul of fire, like to its souls entomb'd, Consuming on, and ne'er to be consum'd, Seem'd nigh at hand, where oft the sulphury damps O'er-aw'd its light, as glimmer dying lamps, Spreading a horrid gloom from side to side, A twilight scene of terrors half descried. Sad boil'd the billows of that burning sea, And Fate's sad yellings dismal seem'd to be; Blue roll'd its waves with horrors uncontrolled, And its live wrecks of souls dash'd howlings as they roll'd.

Again I struggled, and the spell was broke, And 'midst the laugh of mocking ghosts I woke; My eyes were open'd on an unhoped sight-- The early morning and its welcome light, And, as I ponder'd o'er the past profound, I heard the cock crow, and I blest the sound.

FAILURE OF "THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR"

"The Shepherd's Calendar" sold very slowly, for several months after its publication Mr. Taylor wrote to Clare:--

"The season has been a very bad one for new books, and I am afraid the time has passed away in which poetry will answer. With that beautiful frontispiece of De Wint's to attract attention, and so much excellent verse inside the volume, the 'Shepherd's Calendar' has had comparatively no sale. It will be a long time, I doubt, before it pays me my expenses, but ours is the common lot. I am almost hopeless of the sale of the books reimbursing me. Of profit I am certain we have not had any, but that I should not care for: it is to be considerably out of pocket that annoys me, and by the new works my loss will probably be heavy."

And again, after the lapse of four or five months:--

"The poems have not yet sold much, but I cannot say how many are disposed of. All the old poetry-buyers seem to be dead, and the new ones have no taste for it."

And now for a time Clare eked out his scanty income by writing poems for the annuals, the silk-bound illustrated favourites of fashion, which for ten or twelve years almost sufficed to satisfy the languid appetite of the English public for poetry. Clare was sought after by several editors; among the rest, Allan Cunningham, editor of the "Anniversary;" Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, who severally conducted the "Amulet" and the "Juvenile Forget-me-not." Alaric A. Watts, editor of the "Literary Souvenir;" Thomas Hood, and others. "The Rural Muse," the last volume which Clare published, was composed almost entirely of poems which had appeared in the annuals, or other periodicals. The remuneration which Clare received was respectable, if not munificent. His kind-hearted Scotch friend, Allan Cunningham, was certain to see that he was treated with liberality: Mrs. Hall, on behalf of Messrs. Ackermann, sent him in October, 1828, three guineas for "The Grasshopper," and in the following month Mr. Hall wrote "Enclosed you will receive L5, for your contributions to the 'Amulet' and the 'Juvenile Forget-Me-Not.' I am however still L2 in your debt, L7 being the sum I have set apart for you. How shall I forward you the remaining L2?" Mr. Alaric Watts frequently importuned Clare for contributions for the "Literary Souvenir" and the "Literary Magnet," but he was exceedingly fastidious and plain-spoken, and although he sent Clare presents of books he never said in his letters anything about payment. At length Clare hinted to him that some acknowledgment of that kind would be acceptable, and then Mr. Watts replied, "I have no objection to make you some pecuniary return if you send me any poem worthy of yourself, but really those you have sent me of late are so very inferior, with the exception of a little drinking song, which I shall probably print, that it would do you no service to insert them." This appears to have closed the correspondence.

A sketch of Clare's life would be incomplete which did not notice the subject of his relations with his publishers. His first two works-- "Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery" and "The Village Minstrel"--were published conjointly by Messrs. Taylor and Hessey and Mr. Drury, of Stamford, on the understanding that Clare was to receive one half of the profits, and that the London and local publishers should divide the remaining half of the profits between them. Before the publication of the third work--the "Shepherd's Calendar"--an arrangement was come to by which Mr. Drury ceased to have any interest in Clare's books, and the London firm renewed the agreement which gave Clare one half of the profits. It was the practice of Taylor and Hessey to remit to Clare money on account, in sums of L10 or L20, and evidently at their own discretion--a discretion which, considering Clare's position and circumstances, appears to have been wisely and considerately exercised. Added together, these remittances made, for a person in Clare's condition, a considerable sum of money, but the poet fretted and chafed under the want of confidence in his judgement which he thought was implied by this mode of treatment, and he repeatedly applied to Taylor and Hessey for a regular and businesslike statement of account. During the time Mr. Drury had a pecuniary interest in the sale of Clare's books, the London publishers excused themselves from furnishing an account on the ground that it had been complicated by Mr. Drury's claims, but years passed away after the latter had been arranged with, and still the rendering of the account was postponed. This irritated Clare, and he frequently spoke and wrote of his publishers with a degree of bitterness which he afterwards regretted. His suspicions, for which there was no real foundation, were at one time encouraged rather than otherwise by influential friends in London, and therefore in February, 1828, he resolved to take another journey to Town, with the two-fold object of having a settlement with his publishers and consulting Dr. Darling respecting a distressing ailment with which he was then afflicted.

"My dear and suffering Clare," wrote Mrs. Emmerson at this time, "your painful letter of to-day is no sooner read by me than I take up my pen, and an extra-sized sheet of paper, to pour out the regrets of my heart for your illness. God knows I am little able to give thee 'comfort,' for indeed, my Clare, thy friend is a beggar in philosophy, so heavily have the ills of humanity pressed upon her of late; but such 'comfort' as confiding and sympathizing souls can offer do I give in full to thee. Receive it then, my poor Clare, and let the utterings of my pen (which instead of gloomy ink I would dip into the sweet balm of Gilead for thy afflictions) prove again and again thy 'physician.' Forget not what you told me in your former letter: 'your letters come over my melancholy musings like the dews of the morning. I am already better, and you are my physician.' Now, my dear Clare, let me, instead of listening to, or rather acting upon your melancholy forebodings, entreat you to cheer up, and in the course of another week make up a little bundle of clothes, and set yourself quietly inside the Deeping coach for London. I will get your 'sky chamber' ready to receive you, or my niece Eliza shall yield to you her lower apartment, the blue room. We can then, 'in council met,' talk over wills, and new volumes of poems, and all other worldly matters relating to yourself, myself, and posterity."

And again, on the 20th of February:--