The Life of John Clare

by Frederick Martin

To get the two hundred pounds required to pay off the mortgage upon 'Bachelors' Hall,' Clare addressed himself first to Lord Radstock, whom he looked upon as one of his wannest and most sincere friends. What he asked was not to lend him the money, but to take it from the sum standing in his name in the funds. To Clare's surprise, Lord Radstock told him that this could not be done, as the four hundred and twenty pounds were invested in the name of trustees, who had no power to withdraw any portion of this amount. Glare looked upon this as a personal humiliation, fancying that he was treated like a child, or like a man not responsible for his own actions, and deeming the refusal a new attempt to keep him in leading strings. For a moment, Clare felt quite angry with his noble patron, who, he thought, might have easily advanced him the small sum of money had he so liked. The explanation was that Lord Radstock, like most other of Clare's patrons, was entirely ignorant of the poet's character, regarding him in the light of a genial infant, full of intellect, but without strength of character. What chiefly produced this impression on his lordship, otherwise decidedly the truest friend of the poet, was that Clare, notwithstanding repeated advice to that effect, had neglected to make a good arrangement, or, in fact, any arrangement at all, with his publishers, so that he stood to them in the position of a helpless client. Probably, Lord Radstock reasoned that as his friend had shown himself thus unable to carry on the ordinary affairs of life, he would not be better qualified to be the manager of a farm, although one of only seven acres. In consequence, he not only refused to get the two hundred pounds, but strongly advised Clare to have nothing to do with the purchase of 'Bachelors' Hall.' The poet saw through the motives which dictated this advice, and keenly felt the distrust and want of appreciation of him whom he held to be one of the best of his friends.

Much downcast, however, as Clare was by Lord Radstock's refusal, he did not give up the struggle for his great object. His next attempt was to get the required sum of two hundred pounds from his publishers, to whom, he offered, in return, a sort of mortgage on his writings, for a period to come. He addressed himself to Mr. John Taylor in a very pathetic letter, vehement almost in the anxiety manifested to gain the little plot of land, and thus become an independent man. 'The cottage with land,' he wrote to Mr. Taylor, in a letter bearing date January 31, 1823, 'is a beautiful spot of six or seven acres. There are crowds for it if it be sold; but if I could get hold of the mortgage, it would be mine, and still doing a kindness to a friend. I should like to alter it into Poet's Hall, instead of its old name of Bachelor's Hall, which must soon be extinct if I don't succeed. I'll do this way if you like. I'll sell you my writings for five years for that sum, which can't be dear.' Fervent though this appeal was, it left the great publisher in Fleet Street very cold. Mr. Taylor replied, with some sarcasm, that he could not see what put the ambition into Clare's head to become a 'landed proprietor.' Very likely, Mr. Taylor thought it would raise the cost price of the verses, if they were to be manufactured at a 'Poet's Hall.' Therefore, while declining to advance the two hundred pounds, he told his friend, in a long letter, not to be ambitious, but to remain in the state in which God had placed him. The counsel was seasoned, somewhat unnecessarily, by quotations from the Bible.

'Bachelors' Hall' did not become 'Poet's Hall,' but went to the Jew. Clare, seeing all his efforts vain, sunk into a state of low despondency, followed by a long and serious illness. It was the turning period of the poet's life. His career, hitherto, had been strange and anomalous. Tossed about in the surging waves of existence, now in deepest poverty, and now again amidst wealth and splendour, he was beginning to feel weary and faint-hearted, doubting whether he should ever be able to reach the haven of rest and of ease. At the age of thirty now he fancied he had a glimpse of this blissful haven. He felt, and the feeling was undoubtedly just, that the possession of a small independent property would secure to him the much-wanted support in life, not only as furnishing him with additional means of subsistence, but in raising his mental energies, dependent hitherto upon the fitful accidents connected with his position of farm-labourer. His fancy painted to him, in glowing colours, how happy he should be in his roomy 'Poet's Hall,' standing on his own land, 'a beautiful spot of six or seven acres,' full of flowers and fruit trees, with hedges of roses and laurel, and songbirds nestling under the green leaves. No more necessity, then, to take his visitors to the public-house for entertainment; no more necessity to hide in hollow trees in the wood, seeking poetical inspiration; no more necessity to go about, with downcast look, among the insolent farmers, in that most humiliating of all pursuits, asking for work. A charm to even the coarsest minds, the overwhelming consciousness! of being owner of a fraction of the surface of great mother earth, had countless allurements to the poet. He knew it would not only raise him in the world, but would make him a better, a nobler, a wiser man. Yet for all that, and though the haven was so near, he was not allowed to reach it. With patrons in abundance, there was not one willing to advance the small sum of two hundred pounds, which, he said, would make him happy for life; with friends who praised his genius to the skies, there were none who thought it safe to entrust him with the means for purchasing independence otherwise than 'under trustees.' The patrons and friends admired the poet's genius, but they never forgot that he was a 'Northamptonshire peasant,' the son of a pauper. As such, even kind Mr. John Taylor thought proper to preach humility, and refer the 'Village Minstrel' to the Bible.

With the failure of all his schemes, the great truth began, to dawn upon Clare that he was destined, notwithstanding all his friends and patrons, to remain a farmer's drudge and poetical pauper; destined to plough and thresh for others, and, in his spare hours, to make pretty songs for ladies and gentlemen—something better than a clown, and something less than a lackey in uniform. Clare was meek and accustomed to suffering, yet for a long time he could not reconcile himself to the thought that this was part of 'the eternal fitness of things.' So he chafed and fretted under his new burthen of sorrow, and finding it weigh too heavily upon his heart, again sought forgetfulness in the wretched refuge open at the tavern. He drank not much, for he was too poor to do so, at this moment; but even the small quantity of ale or spirits which he imbibed to drown his mental anguish acted like poison upon a weak and ailing body, now more than usually debilitated by insufficient food. In the winter of 1823, Clare found himself almost penniless; yet with inborn loftiness of mind, he hid the fact from his family, so as not to distress them. His wife and parents, therefore, lived as well as ever, while he, to save expenditure, got into the habit of absenting himself at meal-times, pretending to call upon friends and acquaintances. Instead of doing so, he went forth into the fields, munching a dry crust of bread, and, when breaking down under hunger and fatigue, crept to the 'Blue Bell' for a glass of ale. Such a diet, always fatal, was doubly so after the liberal style of living to which he had got accustomed in London, and which he had kept up for some time after, as long as his hope lasted to get payment for the poems delivered to Mr. Drury, as well as for others contributed to the 'London Magazine,' When these sources failed, and the succeeding schemes to acquire 'Bachelors' Hall' broke down one after another, there was bitter want staring him in the face, to stave off which he resolved to make an application to one of his first and best friends, Mr. Gilchrist. It seemed impossible that help, and, what was almost as precious under the circumstances, good advice, should be wanting from this quarter.

Mr. Gilchrist had been absent from Stamford for a long time. His illness, which first seemed slight, and merely due to temporary overwork, had taken a more serious turn after his journey to London, chiefly in consequence of a severe cold caught on the outside of the coach. It was for this reason that he was advised to seek rest and strength at the house of his brother, living, with some members of his family, at Richmond. Retired to this new home, it seemed for a while as if he was getting better; but the old spirit for journalistic controversy stirring within him, he took pen in hand as soon as he felt sufficient strength, which brought on a fresh attack of the disease. Hasty and impatient in all his movements, he now refused to submit any longer to the treatment prescribed by his medical advisers. He fancied that absolute quiet did him more harm than good, by weakening his energy of mind, and, expressing this to his friends, he, notwithstanding their earnest opposition, left Richmond at the beginning of 1823. It was a severe winter; all the streams and rivers being thickly frozen, and the roads covered many feet deep with snow. Under these circumstances, a journey from Surrey into Lincolnshire was no easy undertaking, particularly to an invalid; and when Mr. Gilchrist arrived at his own home, he found that his illness was so much aggravated that he was scarcely able to move. John Clare, on the first news of his friend's arrival, hurried up to Stamford. He had long wished to see him and to speak to him, under the impression that if he could have had his advice, his own circumstances would have taken a very different turn. At present, it was his intention to lay before Mr. Gilchrist a clear statement of his affairs, entreating him to act as a guide in his difficulties, and, as a beginning, to assist him with a small loan, so as to enable him to pay off the most pressing of his debts, and purchase a few necessaries for his family. Clare had been ill for some weeks when, setting out for Stafford; however, he forced himself from his bed of sickness, and slowly crept along the frozen snow-covered road. He reached at length the well-known shop in the High Street; but was surprised, on coming face to face with Mr. Gilchrist to see that he was far worse than himself. Mr. Gilchrist received Clare with a smile, yet was scarcely able to speak, lying on his couch in utter prostration, physical and mental. Clare felt moved by infinite compassion, and, forgetting all his own sufferings, asked what he could do for his friend. The patient again smiled; he would soon be better, he said; there was nothing the matter with him, except a slight rheumatic fever and a little overwork. Mr. Gilchrist then inquired after his friend's circumstances, and got replies similar to his own. Clare, too, would have it that he was quite well, and, on being questioned, accounted for his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes as due to previous attacks of his old enemy, the ague. Of his embarrassed circumstances he said nothing; no more than of all the other matters he had come to discuss, nobly thinking that such a discussion might do harm to his friend in his feeble state. He even refused some slight refreshment, in order not to give trouble; but, seeing the waning day, took his farewell, dragging himself with great difficulty back to his cottage, along the dark road covered with snow and ice. It was late when he arrived, his weakness partly owing to want of nourishment, having compelled him to sit down, every few minutes, on the lonely high road. Entering his hut, his mind seemed wandering; he muttered incoherent words, and crept to his bed, from which he did not arise for months to come.

There was little intercommunication at this time between Stamford, Helpston, and London. Mr. Gilchrist's literary friends scarcely knew of the serious turn his illness had taken, and as for Clare, his name was scarcely ever mentioned. Entirely ignorant of the great art of 'keeping before the public,' he had no sooner become known than he fell again into oblivion, from which even his warmest admirers did little to rescue him. Clare's correspondence with his publishers, too, had lapsed after his unsuccessful attempt to get the small sum of money for the purchase of a freehold; and they were entirely ignorant that he was lying ill in his little hut, and almost dying. For a while, Clare's indisposition seemed quite as serious, if not more so, than that of Mr. Gilchrist. However, under the tender care of his wife and his aged mother, the poet rallied gradually, and in the month of April he was able once more to walk to Stamford, and inquire after the health of his friend. He was not admitted, this time; but the servant, in reply to his inquiries, told him that Mr. Gilchrist was getting better. Clare was still extremely weak, and could not come back till at the end of a month, when he had the satisfaction of seeing his friend, and hearing from his own lips that he was gradually advancing to recovery. Thus reassured, and not willing to intrude himself more than necessary, he remained quietly for another month, and, feeling now almost restored to health, walked with brisk step to Stamford. It was a glorious summer morning—date, the last day of June, 1823. The green fields glistened in the sunshine, and the nightingale sang in Burghley Park; more beautiful, the poet fancied, than he had ever known her sing before. He felt full of joy, in the glow of newly-recovered health, and, while walking along the sunny path, kept revelling in golden day-dreams, in none of which the image of his dear friend Gilchrist was wanting. Thus he got into the old town of Stamford, and before the familiar shop, which, to his surprise, was closed. He knocked, and a female servant opened the door. The girl stared Clare full in the face, and slowly said: 'Mr. Gilchrist died an hour ago.'

PHYSIC AND PHYSICIANS.

The parish doctor of Helpston was called in to see John Clare on the first day of July. Mrs. Clare gave it as her opinion that her husband had worked too hard, by writing verses day and night, and thus had brought on the mysterious illness which confined him to bed. Clare himself could not explain his exact condition; he only intimated that it was a sort of stupor, which came over him at intervals, like an apoplectic fit. The doctor shook his head, looked very learned, and promised to send something to cure the disease. He was as good as his word; for a messenger brought the same evening two large bottles, containing a greyish fluid, with directions to take portions of it at stated times. Clare obeyed the order, but did not get better; on the contrary, his fits of stupor became more frequent and his lassitude more overwhelming. He was lying on his bed, almost unconscious, on the fifth day of July, when a visitor entered the cottage. It was Mr. Taylor, of Fleet Street, who had been to the funeral of his friend Gilchrist, and, returning, passed through Helpston. He was surprised and alarmed at the sight which met his eyes, and set to work immediately to render all the assistance in his power. Messengers were despatched in various directions for medical aid, and Mr. Taylor himself watched at the bedside till they returned. The doctors came, but only repeated what the parish surgeon had said already; they proposed to send some medicine at once, and afterwards to 'observe the symptoms.' It required no great penetration to see that these medicine-men knew less of Clare's disease than the patient himself; and Mr. Taylor, having come to this conclusion, looked forth in other directions. He told Mrs. Clare that he was unable to stay longer, having to return to London the same day; but that he would take the road by Peterborough, and send the best medical aid from that place. The Peterborough physician arrived late at night, when Clare felt a little better—having left off taking the greyish concoction—and was able to explain the particulars of his illness. The new doctor ordered absolute rest, plenty of fresh air, and some nourishing food; all which being provided, a visible improvement began to manifest itself. There was some difficulty in getting the second part of the prescription, the fresh air, Clare's narrow bedroom having no ventilation whatever. The energetic doctor, however, got over the obstacle by the simple expedient of knocking a brick out of the top of the wall, which furnished a channel sufficiently large to let in the warm summer air. Perhaps this thrown out brick, as much as anything else, saved the life of the poet.

Under the treatment of the Peterborough physician, Clare's health improved greatly, though it was a long time before he was able to leave the room. His brain was haunted by fantastic visions, reflecting all the scenes of his past life, and mingling together his doings in the lime-kiln of Casterton, the fields of Helpston, and the gilded saloons of London. In the midst of this phantom existence there came the report that Robert Bloomfield had breathed his last, in utter poverty and misery, broken down alike by physical want and mental suffering. The news made a deep impression upon Clare. He had never personally met the author of the 'Farmer's Boy,' yet looked upon him almost as a brother, feeling that his career was not unlike his own in its chief incidents. A shudder came over him now in reflecting that his end might be as terribly sad as that of the brother poet. Full of this thought, he composed, on his bed of sickness, a sonnet, dedicated 'to the memory of Bloomfield,' expressing his conviction that "the tide of fashion is a stream too strong for pastoral brooks that gently flow and sing." After this sudden effort, there came a relapse, not without danger for some time. The medical gentleman, while carefully watching all the symptoms of the disease, now began to fear that he would be unable to master it, and wrote to this effect to Mr. Taylor, entreating him to use his influence to get Clare removed to some hospital, or other house where he might have the necessary attention. In the letter it was stated without disguise that the illness of the poet was mainly the effect of poverty. His dwelling, the Peterborough physician argued, was altogether unfit for a human habitation, being dark, damp, and ill ventilated, with, a space so circumscribed as to be worse than a prison for the two families. He insisted, therefore, that to make recovery possible a better home should be found for Clare himself, and, if possible, for his wife and child, pending the removal of his aged and suffering parents. A copy of this note the writer sent to Lord Radstock, knowing that his lordship had taken, from the beginning, a deep interest in Clare's welfare.

The appeal, energetic and well-meant as it was, had no result whatever. Mr. Taylor even thought it presumptuous on the part of the provincial doctor to give his counsel as well as his medicine, and wrote to Clare an order to dispense with his attendance, and come up to London to be cured. This was impossible, under the circumstances, Clare being so weak as to be unable to leave the room. Fortunately, the good Samaritan of Peterborough did not leave him at this critical position, but seeing that neither Mr. Taylor nor Lord Radstock felt inclined to do anything for his charge, determined to undertake the task himself. Soliciting help from some wealthy persons in the neighbourhood, he set to to collect a small sum of money, by means of which he procured a regular supply of strengthening food for his patient. The winter having set in now, Clare's cottage also was put under repair, with such improvements as had become necessary. The help was timely, for Mrs. Clare, too, was now an invalid, having given birth to a son, baptized Frederick, on the 11th January, 1824. There was a real affection for the poor poet in the heart of the Peterborough doctor, which moved him to incessant labour for his client, and had the effect of instilling somewhat of the same feeling into others with whom he came into contact. Lady Milton visited the poet, and sent welcome presents of game and fowl; and after her came the wife of the Bishop of Peterborough, her hands full of warm clothing and victuals. The latter lady, previously acquainted with Clare's writings, was so eager in her desire to afford assistance as to induce her husband to drive over into the obscure village, and give Clare his episcopal blessing, together with half a dozen bottles of good port wine. The right reverend Dr. Marsh, obedient to the commands of his active wife, delivered the wine, but reported that he did not like Helpston, nor the poet of Helpston—the village not being sufficiently clean, nor the poet sufficiently humble. His lordship's opinion, however, nowise influenced Mrs. Marsh into discontinuing her visits.