Chapter X: Part 10

However, in spite of these constant disappointments, Clare did not give up all hope of ultimately prospering as a hawker of books. 'Though I have not as yet opened any prospect of success respecting my becoming a bookseller,' he wrote to Mr. Taylor, under date August 3d, 1828, 'yet I still think there is some hopes of selling an odd set now and then, and as you are so kind as to let me have them at a reduced rate, when I do sell them I shall make something, if only a trifle. I thought of more in my days of better dreams, but now even trifles are acceptable. For I do assure you I have been in great difficulties, and though I remained silent under them, I felt them oppress my spirits to such a degree that I almost sunk under them. Those two fellows of Peterborough in the character of doctors have annoyed and dunned me most horribly, and though their claims are unjust, I cannot get over them by any other method than paying.' The 'two fellows from Peterborough in the character of doctors' were quacks into whose hands Clare, or rather his old father, had unfortunately fallen. They promised to cure the poor invalid of his lameness and all other ailings, and after nearly killing him with noxious drugs, made an exorbitant demand for 'professional assistance.' The demand was reduced ultimately, when they became aware of the utter poverty of Clare, to less than a tenth, which they extracted in small instalments, often taking the last penny from his pocket. For the present, Clare had hopes to pay 'those two fellows' out of the income from 'annuals' to which he was contributing. 'I am going to write for the Spirit of the Age,' he informed Mr. Taylor, 'for which I am to have a pound a page, and more when it becomes established. But promises, though they produce a good seedtime, generally turn out a bad harvest. Yet be it as it will, I am prepared for the worst. I have long felt a dislike to these things, but necessity leaves no choice.' Considering what Clare got for his other writings, the 'pound a page' from the 'Spirit of the Age' was no bad pay. But the poet's unqualified disgust of 'these things,' the annuals, was so great as often to counterbalance even his desire to gain a living by his pen. He not unfrequently refused to write for the 'Souvenir' and 'Keepsake' family, and the only annual to which he contributed with real pleasure was that under the editorship of Allan Cunningham.

The advertisement in the 'Stamford News' brought some curious letters to Helpston at the beginning of the autumn. A few of the papers having been wafted into the eastern parts of Lincolnshire, there came invitations from several places for John Clare to show himself to the natives. Feeling naturally dull in the Fens, they thought the sight of a live poet, being a pedlar in the bargain, might be productive of a mild kind of excitement, highly moral, and very cheap. The mayor of Boston was the first to be struck with this idea, which he communicated to the more distinguished of his townsmen, and finally embodied in a most polite note of invitation. Clare felt exceedingly flattered by the compliments of the mayor of Boston, and in reply stated that he would be happy to pay a visit to the ancient borough. The answer had no sooner been sent when there came summonses from other places within the counties of Lincolnshire and Norfolk. At Grantham, too, they wanted to see John Clare, as well as at Tattershall, at Spalding, and at Lynn Regis. There seemed to be a slow poetic fever raging among the people of the Fens. Clare sent polite replies to all the courteous invitations, and having procured a small parcel of books from Mr. Taylor, started for Boston at the end of September. He walked all the way, and arriving in the evening of a beautiful day, ascended the steeple of the old church, just when the sun was sending his last rays over the surging billows of the North Sea. The view threw Clare into rapturous delight. He had never before seen the ocean, and felt completely overwhelmed at the majestic view which met his eyes. So deep was the impression left on his mind that it kept him awake all night; and when he fell asleep, towards the morning, the white-crested waves of the sea, stretching away into infinite space, hovered in new images over his dreams.

The few days which he remained at Boston turned out a continual round of excitement. The worthy mayor called upon him at the 'White Hart,' the morning after his arrival, and insisted that he should be present at a grand dinner-party the same day. Finding all resistance useless, Clare submitted to his fate. The consequences he related to Mr. Taylor, in a letter written some time after. 'The mayor of the town,' Clare informed his publisher, 'was a very jolly companion, and made me so welcome, while a lady at the table talked so sweetly of the poets, that I drank off my glass very often, almost without knowing it, and he as quickly filled it--but with no other intention than that of hospitality--that I felt rather queer. It was strong wine, and I was not used to it.' After years of almost total abstinence from intoxicating drink, the effect was disastrous. For a whole day, the poet was confined to his little room at the inn, feeling very ill, and wishing himself back at Helpston. But the men of Boston had not yet done with him, and seemed determined to have as much lionizing as the occasion allowed. The mayor was preparing another dinner; and the lady who 'talked so sweetly of the poets' made strong attempts to get up a poetical conversazione, with sandwiches and lemonade; while some lively youths went so far as to order a supper at Clare's inn, thinking to make sure of their lion in this way. But he was not to be so easily caught, and, with some pride, let Mr. Taylor know how he escaped the ordeal. 'Several young men,' he informed his patron, 'had made it up among themselves to give me a supper, when I was to have made a speech. But as soon as I heard of it, I declined it, telling them if they expected a speech from me they need prepare no supper, for that would serve me for everything. And so I got off.' To which the pedlar-poet appended some moralizings, exclaiming, 'Really this speechifying is a sore humbug, and the sooner it is out of fashion the better.' It was strange how little John Clare understood the world in which he lived.

The visit to Boston was to have been followed by a trip to other places in the eastern counties, but Clare felt unequal to the task. A three days' sojourn at the 'White Hart' gave him an insight into the nature of the work required from a travelling provincial lion, and he became conscious that he was not fitted for the calling. So he hurried home in great haste, after having sold his little stock of books. The 'jolly mayor' was kind enough to purchase two sets of the poetical works, on the condition of getting the author's autograph, together with his own name at full length, in every volume. But the lady who talked so sweetly of the poets, refused to buy anything, pleading that her bookcase was quite full already. The truly liberal among the people of Boston were the young men whose supper Clare refused. They made a collection among themselves, and, unknown to the poet, put ten pounds into his little wallet. He did not find the gift of his unknown friends till he returned to Helpston, and the discovery affected him to tears. For the first time in his life he regretted not having made a speech, even at the risk of breaking down in the middle of it.

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

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 assistance 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 advertisements 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 assist 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, entitled, '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 manuscripts, 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 substitute 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 class, 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 entitled to.' Allan Cunningham responded nobly 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 assistance 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 assume a bright and sunny look. His pecuniary circumstances, 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 mass 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 circumstances. 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 noble thoughts into noble 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 noble 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 passing 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 assisted 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 noble 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 noble 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 gratitude 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 noble 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 compassion, 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 assist 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 assign 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 associations. The noble 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 noble 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 ingratitude 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, casemented 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.

I walk adown the narrow close,
The nightingale is singing now;
But like to me she seems at loss
For Royce Wood and its shielding bough.
I lean upon the window sill,
The trees and summer happy seem,--
Green, sunny green they shine--but still
My heart goes far away to dream
Of happiness--and thoughts arise
With home-bred pictures many a one--
Green lanes that shut out burning skies,
And old crook'd stiles to rest upon.

* * * * *

I dwell on trifles like a child--
I feel as ill becomes a man;
And yet my thoughts like weedlings wild
Grow up and blossom where they can.'--

'Northborough, June 20, 1832,' these lines were written. They formed the beginning of a new era in the life of the sorrowing poet.

Happiness never came to Clare in his rose-enshrined cottage at Northborough. His poetical powers culminated at this period; but his mind gradually gave way under a burthen of sorrows and cares. Perhaps some of them were fanciful, and such 'as ill become a man;' but the bulk had their roots in bitter reality. Clare now had a pretty cottage to live in; yet, for all that, remained as poor as ever. In truth, he was, if anything, poorer; for having left his old neighbourhood, and come to dwell among strangers, he had lost his chances of finding work as a farm-labourer. His little garden, it was true, yielded a few fruits and vegetables for his family; yet there was not a tithe enough for their support, and dire want was standing at the door with as grim aspect as ever. Then there came new expenses for keeping the larger cottage in repair, and for fitting it with appropriate furniture, and a mountain of fresh debt was added to the old liabilities which so sorely pressed upon the poor poet. It was a pressure nigh overwhelming to a tenderly susceptible mind.

Clare's removal to Northborough had the immediate effect, not desirable by any means, of drawing upon him the attention of a number of persons more or less acquainted with his works, but by whom he had been forgotten. As usual, public rumour magnified to an enormous extent the nature of the bounty conferred by Earl Fitzwilliam; and while the most moderate statement was that the poet had an annual allowance of two hundred pounds a year from his lordship, besides a fine house to live in, others went so far as to raise the two hundred to a thousand, and the house to a mansion. Local newspapers busily printed these attractive items of public intelligence, and the consequence was that the cottage at Northborough was for some months quite besieged with visitors, all come to congratulate. Clare felt in no mood to give or receive compliments, and positively refused to entertain the stream of kind friends of whose friendships he had never before been aware. With a few of the visitors, however, with whom he had been previously acquainted, he entered into conversation, speaking frankly of his actual circumstances, and of the entire untruth of the rumours which asserted his sudden wealth. Among the friends who gained his confidence to this extent was a Mr. Clark, editor of a literary magazine, who, with the view of making a little article out of his visit, questioned and cross-questioned Clare in the most minute way as to his financial circumstances, and the number of his patrons. John Clare, as to all men, so here to this supposed friend, spoke in a frank and confiding manner, not hiding the fact that his poetry had never been remunerative, nor that, though having many patrons left, he was on the very brink of starvation. This was interesting news to Mr. Clark; and the matter being eminently fit for raising the old discussion about poets and their patrons, he spun it into a flaming article, duly painted and coloured, which was printed in the literary magazine.

The poet was immensely astonished when, at the beginning of October, he received a paper containing an account of himself and his troubles. It was stated that his publishers had robbed him of the profits of his works; that some noble patrons, alluded to in no complimentary terms, kept feeding him with compliments, but left him to starve; and much more to the same effect. The whole account deeply hurt his feelings, and he at once sent a letter to a friend at Stamford, contributor to Mr. Clark's magazine. The letter ran: 'My dear friend,--I am obliged to write to you to contradict the misrepresentations in your paper of October the 5th, which I received on Saturday. As long as my own affairs are misrepresented, I care nothing about it; but such falsehoods as are bandied about in this article not only hurt my feelings but injure me. Mr. Clark in making these statements must have known that he was giving circulation to lies; and had I been aware of his intentions to meddle in my affairs, I should most assuredly have treated him as a foe in disguise. For enemies I care nothing; from friends I have much to fear, it seems. There never was a more scandalous insult to my feelings than this officious misstatement.... I am no beggar; for my income is £36, and though I have had no final settlement with Taylor, I expect to have one directly.' The letter, after going into the details of his commercial transactions both with Mr. Drury and Mr. Taylor, not altogether complimentary to the former, ended with a positive demand that the statements made in the magazine should be retracted.

But no attention was paid to this demand. The result was that Clare got more gloomy and melancholy than ever, hiding himself for whole days in the neighbouring woods, and refusing to see even the most intimate of his friends. The publication of the unfortunate magazine article and 'officious misstatement,' of which there appeared no public contradiction, was likewise not without effect upon the demeanour of Clare's patrons. Earl Fitzwilliam, after providing him with a suitable dwelling in an unexpectedly generous manner, subsequently left him to his fate. Thus the poet sank deeper and deeper into poverty and wretchedness, until he could sink no further.

ALONE.

The publication of the new volume of verses made little progress for a long time to come. Notwithstanding the strenuous exertions of Dr. Smith and other friends, the desired subscribers were very slow in presenting themselves, poetry being evidently at a discount at the border of the fen regions. In the spring of 1833, Clare informed his kind friend, the Vicar of Helpston, who continued to assist him in his needs, that he had secured 'subscribers for forty-nine copies' of his intended new volume; adding, however, the dismal fact of eighteen among them being 'rather doubtful.' Thus a poet, whose fame the leading organ of criticism, the 'Quarterly Review,' had proclaimed a dozen years before, and who was now at the very zenith of his power, was actually unable to find more than thirty persons in his own neighbourhood, where he was best known, who would support him to the extent of a few pence. Nor was Clare more fortunate in his endeavours to find patronage among the great publishers of the metropolis. Although he sent specimens of some exquisite songs and ballads to many of the best-known dealers in poetical ware, they declined publishing them without having the previous signatures of a certain number of purchasers. One of the specimen poems thus sent to London was the following song, entitled 'Woman's Love:'--

'O the voice of woman's love!
What a bosom stirring word!
Was a sweeter ever uttered,
Was a dearer ever heard,
Than woman's love?

How it melts upon the ear!
How it nourishes the heart!
Cold, cold must his appear
Who has never shared a part
Of woman's love.

'Tis pleasure to the mourner,
'Tis freedom to the thrall;
The pilgrimage of many,
And the resting place of all,
Is woman's love.

'Tis the gem of beauty's birth,
It competes with joys above;
What were angels upon earth
If without woman's love?
A woman's love.'

It did not seem to strike the publishers, to whom this poem, with many similar ones, was submitted, that there was anything beautiful in it; and after having travelled up and down Paternoster Row, the verses were returned to the author, 'with thanks.' One bookseller, indeed, offered to bring out the volume, but on condition that Clare was to advance one hundred pounds, to be spent in steel engravings and other 'embellishments.' Without embellishments, he told his correspondent, the verses would never attract public attention, the taste of the day being all for high art, as exhibited in the annuals. Clare wrote an angry note in return, deeming it an insult that a man should ask him to spend a hundred pounds upon steel engravings, when he was in want of bread.

The winter of 1832-3 proved the greatest trial the unhappy poet had yet undergone. With scarcely food for his children; with not money enough to satisfy even a fraction of the claims of his most importunate creditors; and with no expectations of earning anything, either by work in the fields or by the publication of his new volume of verses, he saw nothing but the dreariest prospect of misery staring him in the face. He wept bitterly when, on the 4th of January, 1833, his wife brought him another boy, his seventh child. 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.