Chapter 18

In the summer of 1825, Clare's pecuniary embarrassments grew to a climax. He could not refuse anything to his family; and though living personally worse than a beggar, eating little else than dry bread and potatoes, and drinking nothing but water, his expenditure, including medical attendance and many articles of comfort for his aged parents, averaged considerably more than a pound a-week, while the income from his annuity, on which he now solely depended, was very much less. Repeated new efforts to find employment as a labourer proved fruitless; while his visits to Milton Park had ceased by this time, his stock of clothes being so scanty, and patched all over, that he was ashamed to show himself in the company of his friends, always elegantly dressed. With Artis alone he kept up an acquaintance, the learned butler having a soul above dress, and showing himself on all occasions utterly careless whether the companion with whom he was searching for old medals and pottery was dressed in purple or in rags. For many a day, the two went roaming through the environs of Castor and Helpston Heath, digging for the remains of the ancient inhabitants of Durobrivae. One afternoon, when thus employed, Clare fainted, to the great consternation of his friend. The latter, fortunately, had a small flask of wine in his pocket, a few drops of which were sufficient to restore Clare to consciousness. He was gently led home by Edward Artis, who was told, in answer to his inquiries, that the illness had been brought on by the sudden heat. This was not true, or, at the best, only partially true. The fainting was caused by hunger.

When Dr. Darling advised Clare to drink no more ale or spirits, he probably was not aware of the nature of his patient's diet, or of that of Helpston labourers generally. Very likely, had he known that dry bread and potatoes, both in limited quantities, were the staple food, the able Scotch physician would have recommended an occasional glass of port wine, or even of stout--if obtainable. As it was, Clare's promise of abstinence, which he kept religiously for several years, was very detrimental to his health. His naturally delicate frame sank under the coarse diet, as soon as the accustomed stimulants were withdrawn, and his stomach getting gradually weakened, he at last began to feel a sort of abhorrence for his daily food. He now took to eating fruit, which still more debilitated his digestive organs, so that finally there took place a process of slow starvation. When fainting at the side of his friend Artis, he had eaten nothing but a few potatoes with milk for twenty-four hours, having left his home in the morning without taking any food whatever. In this case, it was not merely want of appetite, but actual want of bread. Being greatly indebted to the baker, the latter thought fit to withhold the regular supply of bread, and although there were plenty of vegetables for his wife and children, Clare quitted the house without tasting anything, for fear they might want. It thus happened that, while exploring the ruins of the old Roman city, he sank to the ground from sheer want of food.

The learned butler was much absorbed by his antiquarian speculations, and little given to reflections about his fellow-men; nevertheless, Clare's case struck him as very peculiar. Getting back to Milton Park, he told the particulars to Earl Fitzwilliam, suggesting that a little help might be welcome to the poor poet. The noble earl, however, thought otherwise. It was not that he was unwilling to give; on the contrary, his hand was always open to those in distress, and his previous liberal present of a hundred pounds showed that he was particularly well disposed towards Clare. In all likelihood, had he known the real position of the poet, he would have further extended his liberality, or come to his assistance in some other way. But he knew very little of Clare, and looked upon him as any ordinary earl would look upon an ordinary farm-labourer. From the few interviews with the poet, his lordship had come to the conclusion, true in the main, that Clare was a proud man, and having a strong feeling that Northamptonshire farm-labourers had no business to be proud, he did not think himself justified in giving any further assistance unless specially asked to do so. The earl told this to his learned butler, who acquiesced, as in duty bound, in his master's decision. However, Artis mentioned the subject at the dinner table, where it was attentively listened to by all assembled, especially the worthy head-cook. Monsieur Grill had a secret liking for Clare, based on the fact that the poet was almost the only one of all the people with whom he came into contact who did not torment him with sneers and mocking speeches. Monsieur was endowed with a most extraordinary visage, much like a full moon, put into a dripping-pan, and baked before a slow fire; and the aspect of which was not improved by a pair of ears of very unusual length, and a total absence of hair at the top. To make matters worse, Monsieur Grill was very susceptible of criticism concerning his face, having done his best to improve it, by painting the nose white, the cheeks rosy, and the eyebrows dark. But, whether he liked it or not, the members of the establishment at Milton Park, together with their friends, would laugh at him, and, what was almost as bad, would insist upon calling him 'Mounsear.' Clare alone never laughed, and, after two lessons, pronounced the word 'Monsieur' to Grill's entire satisfaction. At the end of three, he said 'Mon chèr ami,' in the best Parisian accent, to the delight of the head-cook, and the astonishment of the whole company in the servants' hall. All this went straight to the heart of Monsieur Grill. When he heard, therefore, that Clare was unwell, he said nothing, but went quietly down into his laboratory, put his saucepan on the fire, and began mixing together a wonderful quantity of groceries, spices, and other ingredients. Being a conscientious man withal, he next despatched the valet to Lady Milton, asking permission to give some strengthening broth to John Clare of Helpston. 'Give as much as you like,' was the immediate reply of her ladyship. This was satisfactory, and after an hour's simmering of his saucepans, Monsieur Grill put on his coat, poured his broth into a stone bottle, took his stick, and went out at the back of the mansion, and through the park towards Helpston. Not long, and he stood before Clare. The latter was amazed on beholding Grill, with the jar in his hand; having always held Monsieur to be the vainest of mortals, quite incapable of carrying a stone bottle across the country. 'Ah, mon chèr ami, voilà quelque chose pour vous!' exclaimed Monsieur, evidently delighted to see Clare. And without further ado, he grasped some sticks, made a fire in an instant, laid hold of an ancient earthen vessel, and in a few minutes presented, with graceful bow, a basin of broth to his astonished friend. Clare tasted it, and found it delicious. He fancied he had not partaken of anything so nice for months; all the faintness and languor under which he was suffering seemed to disappear as by enchantment. 'This is much better than medicine,' he said, with a look of gratitude to the clever head-cook. 'Medicine? parbleu!' exclaimed Grill; 'do not speak of medicine, mon chèr ami, or I leave alone my batterie de cuisine.' Monsieur Grill felt deep contempt, approaching hatred, for all drugs and doctors, labouring under the impression of having lost his beautiful head of hair through some ill-applied medicines. Clare saw the passing cloud, and, with much tact, renewed his praises of the delicious broth, asking his friend to show him the making of it. There was no objection on the part of Monsieur Grill; nevertheless, an hour's teaching was attended with but little success. Though having the manipulation explained to him in the most lucid manner, in terms half French and half English, Clare got more confused the more he listened, till at last his friend told him, with some severity, that his mind seemed incapable of comprehending 'l'art du cuisinier.' Which was true enough. Heaven certainly had not gifted John Clare with a genius for cookery, any more than with the higher faculty of money-making.

PUBLICATION OF 'THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR.'

The visit of worthy Monsieur Grill to Helpston had the good result that henceforth Clare's diet and mode of living became greatly improved. Lady Milton, hearing of the illness of the poet, sent him her physician, while, better still, the chef de cuisine at Milton Park continued to supply him with good broth. The physician, a man of sense, soon perceived that his patient required not medicine but food. He told Clare that it was absolutely necessary that he should adopt a most nourishing diet, and even advised him to take some ale, or stout, in moderate quantities. However, Clare refused the latter part of the advice, urging the promise he had given to Dr. Darling. As to his general mode of living, he consented to do as requested, although too proud to state the reasons which had prevented him, and would, probably, continue to prevent him fully adopting the counsel. The physician, being asked by Lady Milton whether Clare seemed in want, stated that there were no signs of poverty in Clare's home. Though but a narrow hut, the many handsome hooks on the shelves, with a few good paintings, gave it the appearance of comfort, and thus the informant of the noble lady, like many of the other acquaintances of Clare, acquired very erroneous notions concerning his real means. This was the more the case, as Clare always managed to let his wife and children, as well as his aged parents, want none of the necessaries of life, and frequently contrived to procure them even a few luxuries. Nobody knew that while Clare's family had a good dinner, he himself was munching dry bread in some corner in the fields. The fact was not discovered till long afterwards--when discovery came too late.

In the autumn of 1825, the sad news reached Clare that his best friend and patron, Lord Radstock, had succumbed to a stroke of apoplexy. Admiral Lord Radstock died on the 20th of August, at his town residence in Portland Place, in a very sudden manner, after but a few days' illness. The loss of his noble patron would have been a deep affliction to Clare at any time, but it was particularly so at this moment. During the whole of the summer, the admiral had been in correspondence with Mr. Taylor, trying to induce him to come to some distinct arrangement with his client, in regard to the payment for his books and poetical contributions to the 'London Magazine.' Hitherto, Mr. Taylor had not treated his 'Northamptonshire Peasant' on the same footing as other authors, but looked upon him more in the light of a child under tutelage than of an independent man, desirous of gaining a living by the exercise of his talents or industry. When, therefore, Lord Radstock urged him to enter into a regular business agreement with Clare, he felt somewhat offended. Replying to his lordship, he stated that he had given much more to the poet than was due to him, without even charging for his own labours as editor, and that he had hitherto acted, not as a mere business agent, but as a real friend to Clare. Lord Radstock was not satisfied with this answer, but rejoined that, admitting Clare had received more than was due to him, it yet would be better to furnish regular accounts to him, and, by paying what was due, and no more, to foster his self-reliance, instead of keeping him in the position of a dependent, living upon alms or friendly gifts. The correspondence continued through several more letters, with a prospect of Mr. Taylor yielding his point, when the death of Lord Radstock brought it to an end. It was a sad misfortune to Clare, affecting his whole life. In Lord Radstock he lost the truest and noblest friend he possessed--the only one of all his patrons who might have been willing as well as able to remove the darkening clouds already visible in the future.

In the autumn of 1825, Clare was fortunate enough to find some employment in harvesting, which continued till the end of October, when he was once more thrown out of work. He now devoted himself with increased ardour to poetry anxious to excel in the new volume which. Mr. Taylor had agreed to publish. The chief poem of the work was to be a pastoral, in twelve cantos, descriptive of the aspects of the months and seasons, tinder the title, 'The Shepherd's Calendar.' The work required lengthened exertion, which, though he devoted himself with the greatest energy to the task, he could not always muster. Again and again the all-absorbing feeling of poverty broke upon and crushed the mind of the poet. Turn as he might, dire want stared him in the face, and his spirit kept chafing and fretting under the constant exertion of making his small income suffice for the ever-growing wants of his family. Some regular work to perform, or the consciousness of being seated on a few acres of his own ground, with the pleasure of growing his corn and vegetables, would have been sufficient to destroy all these petty cares; but the chance of entering upon such happy existence seemed to grow less and less every year. Liberty, the greatest boon which he desired, he was never able to obtain. To spend half the day in hard out-door work, and the other half in wanderings and poetical musings, would have made him completely happy, as well as, in all likelihood, physically strong; yet this simple wish of his heart not all his great and noble patrons were willing to grant him. They gave him alms, sufficient to lift him from the sphere of labour, but not enough for subsistence, and thus left him in a position as false as hopelessly ruinous. Working at intervals, almost beyond his strength, as a farm labourer, and then again remaining for a long time in forced idleness, writing too much, thinking too much, and ever and ever with the grim phantom of poverty before him, was a form of existence necessarily fatal. It was a life too hard, too cold, too angular, too crystallized--a life which would have broken the heart of any poet under the sun.

In the preparation of his new volume, Clare adopted the sensible plan of correcting and revising his writings constantly, so as to reach the greatest perfection in form. The uninterrupted study of the best poets began to have effect upon his mind by more and more developing his taste, and destroying his former notion that his verses came flowing by a sort of inspiration, and, as such, were not liable to further artificial improvement. Mr. Taylor was much pleased with the new verses which Clare sent him, far more polished than most of the previous ones, and encouraged him by many praises to persevere in the new course. Praise, as to all poets, was sweet to Clare, and he kept on writing with great eagerness during the whole of winter and the coming spring. He expected that his new book would be published early in the summer of 1826, but was disappointed in his expectation. There were poems enough in Mr. Taylor's hands to make at least two volumes; but the careful publisher was not over-anxious to print them. A shrewd man of business, he was fully aware that the tide was running strong against pastorals, or, indeed, against any form of good poetry, the fashion being all for jingling rhyme, embodying the least possible amount of sense. It was the period when annuals began to flourish, with all merit concentrated in 'toned' paper, gilded leaves, and morocco bindings. Mr. Taylor liked John Clare, and held his talent in fair estimation from the fact that the 'Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery' had gone through four editions. But against this fact there was the terrible set-off that the 'Village Minstrel' had only risen to the second edition, with the larger part of the second issue still on the shelves in Fleet Street. Mr. Taylor, therefore, like a sound man of business, resolved to manipulate his 'Northamptonshire Peasant' with great caution, for fear of accidents.

John Clare got into a very excited state when he learnt that his new volume was not to be published in the summer of 1826, nor during the remaining part of the same year. He felt the delay as a scorn of his poetical fame; and he felt it, moreover, as a sad ruin of his financial prospects. The money which he expected to receive was anxiously awaited to pay off pressing debts, and its man-arrival involved not only scanty clothing and short rations, but cares of a peculiarly tender nature. 'Patty' brought her husband a third child, a little boy, who was christened John on the 18th of June, 1826; and though there arrived much timely assistance from Milton Park, the baby, as well as his mother; wanted many things not to be met with in the little hut at Helpston. Always a tender and most affectionate father, Clare's heart was ready to break when he found his poor little son suffering from the absence of those comforts which a few pounds might have purchased. He wrote a pathetic letter to Mr. Taylor, entreating him to send his poems to press; but received a cold answer in return. The sound business man of Fleet Street told his client that it was the wrong time for bringing out the 'Shepherds' Calendar.' He informed him, moreover, that the annuals had got the upper hand, and advised him strongly to write for the annuals. Clare answered that he preferred breaking stones at the workhouse.

But when Clare said so, he was in an angry mood. The baby continued crying, in want of milk and a few yards of flannel, and the mother commenced crying, too; and at length things came to such a pass that Clare determined to write for the annuals. He heard that he should get five shillings per poem, and from some publishers even as much as seven and sixpence. In great haste, therefore, he penned as many verses as he could, sitting up night after night, and on getting a bundle ready despatched them to London. But here again there was terrible disappointment. The annuals, it turned out, did not pay annually, but remunerated their contributors at uncertain periods, varying from two years to ten. When Clare found he could get no payment from the proprietors of the splendid morocco-bound volumes, he complained to Mr. Taylor. The busy publisher was vexed at this, as naturally he might be. He answered that he did not, and could not, hold himself responsible for the liabilities of others, and that it was unfair; after having tendered some general advice, to burthen him with the consequences. Here the matter ended, leaving both parties very dissatisfied. For some time to come there was a great coldness between them, and their correspondence almost entirely ceased.

The failure of his attempt to make money by contributing poems to the gold-edged toy-books had the good result of inciting Clare to renewed exertions to return to his old sphere of labour. He was after a while fortunate enough to find employment at Upton, a village on the southern border of Helpston Heath, where he continued at work during the autumn and winter, and far into the spring of 1827. The labour had the most beneficial effect upon his health, and brought on a fresh desire to leave the allurements of writing, or at least of printing, poetry, and devote himself more to out-door occupation. The great difficulty in carrying eat this plan was to find regular employment of a nature suited to his bodily strength, and his somewhat erratic habits. After much pondering on the subject, Clare resolved to try a little farming on his own account, with the help of his friends, and on a very limited scale. A visit to Milton Park settled the matter. The two head servants of Earl Fitzwilliam, the antiquarian and the botanist, were both ready and willing to assist the poet to become a farmer, though they told him frankly that they had small hopes of his success. Like in all agricultural districts, the owners of land at Helpston and throughout the neighbourhood were opposed to small tenants and 'spade husbandry,' and Clare's friends justly feared that even if there were no other obstacles, this cause alone would prevent him prospering. However, sanguine as he was, Clare held these fears to be exaggerated, and having obtained a small loan from his friends, rented several acres of barren soil at a rent four times as high as that paid by the larger farmers for really good land. The result, not for a moment doubtful from the commencement, did much to accelerate Clare's road to ruin.

During the whole spring and summer of 1827, Clare was so busy and excited in attending to his farming operations as almost to forget his new volume of poems. He scarcely expected to see it published, and was somewhat startled on receiving a copy of the book by post, unaccompanied however by a single line from Mr. Taylor. At any other time, he would have keenly felt the neglect; but as it was, the potatoes and cabbages on his farm attracted his attention more than even his printed verses, and the slight put upon him by his publisher. It was only when, the harvest was over--a harvest very poor and unsatisfactory--that he bethought himself again of his poetical doings. Conscious that he had been in the wrong, to a great extent, in his quarrel with Mr. Taylor, he determined to be the first to hold out the hand of friendship. Having made his resolutions to this effect, he sat down to pen a long letter, dated, 'Helpston, November 17, 1827.' It ran:--'My dear Taylor,--I expect you will be surprised when you open this to' see from whence it comes, so scarce has our correspondence made itself. Ere it withers into nothing, I will kindle up the expiring spark that remains, and make up a letter by its light, if I can. When you sent me the poems in summer, you never sent a letter with them; I felt the omission, but murmured not. It was not wont to be thus in days gone by. So I will shake off this ague-warm feeling, and this dead-living lethargy, and ask you how you are, and where you are, and how our friends are.' And much more to the same effect.