Chapter XI: Part 11

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.

It was not long before Clare's old love of nature came back with such renewed ardour that he could not be made to stop a single day at home. Whenever the weather was moderately fine, he sallied forth, mostly unaccompanied by any one, and seldom returned before the sun had set. He extended his excursions as far as Helpston Heath on the one side, and Peterborough on the other, seemingly as much as ever acquainted with every nook and piece of ground for miles around the neighbourhood of his ancient haunts. One day, when rambling about on the confines of the cathedral city, he met and was recognised by Mrs. Marsh. The good old lady was delighted to see her poet again, and insisted that he should make up for his former neglect by accompanying her at once, and staying a few days at the episcopal mansion. Clare said he was expected home by his wife, and could not go the same day; but promised to pay a visit to Peterborough in the course of a week. He kept his word, and on the appointed time presented himself before Mrs. Marsh. She was exceedingly pleased, and to prevent her poet from running away again, kept him constantly in her company. Conversing with him on all subjects, Mrs. Marsh at times thought his remarks rather singular; while his sudden swerving from one topic to another often astonished her not a little. But all this the good lady held to be perfectly natural in a poet and a man of genius. To her a poet was nothing if not eccentric.

Clare remained for several days a guest at the residence of the bishop, and on the last evening of his visit was taken by Mrs. Marsh to the theatre. A select band of roving tragedians had taken possession of the Peterborough stage--converted, by a more prosaic living generation, into a corn-exchange--and were delighting the inhabitants of the episcopal city with Shakespeare, and the latest French melodramas. On the evening when Clare went to the theatre in company with Mrs. Marsh, the 'Merchant of Venice' was performed. Clare sat and listened quietly while the first three acts were being played, not even replying to the questions as to how he liked the piece, addressed to him by Mrs. Marsh. But at the commencement of the fourth act, he got restless and evidently excited, and in the scene where Portia delivered judgment, he suddenly sprang up on his seat, and began addressing the actor who performed the part of Shylock. Great was the astonishment of all the good citizens of Peterborough, when a shrill voice, coming from the box reserved to the wife of the Lord Bishop, exclaimed, 'You villain, you murderous villain!' Such an utter breach of decorum was never heard of within the walls of the episcopal city. It was in vain that those nearest to Clare tried to keep him on his seat and induce him to be quiet; he kept shouting, louder than ever, and ended by making attempts to get upon the stage. At last, the performance had to be suspended, and Mrs. Marsh, after some difficulty, got away with her guest. The old lady, in her innocence, even now did not apprehend the real cause of the exciting scene which she had witnessed, but, as before, attributed the behaviour of her unfortunate visitor to poetic eccentricity. But she began thinking that he was almost too eccentric.

The next morning, Clare went back to Northborough, having received an intimation from Mrs. Marsh that it would be best he should go home at once. He wandered forth from the city in a dreamy mood, and lost his way before he had gone far. Some acquaintances found him sitting in a meadow, near the hamlet of Gunthorpe, and seeing his wild haggard looks and strange manners, they took him by the arm, and led him back to Peterborough, delivering him over to the porter at the episcopal mansion. Mrs. Marsh, on hearing that her poet had again made his appearance, was somewhat alarmed; her guest had ceased to be ornamental to her establishment, and her chief object now was to get rid of him as soon as possible. She therefore ordered a servant to take charge of Clare and deliver him up to his wife, with instructions not to let him go, under any pretence, to Peterborough. The order was duly obeyed, and the poet soon found himself in his little cottage. Patty was frightened to see what a sad change the few days' absence had wrought in her husband. He no longer talked sensibly as before, but addressed her and the children in an abrupt manner, asking for his 'Mary,' and complaining that all his friend's had left him. The poor wife soothed him as best she could, and after some efforts succeeded in calming his mind. At the end of a few days, Clare seemed again sufficiently well to leave the house, and renewed his daily walks in company with one or the other of his children. The inhabitants of the village, together with most of his acquaintances in the neighbourhood, were still ignorant that the poet whom they saw daily roving through the fields was at madman.

The ignorance was so general as to be shared by most, of Clare's friends and patrons. One of the latter, the Rev. Mr. Mossop, Vicar of Helpston, had frequent occasions of seeing him, but never detected the slightest sign of mental derangement. Thus one morning, soon after the poet's return from Peterborough, he invited him to his house, to meet a friend who wished to make the acquaintance of the author of the 'Rural Muse.' Mrs. Clare was rather unwilling to let her husband depart; but had not the courage to detain him, remembering the exceeding kindness, always shown to her family by the vicar and his sister. The poet accordingly made his appearance at Mr. Mossop's house; but had not been long there before he showed unmistakeable signs of a wandering intellect. In the midst of an animated conversation, he suddenly broke off, and pointing to the ceiling, cried that he saw figures moving up and down. Surprised as the host and hostess were at this exclamation, they at once perceived the real condition of their unhappy visitor. The reverend gentleman, without loss of time, hurried off to get medical assistance, while his sister, Miss Jane Mossop, did her best to quiet the poet by conversing with him on his favourite topics, and drawing his attention to the plants and flowers in the garden. It was not long before a surgeon arrived, in the person of a Mr. Skrimshaw, resident at Market Deeping. He pronounced at once--what, indeed, was obvious to all the persons in the house--that the poor poet was a lunatic. The kind-hearted vicar thereupon had Clare carefully conveyed back to his own home, making further arrangements for his comfort and safety.

Through Mr. Mossop, the Earl Fitzwilliam and other patrons of Clare were made acquainted with the mental state of the poet, of which they had been so long ignorant. The earl at once proposed to send the poet to the county lunatic asylum, at Northampton, where he would be kept under safe restraint; but this scheme met with some opposition on the part of Mrs. Clare, who thought that her husband might yet recover by being left quietly at home. For a short time, indeed, it seemed as if this was the case. During the next four or five months, and up to the spring of 1837, the cottage at Northborough bore as quiet an aspect as if disease and misery had never entered it. Clare kept working in his garden, and reading in his little study, week after week, speaking to his family in the most rational manner, and occasionally writing verses as sweet and beautiful as any that had ever come from his pen. But with the warm days of summer, his mind seemed again to get distracted, and the report reaching Milton Park, imprisonment at the Northampton asylum was once more advised, or ordered. By desire of the noble earl, negotiations were entered into with the authorities at the county establishment to receive Clare, against payment of a small weekly sum, at a somewhat better footing than the ordinary paupers; but while these were pending, there came letters from London offering to do a little more for the unhappy poet. Mr. John Taylor and other old friends and patrons, having now become fully acquainted with the condition of Clare, proposed to place him in a private lunatic asylum, near the metropolis, discharging all the expenses of his maintenance there. The earl, being a clear gainer by this new arrangement, had no objection whatever to make against it, and signified his desire of having his pensioner at Northborough at once removed to the new place of safety. This was done without loss of time. Early on the morning of the 16th of July, 1837, Clare was led away from his wife and children, by two stern-looking men, who placed him in a small carriage and drove rapidly away southward. Late the same day, the poet found himself an inmate of Dr. Allen's private lunatic asylum, at Fair Mead House, High Beech, in the centre of Epping Forest.

GLIMMERS OF COUNTY PATRONAGE.

The news that Clare had been taken to a lunatic asylum did not become generally known till many months after the event had taken place. In the meanwhile, however, the few persons who still took an interest in the 'Northamptonshire Peasant' heard vague rumours that he was living at home in a state of extreme destitution, productive at times of mental derangement, and on the initiative of the most energetic of these old friends another appeal was made to the public for pecuniary aid. Allan Cunningham was the first to call upon the admirers of Clare to help him in his distress, and the editors of various more or less fashionable annuals, published in the autumn of 1837, followed the example. Though it did not lead to the desired result, the movement thus set on foot was curious, as showing the estimation in which the poet was held by some of those who wished to figure as his patrons. Among them was the Marquis of Northampton, a nobleman who, though never having in the least assisted Clare, fancied himself a sort of protector of the poet, for the sole reason that he was living in the county. This sort of county-property feeling, common to not a few of Clare's noble patrons, was expressed to a notable degree in a letter which the marquis wrote in reply to one of the appeals in favour of the 'Northamptonshire Peasant.'

The appeal in question appeared in the 'Book of Gems,' an annual edited by Mr. S. C. Hall. The writer, after stating that Clare had 'for many years existed in a state of poverty, as utter and hopeless as that in which he passed his youth;' that he had 'a wife and a very large family;' and that 'at times his mind is giving way under the sickness of hope deferred,' finished with an eloquent address to some nobleminded patron of poetry to come forward and help Clare. 'It is not yet too late,' the writer exclaimed, 'for a hand to reach him: a very envied celebrity may be obtained by some wealthy and good Samaritan. Strawberry Hill might be gladly sacrificed for the fame of having saved Chatterton.' The Marquis of Northampton replied to this address. His lordship evidently was hankering after the 'envied celebrity,' but wished to get it as cheap as possible. So he wrote a long letter to the editor of the 'Book of Gems,' making his bid for fame, and expressing at the same time his opinion about one whom he considered a '_county poet_.' His lordship's letter--in which, it will be noticed, the _county_ predominates over all heavenly and earthly things--ran as follows:--

'_Castle Ashby, Northampton, Oct. 17th, 1837_.

Sir,--Though an utter stranger, I think you will excuse my troubling you with this present letter: but I will not waste your time with a lengthened apology. I was this morning reading the collection of poetry which you have lately published--"The Book of Gems, 1838,"--and I was at the same time struck and shocked by what you say on the subject of our county poet, Clare. I must confess that I am not of his exceeding admirers, and should by no means be disposed to place him in the same rank with Hogg, or even with Bloomfield and Crockford. Still he is undoubtedly a great credit to our county, and it would, I think, be a great disgrace to it if Clare was left in the state in which you mention him to be. Now it appears to me that the most feasible means of relieving him would be for him to publish a collection of all his poems in a volume by subscription. Probably there would be found a good many persons in this county who would subscribe for five or ten copies each. Northamptonshire is not a large county, nor is it either wealthy from manufactures or from a dense population. It has, however, some considerable source of wealth. Many of its resident nobility and gentry have considerable properties elsewhere, as for instance the Dukes of Buccleuch and Grafton, and Lords Spencer, Fitzwilliam, Winchelsea; and you will see that the resources of the county are really in that sense larger than they appear. However, I must confess that I do not think that we are very literary, and probably such a speculation would hardly succeed unless in addition to the copies taken here there were hopes of a sale elsewhere. On this subject you are far better able to judge than I can be. You know also more exactly how Clare is situated, at least you could find out. If Her Majesty would allow the book to be dedicated to her that would probably be a considerable advantage, and through Lord Lilford, who, I think, is a Lord of the Bedchamber, permission might be obtained. But in this I speak at random. If such a plan was taken up, I should myself be willing to subscribe for ten or twenty copies, and I have no doubt that I could obtain subscriptions from others. But I could not myself do more for this scheme. In fact I should not be able to do quite so much now in this way in consequence of a late publication of mine, as I could not in general apply to the same subscribers. Still I could apply to many on the ground of it being a county question. But still, as I said before, the question is whether the public in general would be likely to join the effort. Pray let me know what you think of the matter. If a direct subscription for Clare should be proposed in lieu of the publication I should be happy to contribute towards it, but I should doubt its being as productive as the book. It would be probably well if there were some new poems in the book in addition to the old ones. Perhaps there may be a difficulty to get the copyright if he has sold it to a bookseller.

I am, Sir, your humble servant

Northampton.'

The philanthropic scheme of the Marquis of Northampton in favour of 'our county poet' was destined not to be realized. Whether the failure was owing to the mysterious 'Lord of the Bedchamber,' or to differences of opinion in respect to Clare being 'a great credit to our county,' and his relief 'a county question,' so much is certain, the not '_very_ literary' county subscribers declined to come forward, although a number of prospectuses were printed and issued to them. Thus there remained the 'great disgrace.' To Professor Wilson it simply was a 'national disgrace' but the most honourable the Marquis of Northampton undoubtedly felt it deeper by declaring it to be a 'disgrace to our county.'

DR. ALLEN'S ASYLUM.

Dr. Matthew Allen, of Fair Mead House, into whose asylum Clare had been taken, was among the first reformers who adopted the mild system of treatment for the insane, both on medical and philanthropic grounds. He argued, in the teeth of a whole legion of irate professional brethren, that kindness would be more powerful than cruelty in curing human beings deranged in intellect, and that, even if incurable, the poor creatures whom God had afflicted did not deserve being laid in fetters and treated like savage animals. The doctor necessarily made a great many enemies by preaching this new doctrine; but he likewise was fortunate enough to gain a few friends, who advocated his cause and rendered active aid in carrying it into practice. It was with the help of these friends that Dr. Allen was enabled to set up a large private asylum in the centre of Epping Forest, the establishment consisting of half-a-dozen houses, connected together, and surrounded by large gardens. Here the unhappy sufferers from mental derangement were kept under no more restraint than was absolutely necessary for their own safety and that of others; and, while under the best medical care and attention, were allowed an abundant amount of indoor recreation as well as out-door exercise. When Clare arrived, there were about fifty inmates at Fair Mead House, all of them belonging to the middle and upper classes. Feeling deep sympathy with the unfortunate position of the poet, Dr. Allen admitted him at a mere nominal rate of payment, treating him nevertheless exactly on the same footing as the most favoured of his patients.

The poet's existence at Fair Mead House for several years flowed on monotonous enough; even more so than that of the other inmates of the asylum. He longed to see his family, to meet familiar faces, and to read and write poetry; but neither wife, nor children, nor any friends ever came to visit him, and the supply of books was necessarily scant and not altogether to his taste. Dr. Allen's treatment of his patients was based on the principle of giving them as much physical labour and exercise as possible, so as to destroy all tendency to a morbid concentration of thought; and thus Clare was kept away from books and paper, and made to go into the garden, to plant, and dig, and water the flowers. He seemed to fret at first on being deprived of the solace of his poetry, and eagerly seized every occasion to scribble verses upon odd slips of paper, or with, chalk against the wall. But as the months passed on, his new forced habits grew upon him, and he left off writing to a great extent, and was foremost among the workers in the fields and garden. His mental state, however, did not improve, although his physical strength appeared to gain by this change. He got stout and robust, and able to go through a greater amount of physical labour than in former days. What seemed to contribute to sooth and quiet--or, perhaps, deaden--his mental energies, was the habit of smoking, which he acquired from his companions. He would smoke for whole days and weeks, either working in the garden, or sitting on the stump of a tree in Epping Forest, without uttering a word.

Yet notwithstanding the visible and increasing derangement of his mental faculties, Clare's poetical powers seemed to be nearly as great and as brilliant as ever. Rare as were the opportunities when he was allowed to indulge in the luxury of writing verses, whenever they offered, the stream of poetry came flowing on swiftly and sweetly. Some accidental visitors to Fair Mead House one day offered him a pencil and sheet of paper, when he sat down on a bench in the garden, and without further musing wrote the following lines:--

'By a cottage near the wood
Where lark and thrushes sing,
In dreaming hours I stood,
Through summer and through spring:
There dwells a lovely maiden
Whose name I sought in vain--
Some call her pretty Lucy,
And others honest Jane.

By that cottage near a wood
I often stood alone
In sad or happy mood,
And wished she was my own.
The birds kept sweetly singing,
But nature pleased in vain;
For the dark and lovely maiden
I never saw again.

By the cottage near the wood
I wished in peace to be:
The blossoms where she stood
Were more than gems to me.
More fair or sweeter blossoms
My rambles sought in vain;
But the dark and lovely maiden
I never found again.

By that cottage near a wood
The children held her gown,
And on the turf before her
Ran laughing up and down.
They played around her beauty,
While I sought joys in vain;
She fled--the lovely maiden
I could not find again.

By that cottage near the wood,
Where children used to play,
Spring often burst the bud,
And as often passed away.
And with them passed my visions
Of her whom I adore;
For the dark and lovely maiden,
I love her evermore.'

When Clare had been above a year at the asylum, and it was found that he was perfectly harmless and inoffensive, he was allowed to roam at his will all over the neighbourhood and through the whole of the forest. This freedom he greatly enjoyed, and not a day passed without his taking long excursions in all directions. In these wanderings he was mostly accompanied by T. Campbell, the only son of the author of 'The Pleasures of Hope,' with whom he had come to form an intimate acquaintance. Clare wrote a sketch of his forest promenades in a sonnet which he handed to Dr. Allen. It ran:--

'I love the forest and its airy hounds,
Where friendly Campbell takes his daily rounds;
I love the break-neck hills, that headlong go,
And leave me high, and half the world below.

I love to see the Beech Hill mounting high,
The brook without a bridge, and nearly dry.
There's Bucket's Hill, a place of furze and clouds,
Which evening in a golden blaze enshrouds:

I hear the cows go home with tinkling bell,
And see the woodman in the forest dwell,
Whose dog runs eager where the rabbit's gone;
He eats the grass, then kicks and hurries on;
Then scrapes for hoarded bone, and tries to play,
And barks at larger dogs and runs away.

His acquaintance with young Thomas Campbell brought to Clare occasional presents, and now and then, the pleasant face of a visitor. Among them was Mr. Cyrus Bedding, who left a record of his visit in the 'English Journal.' Describing Dr. Allen's asylum, he says:--'The situation is lofty; and the patients inhabit several houses at some distance from each other. These houses stand in the midst of gardens, where the invalids may be seen walking about, or cultivating the flowers, just as they feel inclined.'

The visitor, who was accompanied by a friend who had known Clare previously, found him working in a field, 'apart from his companions, busily engaged with a hoe, and smoking. On being called, he came at once, and very readily entered into conversation. Our friend was surprised to see how much the poet was changed in personal appearance, having gained flesh, and being no longer, as he was formerly, attenuated and pale of complexion. We found a little man, of muscular frame and firmly set, his complexion fresh and forehead high, a nose somewhat aquiline, and long full chin. The expression of his countenance was more pleasing but somewhat less intellectual than that in the engraved portrait prefixed to his works in the edition of "The Village Minstrel," published in 1821. He was communicative, and answered every question put to him in a manner perfectly unembarrassed. He spoke of the quality of the ground which he was amusing himself by hoeing, and the probability of its giving an increased crop the present year, a continued smile playing upon his lips. He made some remarks illustrative of the difference between the aspect of the country at High Beech and that in the fens from whence he had come--alluded to Northborough and Peterborough--and spoke of his loneliness away from his wife, expressing a great desire to go home, and to have the society of women. He said his solace was his pipe--he had no other: he wanted books. On being asked what books, he said Byron; and we promised to send that poet's works to him.

'The principal token of his mental eccentricity was the introduction of prize-fighting, in which he seemed to imagine he was to engage; but the allusion to it was made in the way of interpolation in the middle of the subject on which he was discoursing, brought in abruptly, and abandoned with equal suddenness, and an utter want of connexion with any association of ideas which it could be thought might lead to the subject at the time; as if the machinery of thought were dislocated, so that one part of it got off its pivot, and protruded into the regular workings; or as if a note had got into a piece of music which had no business there. This was the only symptom of aberration of mind we observed about Clare; though, being strangers to him, there might be something else in his manner which those who knew him well could have pointed out. To our seeming, his affection was slight; and it is not at all improbable that a relief from mental anxiety might completely restore him. The finer organization of such a humanity, if more easily put out of order than that of a more obtuse character, is in all probability more likely to re-tune itself, the evil cause being removed.'

Mr. Cyrus Bedding was mistaken in the anticipation that Clare's 'machinery of thought' would ever get again 'into the regular workings.' At the very time when the visit described here took place, the poet's mental state was worse than before, and there seemed less chance than ever of restoring 'the finer organization of such a humanity.' Clare was haunted now, wherever he went, by the vision of his first ideal love, his ever-sought 'Mary.' He fancied that she was his wife, torn from him by evil spirits, and that he was bound to seek her all over the earth. In his wild hallucinations, he confounded his real with his ideal spouse, addressing the latter in language wonderfully sweet, though exhibiting strange flights of imagination. On one occasion, the poet handed to Dr. Allen the following piece of poetry, which he called 'A Sonnet,' with the remark that it should be sent to his wife:--

'Maid of Walkherd, meet again,
By the wilding in the glen;
By the oak against the door,
Where we often met before.
By thy bosom's heaving snow,
By thy fondness none shall know;
Maid of Walkherd, meet again,
By the wilding in the glen.

By thy hand of slender make,
By thy love I'll ne'er forsake,
By thy heart I'll ne'er betray,
Let me kiss thy fears away!
I will live and love thee ever,
Leave thee and forsake thee never!
Though far in other lands to be,
Yet never far from love and thee.'

Dr. Allen told his patient that he thought his verses very beautiful, at which Clare seemed pleased, and expressed his intention to take them home to his wife, his 'Mary.' The doctor paid little heed to this remark, which, however, was seriously meant. To see his beloved Mary again, now became the one all-absorbing thought of the poet's mind. He appeared to have a vague notion that she was far away; but determined, nevertheless, to seek her, even at the risk of his life. In the spring of 1841--having been nearly four years at Fair Mead House--he made several attempts to escape, but was frustrated each time, being brought back by people who met him wandering at a distance. Dr. Allen, notwithstanding these warnings, continued to allow full liberty to his patient, ascribing his occasional flights to a mere propensity for roaming about. Clare, as before, took his daily excursions, sometimes in company with his friend Campbell, but oftener alone. One day, in the middle of July, 1841, he stayed away unusually long. When the sun had set without his returning home, attendants were despatched in all directions; but after a long and minute search over the whole neighbourhood, they came back, late at night, reporting that they had been unsuccessful in tracing the lost patient. Some persons who knew him by sight had seen him passing through Enfield in a northerly direction; but beyond this fact nothing could be ascertained. Dr. Allen felt very uneasy at this mysterious disappearance, and the next day despatched two horsemen in search of Clare. But even they could discover no trace of him beyond Enfield. John Clare was never seen again at Fair Mead House, Epping Forest.

ESCAPE FROM THE ASYLUM.

Clare's flight from Dr. Allen's custody was accomplished by dint of extraordinary perseverance, involving an amount of physical suffering almost unexampled, and approaching starvation and the most horrible of deaths. The poet started early on the morning of the 20th of July, with not a penny in his pocket, and no other knowledge of the road than that given to him by a gipsy whom he had met a few days before. This gipsy at first promised more active assistance in his flight; but did not keep his word, owing, probably, to the inability of the poor lunatic to procure any tangible reward. However, urged onward by his intense desire to see his 'Mary' again, Clare did not hesitate to start alone on his unknown journey, and, groping his way along, like one wrapt in blindness, he at once succeeded so far as to get into the right track homewards. The first day he walked above twenty miles, to Stevenage, in Hertfordshire, where he arrived late at night, footsore and faint, having been without any refreshment the whole day. He rested for the night in an old barn, on some trusses of clover, taking the singular precaution, before lying down, of placing his head towards the north, so as to know in which direction to start the next morning. This day, the 21st of July, he rose early, pursuing his way northward, and crawling more than walking along the road. A man threw him a penny which he used to get a glass of ale; but beyond this he had again no refreshment. After a second night, spent in the open air, he rose once more to crawl onward, slowly but steadily. To stifle the torments of hunger, he now took to the frightful expedient of eating grass with the beasts in the field. The grass served to appease the dreadful pains of his stomach, yet left him in the same drowsy condition in which he was before. His feet were bleeding, the dry gravel of the road having penetrated his old worn-out shoes; but he heeded it not, and stedfastly pursued his way northward. Alternately sleeping and walking, sometimes wandering about in a circle, lying down in ditches at the roadside, and continuing to eat grass, together with a few bits of tobacco which he found in his pocket, he at length reached the neighbourhood of Peterborough and scenes familiar to his eye. But he was now fast breaking down under hunger and fatigue, having had no food for more than ninety hours. Hearing the well-known place, he could get no further, but sank down on the road, more dead than alive. A great many people passed--people rich and poor, on foot and in carriages, in clerical habit and in broadcloth; but not one gave alms, or even noticed, or had a kind word for the dying man at the roadside. There was not one good Samaritan among all the wayfarers from the rich episcopal city.

At last there passed a cart, containing some persons from Helpston. They recognised their old neighbour, although he was terribly altered, with the livid signs of starvation impressed upon his face. The wanderer, in a faint voice, told those friends his tale of woe; but even they were not Christians enough to lift him into their vehicle and take him home. All that they did was to give him a few pence; not even placing the money in his hand, with, perhaps, a kindly greeting, but throwing it at him from their cart. The wretched poet crept along the road to gather the coppers, and then crawled a little farther on to a public-house, where he procured some refreshment. The food--the first he had taken for nigh four days--enabled him to pursue his journey slowly, and he hobbled on through Peterborough, the blood still trickling from his wounded feet. At every stone-heap at the roadside he rested himself, until he came to the hamlet of Werrington, where a cart ran up against him, out of which sprang a woman who took him in her arms. It was Patty, who had heard from the charitable Helpston people that her husband was lying on the road, and had come in search of him. But Clare did not know her. He refused even to take a seat at her side, until he was told that she was his 'second wife.' Then he allowed himself to be taken to Northborough, where he arrived in the evening of the 23d of July, utterly exhausted, and in a state bordering upon delirium.

But already the next day he felt considerably better, and at once asked for writing materials. Having obtained pen and ink, together with an old blank ledger, in which he formerly entered his poems, he sat down to write an account of his 'Journey from Essex.' Such another account, probably, was never written before. Here it stands, unaltered from the original, save in slight attempts at punctuation. The paper commences:--