The Life of John Clare Part 9

The journey to Boston was followed by a three months' illness. A low fever, of the typhoid kind, was part of the result of his trip into the fen country, and of the sudden change of his diet, to which he had been driven in the intercourse with the hospitable mayor and his friends. The disease spread through his whole family, attacking each member in turn, and for a moment threatening to be fatal to the youngest child. However, all recovered in the end, though very gradually, it being not till towards the spring of 1829 that the doctor's visits to the little hut came to an end. The consequences of the illness did not end so soon.

Having been unable to do any work for months, and incurred, moreover, great expenses for medical a.s.sistance and other items connected therewith, Clare found himself now deeper than ever in debt, and with scarcely any prospects of raising himself from his abject state of poverty. Nevertheless, he struggled on bravely, once more trusting to his pen and poetical inspiration. That book-hawking would not open the road to success, but, if anything, lead him into an opposite direction, had become clear to him by this time, and he resolved, therefore, to put himself once more into communication with the editors of the annuals, so as to earn a few shillings in writing poetry by the yard. In order to extend the circle of his editorial acquaintances, he wrote letters to several of his friends in London, notably to Mr. John Taylor and Allan Cunningham. In the note to his publisher, the old grievance of Clare came at length to be touched upon by him in an almost piteous manner. The poor poet's inexperience of the world was strikingly shown in the tone as well as contents of this letter, bearing date April 3d, 1829, and traced apparently in a trembling hand.

After referring to his continued efforts to dispose of his books by means of advertis.e.m.e.nts in the 'Stamford News,' with the appended doleful remark: 'If I succeed in selling them, all well and good; if not, it will not be the first disappointment I have met with,' Clare continues:--'And now, my dear Taylor, I will, as a man of business, say what I have long neglected to tell you. I never liked to refer to it; but it is a thing to be done, and, be it as it may, it will never interfere in our friendship.

So I should like to know at your leisure how I stand with you in my accounts, and my mind will be set at rest on that score at once. For if there is anything owing to me it will be acceptable at any time, and if there is nothing, I shall be content. The number printed of the first three volumes I have known a long while by Drury's account; but whether I have overrun the constable or not since then, I cannot tell, and that is what I should like to know at the first opportunity. I hope you will not feel offended at my mentioning the matter, as I do it with no other wish than to make us greater and better friends, if possible.' Notwithstanding this extreme humility of tone, Mr. John Taylor felt offended at the letter of his 'Northamptonshire Peasant,'--and 'man of business' to boot.

He told the 'man of business' that he was asking indiscreet questions, and recommended him once more to try success as a bagman, and to write for the annuals in his spare hours. To a.s.sist him in the latter object, Mr. Taylor was kind enough to recommend his poet to a Monsieur Ventouillac, '14, Gumming Street, Pentonville;' an enterprising professor of French, who was about entering upon the Souvenir and Keepsake speculation. John Clare, all eagerness, wrote at once to Monsieur Ventouillac, and was informed in return that the new annual, to be called 'The Iris,' would be published in the autumn, and that his 'offerings'

would be welcome. Thereupon he sat down to write at once a poem of twenty-five verses, ent.i.tled, 'The Triumph of Time,' and sent it off in great haste to 14, Gumming Street, Pentonville, with a request to forward 'the amount for the trifle inserted' at the earliest convenience. The 'Iris' made its appearance at the appointed time, as advertised, 'bound in silk,' with numerous 'embellishments' got up regardless of expense.

But John Clare's 'Triumph of Time' was not in the 'Iris,' the able editor having placed it among his waste papers, with a pencil note, 'to be shortened one-half next year. 'The old MS. brown with age, has survived the wreck of a thousand other ma.n.u.scripts, and remains in the world, melancholy to look at as a memorial of the fate of poetry and poets.

Clare's success with the annuals, now as formerly, was of a most unsatisfactory nature. Acting upon Mr. Taylor's advice, he continued sending verses to the wonderful periodicals, bound in silk, and got up regardless of expense, but seldom received any money in return. Some took his verses, and some did not; and nearly all forgot the fact of other acknowledgment being due besides complimentary letters. Even Mr. Alaric Watts, who had made Clare's personal acquaintance the year previous, forgot his promise to insert one of his poems in the 'Literary Souvenir,'

preferring jingling rhyme manufactured to suit the 'embellishments.'

Almost the only one who took Clare's verses, as well as paid for them, was brave Allan Cunningham, who stood fast to his friend amidst all the deluge of silk-bound volumes. During the present summer, as in former years, Clare continued his contributions, consisting, in this instance, of several pastorals and sonnets, among them some verses dedicated to Mrs. Emmerson. But, owing to Clare's rather illegible handwriting, Mr.

Cunningham misread the address of these lines, which so much affected the poet that he wrote a long and curious note of explanation to Mrs.

Emmerson, 'My dear Eliza,' the note ran: 'I got a letter from friend Cunningham yesterday, who tells me that my trifles suit him. Among them are the verses to E. L. E. of which he makes a strange mistake by fancying they are written to Miss Landon, and flatters me much by praising them, and also by thinking them "worthy of the poetess." So I wish that the first opportunity you have you would correct the mistake, and if you feel the matter too delicate to write upon, you can tell the Miss Frickers when they next call upon you. For he will most likely change the E. L. E. to L. E. L. which I shall not be able to rectify if he does not send me a proof sheet, and I would much rather that they should stand as written. Proud as I am of brother Allan's commendation, and proud as I should be of Miss Landon's commendation also, I feel much prouder to know that they were deemed worthy the acceptance of yourself, to whom they were dedicated. I will give you the quotation from Allan's letter relating to the verses:--"I have placed your contributions in the approved box, marked with my hearty approbation. Your verses to Miss Landon are the very best you ever composed. After all, a flesh and blood muse is best, and Miss Landon I must say is a very beautiful subst.i.tute for these aerial mistresses. I shall show it to her." How Allan should mistake E. L. E. for L. E. L., I cannot say; but in his hurry he must have overlooked it, and I hope you will rectify the error. I did not tell him to whom the verses were written, because I thought is was not necessary, but I wish I had now power to prevent the mistake that may get into the proofsheet, and remain there if not corrected--.' To judge by the earnestness with which he dwells upon the subject, these little troubles of authorship had nearly as deep an effect upon Clare's sensitive mind as some of his real life-sorrows.

When Clare came to make up the account of his income derived from the annuals, he found that his labours in this direction were less remunerative than stone-breaking on the road would have been. He thereupon determined to break his connexion with the silk-bound periodicals, with the exception of two or three of the cla.s.s, Allan Cunningham's 'Anniversary' among the number. But with Allan, too, he had occasion to find fault; not indeed for paying him too little, but too highly. 'I do not,' he wrote to him, in 1829, 'expect pay by the foot or page, but I like to give good measure and throw in an extra gratis. You gave me too much for my last, and I hope you will keep that in mind next year and not do so; for I never feel the loss of independence worse than when I cannot serve a friend without knowing that I receive a recompense in return far more than the labour is ent.i.tled to.' Allan Cunningham responded n.o.bly to this disinterested communication. He told his friend that, though his poetry was of the highest excellence, he was a writer altogether unfit for the annuals, and the great world of printers and publishers. In half-playful and half-serious mood, he advised him to try his hand again at farming, offering some a.s.sistance for the purpose.

Clare hesitated for a while; but having carefully considered the matter, accepted the kindly help tendered by his friend. His chief hope was in the expectation that he should be able to profit by past experience, and, avoiding former errors, convert failure into success. So he took again a small plot of land, for farming purposes, in the autumn of 1829.

There did not seem at first much prospect of good fortune in the new speculation; nevertheless it turned out remarkably well in the end. Clare had no sooner returned to his old labours in the field than his health improved visibly; his mind became more cheerful, and everything around him seemed to a.s.sume a bright and sunny look. His pecuniary circ.u.mstances, too, improved considerably; small sums sufficient to pay the most pressing of his debts, came in payment for his books; and even the proprietor of a London annual had the extreme generosity to pay for contributions sent to him three years previously. Best of all, he got some regular employment on a farm belonging to Earl Fitzwilliam, which, together with the cultivation of his own little plot of land, served to fill up his whole time, leaving him no leisure for writing, but adding a fair sum to his income. This enforced rest from his poetical labours proved of the greatest benefit to Clare. The immense ma.s.s of verses which he had produced within the last few years threatened to be highly detrimental to his genius, in exhausting his mind, and destroying the very sap of his poetical imagination. He required mental rest, more than anything else; and this being not only given, but enforced in his new occupation as both cottage-farmer and agricultural labourer, he found himself almost suddenly a better, wiser, and more prosperous man. Clare never spent a happier Christmas than that of 1829. With his little baby-boy, now eighteen months old, on his knees, his Patty and four eldest children around the table, and his aged parents seated comfortably at the place of honour near the fireside, he thought himself truly blessed, and on the very zenith of earthly joys. There was scarcely a wish of his heart left for fulfilment, save, perhaps, the old dream to possess a little strip of the surface of mother earth, and be a king on his own land, instead of a serf labouring for others. It was the one lasting dream of his life--a dream unfortunately never destined to be realized.

The next twelve months of Clare's life were uneventful. He worked hard and wrote little; and, with increasing bodily and mental health, got more and more at ease in his worldly circ.u.mstances. Even his little attempt at farming was not altogether unsuccessful, for though it did not bring much direct gain, it secured to him the esteem of his neighbours, and a feeling of self-dependence which he had never before known. When Patty presented him with another baby--sixth in the list; baptized Sophia, on the 3d of October, 1830--he felt by no means despondent as on a former occasion, but joyful in the extreme. The dread vision of poverty, so long before his eyes, had suddenly vanished, giving way to fancies of roseate hue. He almost wondered why he had ever despaired--happiness, after all, seemed so cheap and within such easy reach. There was wealth and health sufficient springing from his daily labour, and abundant joy in the constant sight of green fields, rippling brooks, and the smiling faces of his little ones at home. And there was joy scarce ever known when sitting down, at rare intervals, to the inspiration of the muse. Here was the supreme bliss of existence. Clare knew that the poetry, offspring of these happy hours, was far superior to anything that had ever flown from his pen. He almost felt as if now, and now only, he was becoming a true poet.

In truth, Clare never was a writer of perfect melodious verse till this time. A poet he had always been--had been from the day when, a tottering child, with senses scarce awakened, he thought to discover at the faint outline of the distant horizon, the touch of heaven and earth. But hitherto, and up to this period, the tumultuous inspiration of his soul had never found vent in soft and even flow of language: the poet had never been completely able to clothe n.o.ble thoughts into n.o.ble form. Want of early training, with grief and care, and unceasing mental agitation, had hemmed in on all sides the fair stream of his imagination, and the bright flash of genius was hidden under more or less rugged form. It was only now, that, having nursed his mind at the source of the great masters of poetry, and enjoying harmonious peace and rest from cares in the calm life of labour, that the outward form came to be mastered by the inward spirit, as clay in the hands of the sculptor. The poet himself was surprised at this momentous change, which came upon him with a suddenness almost startling in its intensity. He had left off writing verses for many months, devoting every moment of leisure to calm study, and happy wanderings through, woods and fields, when one evening, with the setting sun before his eyes, he felt a powerful longing to make one more attempt in poetical composition. Full of this, feeling, he sat down at the borders of Helpston Heath, lost in heavenly visions, and as he sat there the verses came flowing from his pen:--

'Muse of the fields! Oft have I said farewell To thee, my boon companion, loved so long, And hung thy sweet harp in the bushy dell For abler hands to wake an abler song--

Aye, I have heard thee in the summer wind, As if commanding what I sung to thee; Aye, I have seen thee on a cloud reclined, Kindling my fancies into poesy;

I saw thee smile, and took the praise to me.

In beauties, past all beauty, thou wert drest: I thought the very clouds around thee knelt, I saw the sun did linger in the West Paying thee worship; and as eve did melt In dews, they seemed thy tears for sorrows I had felt.

Sweeter than flowers on beauty's bosom hung, Sweeter than dreams of happiness above, Sweeter than themes by lips of beauty, sung, Are the young fancies of a poet's love.'

When Clare had written his song 'To the Rural Muse,' he went home and kissed his children, and, it being full moon, kept working in his garden for another couple of hours. And the next day, and for days after, he kept on digging and planting, hoeing and ploughing, without ever touching a pen. It was thus a great and n.o.ble poet grew out of the 'Northamptonshire Peasant.'

FRIENDS IN NEED.

The short summer was followed by a long winter. Again Clare fell ill; and with suffering and disease there came a train of misfortune completely overwhelming the frail life of the poet. The year 1831 proved very unfavourable to his farming operations, and, having no capital whatever to fall back upon, he at once relapsed into his former state of indigence. It was in vain that he attempted to make up for his losses by increased exertions as a labourer. Working fifteen and sixteen hours a day during harvest time, and not unfrequently standing up to his knees in mud in the undrained fields, his health gave way before long, and then there was an end of all work. He was confined to his bed for longer than a month, and gaunt poverty now again made its appearance at the little hut. There were ten persons to be clothed and fed, and no money incoming save the small quarterly stipend settled upon the poet, which was scarce sufficient to pay off the debts incurred by the unsuccessful farming of the year. When Clare saw that his children were wanting bread, his heart trembled in agony of despair. He rushed forth once more to labour in the fields, but had to be carried home by his fellow workmen; a mere look at his feverish ague-stricken frame being sufficient to show them that he was utterly unfit to be out of doors. So he had to lay his head again on his couch, happily unconscious for a time of what was pa.s.sing around him.

There was deep sorrow and lamentation in the little hut of the poet.

When everything was at the worst, kind friends came to the rescue. The Rev. Mr. Mossop, vicar of Helpston, and his kind-hearted sister, who had often before a.s.sisted Clare and his family, gave once more active aid and succour; and from Milton Park, too, there came valuable presents of food and medicine. Thus when the poet was able again to leave his bed, he found a much brighter outlook around him. Nevertheless, though there was no more absolute want of the necessaries of life, grim poverty was still standing at the threshold. The baker threatened to stop the supply of bread if his debt should long remain unpaid, and even the owner of the little ruinous dwelling, fourth part of a hut, in which Clare lived, hinted that the inmates would be driven out, unless the arrears of rent were discharged. This last menace almost drove the poet wild with excitement. Narrow and dark as it was, he dearly loved the little hut in which he was born, and the thought of leaving it, with, perhaps, the ultimate prospect of going to the workhouse for shelter, was to him blank despair. Agitated beyond measure, he ran to his friends at Milton Park, imploring aid and advice. Mr. Edward Artis was, as usual, away on his antiquarian rambles, intending to leave the service of Earl Fitzwilliam altogether, and devote himself to authorship on Durobrivae and Roman pottery. But Henderson was at home, and to him Clare poured out his tale of woe. While talking in the garden, the earl happened to come near, and kindly addressed Clare. The latter, in his excitement, found courage to speak of all his troubles, and his fear of having to quit his little home, with no place in the world where to lay his head. His lordship was struck with the intensity of feeling exhibited by the poet. He told him that he would attend to his wants, and provide a little cottage for him somewhere in the neighbourhood. Clare was astonished; the offer seemed to him so excessively generous that he scarce knew how to express his thanks. Seeing his confusion, the earl turned to other subjects, asking Clare whether he intended to bring out a new volume of poems, and being answered in the negative, earnestly advised him to do so. The counsel of the n.o.ble lord, no doubt, was well meant, but nevertheless very injudicious. The grant of a few acres of land, in a healthy district and at a moderate rent, would have been more beneficial to him than all the fame he could ever hope to gain from book-making.

Clare returned to his cottage with a joyful heart, brimful of pleasant visions of the future. The next day he was visited by Dr. Smith, a physician of Peterborough, who came in consequence of orders received from the n.o.ble owner of Milton Park. Earl Fitzwilliam, in his interview with Clare, perceived, or fancied he perceived, a certain wildness of looks about him, and not knowing what to think of it, was anxious to get the opinion of a medical man, well known for his successful treatment of mental diseases. The poet was not at all pleased with the visit of Dr.

Smith; however, in grat.i.tude to his benefactor, he willingly submitted to a lengthened examination. It had for result a report by the Peterborough physician to Earl Fitzwilliam, stating that there was no mental derangement whatever visible in Clare; but that his brain, developed to an unusual degree, was liable to great and sudden fits of excitement, from which it ought to be guarded by constant employment and a fair share of physical labour. Here was useful advice; but which, unfortunately, was misunderstood by his lordship. The earl quite agreed with the counsel of giving employment; but fancied the most natural work for a poet was that of writing poetry, at almost any time, and to any extent. In consequence, he sent for Clare, and, repeating his promise of giving him a neat little cottage with garden for occupation, urged him strongly not to neglect writing poetry, and to publish his new volume as soon as possible. Clare was but too willing to follow the advice of the n.o.ble lord.

The visits of Dr. Smith to Helpston did not cease with the first. Having been very favourably impressed with the character of the poet, the Peterborough physician took a great liking to him, and lost no occasion for friendly intercourse. Clare being devoted anew to writing poetry, some of the verses fell under the notice of the doctor, who expressed his approbation of them in rapturous terms. This naturally won the heart of the author, and, being urgently pressed, he consented to pay a visit to his medical friend at Peterborough, and stay a few days at his house. The visit took place in the spring of 1832, and led to some not unimportant results. Having communicated to his friend his former unfavourable attempts of book-publishing, and how the four volumes which had been issued had brought him nothing more substantial than fame, Dr. Smith felt moved by compa.s.sion, and began earnestly to reflect upon the great problem of converting poetry into cash. The result of these meditations came out in the shape of strong advice to Clare to fall back upon the old plan he had once entertained of publishing his verses by subscription.

This was coupled with the promise that he would do his best to procure subscribers, and otherwise a.s.sist in the matter. Clare joyfully entered into the scheme, and, before leaving Peterborough, made arrangements with a Mr. Nell, a bookseller, to be his local agent for getting subscriptions, as well as to make arrangements with a London publisher to bring out the new volume of poems as soon as sufficient subscribers had ensured the success of the work. Mr. Nell promised his most energetic support, and being on the point of undertaking a visit to the metropolis, Clare furnished him with the following note to his friend Allan Cunningham:--

'_Angel Inn, Peterborough_.

My Dear Allan,

Here is a friend of mine, a Mr. Nell, a very hearty fellow, and one who is very desirous of seeing you--a poet, and, as I have convinced him, as hearty a fellow as himself. Therefore I have taken the liberty of introducing a stranger without any apology, feeling that such an introduction was not needed. He will be particularly gratified in seeing what you can show him of the immortal specimens of Chantrey's genius, and any other matters that can interest a literary man; for his profession, that of a bookseller, is not his only recommendation, he being a man of no common taste, and also a great admirer of painting and sculpture, and a lover of the muses.

Here ends my introduction of my friend Mr. Nell. And now, my dear Allan, how are you? How is Mrs. Cunningham and your family, and our old friend George Darley? As for myself, I am as dull as a fog in November, and as far removed from all news of literary matters as the man in the moon; therefore I hope you will excuse this dull scrawl, and believe me, as I really am,

Yours heartily and affectionately,

John Clare.

Has Hogg visited London yet? When he does tell me, and I'll see if I don't muster up every atom of my strength to have a sight of him.

Having left your address at Helpston, I am obliged to trust this letter and my friend to Providence to find you, which I trust he will readily.

Your J. C.

Allan Cuningham, Esq. London.

Favoured by my friend, Mr. Nell.'

Although 'as dull as a fog in November,' Clare was in a hopeful mood at this time. Sanguine as ever, and more than ever imbued with the consciousness of his poetical power, he dreamt that his new publication would be a success, and that his verses at last would gain a sufficient circle of admirers to encourage him in writing more, and thus securing independence for the rest of his days. This hopefulness was somewhat disturbed after a while by news from his friends at Peterborough, who told him that subscribers were coming in but very slowly. These unfavourable tidings he communicated to Mr. Artis, in a note dated May, 1832, in which he said: 'I want to get out a new volume; but the way in which I have started is not very practicable, for I Want to make it a source of benefit.' The words bear a striking melancholy sound. Evidently the poor poet, deeply impressed with his sad experience of the past, scarcely dared to expect the golden millennium when his verses should actually prove 'a source of profit' to him as well as to the booksellers.

There probably never lived, a poet--a printing and publishing poet--full of more sublime meekness and resignation.

NORTHBOROUGH.

Earl Fitzwilliam punctually kept his promise to a.s.sign a new dwelling to Clare. The latter received notice at the beginning of May that he might remove in the course of the month to a pretty and substantial cottage which his lordship had erected for him at the hamlet of Northborough, three miles from Helpston, nearer to the Peterborough Great Fen. The news did not bring joy to the poet, but bitter sorrow. His heart was full of anguish at the thought of quitting the little hut where he was born, the village which he so dearly loved, and all the familiar scenes and objects amidst which the quiet course of his existence had rolled on for nearly forty years. He went over to Northborough, and saw the neat dwelling which the kindness of Earl Fitzwilliam had prepared for him; and though he liked the place, he could no more than before reconcile his mind to the thought of leaving his dear old home and all its cherished a.s.sociations. The n.o.ble earl had fixed upon Northborough as the residence of the poet on account of the thoroughly sylvan scenery all around, the little hamlet lying hidden in a very sea of flowers, trees, and evergreens. The spot indeed was beautiful enough; yet to Clare it did not appear half so beautiful as the bare and bleak environs of his native village. Here he knew every shrub and every inch, of ground, and, through many years' converse with nature, had come to look upon the most minute objects with intense feelings of love. Though strangers might see nothing but a barren landscape all around, to him it was a Garden of Eden, animated with living thought, and full of soul-inspiring beauty. The mere thought of quitting this Eden filled his mind with terror.

The terror increased when the time came near that he was actually to leave. More than once he was on the point of requesting an audience at Milton Park, for the purpose of imploring the n.o.ble earl to take back his kind gift and leave him in his little hut. But his friends at Milton Park, Artis and Henderson, would not hear of this resolution, and got quite angry at the mere mentioning of the subject. They represented to Clare that it would be black ingrat.i.tude on his part not to accept the generous benefaction of his lordship, who had taken all along the greatest interest in his welfare, and in this very choice of a residence in the evergreen vale of Northborough had shown the most delicate taste and appreciation of his poetical genius. Clare could not deny the force of these arguments, and, after another inward struggle, decided to go to Northborough, at any sacrifice to his feelings. Yet even after this firm determination of his mind, he could scarcely bring himself to the execution of the task. Patty, radiant with joy to get away from the miserable little hut into a beautiful roomy cottage, a palace in comparison with the old dwelling, had all things ready for moving at the beginning of June, yet could not persuade her husband to give his consent to the final start. Day after day he postponed it, offering no excuse save that he could not bear to part from his old home. Day after day he kept walking through fields and woods among his old haunts, with wild haggard look, muttering incoherent language. The people of the village began to whisper that he was going mad. At Milton Park they heard of it, and Artis and Henderson hurried to Helpston to look after their friend.

They found him sitting on a moss-grown stone, at the end of the village nearest the heath. Gently they took him by the arm, and, leading him back to the hut, told Mrs. Clare that it would be best to start at once to Northborough, the earl being dissatisfied that the removal had not taken place. Patty's little caravan was soon ready, and the poet, guided by his friends, followed in the rear, walking mechanically, with eyes half shut, as if in a dream.

His look brightened for a moment when entering his new dwelling place, a truly beautiful cottage, with thatched roof, cas.e.m.e.nted windows, wild roses over the porch, and flowery hedges all around. Yet, before many hours were over, he fell back into deep melancholy, from which he was relieved only by a new burst of song. His feelings found vent in the verses:--

'I've left my own old Home of Homes, Green fields, and every pleasant place; The summer like a stranger comes, I pause--and hardly know her face.

I miss the heath, its yellow furze, Mole-hills and rabbit-tracks, that lead Through besom-ling and teasel burrs That spread a wilderness indeed: The Woodland oaks, and all below That their white powder'd branches shield, The mossy paths--the very crow Croaks music in my native field.

I sit me in my corner chair, That seems to feel itself alone; I hear fond music--here and there From hawthorn-hedge and orchard come.

I hear--but all is strange and new: I sat on my old bench last June, The sailing puddock's shrill "pee-lew,"

O'er Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune.