Chapter 23

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 provides The raven with his food--His young ones cry To 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 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 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" upon _her_ mountain-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.'

BURST OF INSANITY.

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.