The promise made to Dr. Darling was faithfully kept. For several years to come, Clare never visited the public-house, and even at home drank little else but water, subsisting chiefly upon bread and vegetables, and such decoctions of weak tea and coffee as his wife was in the habit of distilling. The diet, probably, was not quite what Dr. Darling expected; at least, it did not prove very beneficial to Clare's health. For a long time, he felt weak and debilitated, so as scarcely to be able to do the simplest out-door work. This was very unfortunate, as it prevented him from carrying out the other part of the engagement undertaken towards his medical friend, that of devoting himself again to field labour. He earnestly sought work immediately after his return from London, and though sneered at by one or two farmers, who told him that he was too famous a man again to soil his hands, he at last secured employment near Helpston Heath, part of which was being enclosed for the benefit of the great landowners of the neighbourhood. For a few days, he kept working here with all the strength he could muster, which was not sufficient, however, for the demands of the overseer. There were drains and ditches to be made, which required the use of brawny arms and a body untouched by ague, and the work being done by contract, the foreman was exacting, and saw at once that he was not up to the mark. He, consequently, got his discharge, and went home in a very sad mood. Ever since his marriage, his debts had been accumulating, and though altogether small in amount, they now began to press heavily upon him, the more so as his expenditure kept gradually increasing, which was by no means the case with his income. He found that to maintain his aged parents, his wife, two children, and himself, he could not do with less than sixty-five or seventy pounds a year, and his annuity amounting to rather less than forty-five pounds, there was the absolute necessity of gaining the rest, either by his writings, or as a farm-labourer. It was the fear that both sources might fail, which threw him into a deep melancholy.
After a while, he roused himself to another effort in finding work, and this time submitted to what he fancied to be a deep humiliation. When applying for his quarterly pension to the steward of the Marquis of Exeter, he begged for some employment in the gardens, or, if no place should be vacant, as a labourer on any of the estates of his lordship. The steward promised to mention the subject to the marquis, but did not keep his word. Being overwhelmed with business, he probably forgot the matter entirely; otherwise the noble lord, who seemed to take a real interest in Clare, could not have failed to listen to a request the fulfilment of which would have cost him little or nothing, and been the means of securing the welfare of the poet for life. Indeed, a place as gardener at Burghley Hall, or some other similar employment, into which a mere whisper of the noble owner might have installed Clare, would have been greatly preferable to the pension of fifteen guineas granted to the poet, and the quarterly payments of which he never received but with inward humiliation. A place such as this would have removed at once the whole burthen of cares which weighed him to the ground, and, while giving him a maintenance for his family, with a comfortable home, would yet have left him abundant time to attend to the inspirations of the muse. Clare himself perceived this very clearly, and once or twice started with the intention of laying his case before the marquis in person, explaining his whole situation, his hopes, troubles, and fears. But each time he approached the stately gates of Burghley Hall, his courage failed him. He trembled to be looked upon as a beggar, and the apprehension of being refused was constantly before his eyes. There were faint hopes, moreover, that the steward, who seemed a friendly man, would succeed in getting him some employment, without personal application to his lordship. However, the promised message from Burghley Hall did not arrive, and Clare at last gave up all expectation of getting anything else but alms from his greatest patron, the Marquis of Exeter.
Having not much else to do, Clare kept up an active correspondence with his friends in London, during the latter part of the summer and the whole of the autumn of 1824. To Allan Cunningham in particular, with whom he had contracted a close friendship during his last visit to the metropolis, he sent long letters, discussing poetical and other topics. One of these letters, rather characteristic in its way, as showing Clare's opinion of Bloomfield, as well as of his own position in 'the fields of the Muses,' deserves to be given. It was sent to Allan Cunningham, together with an enclosure containing Bloomfield's short note to 'Neighbour John,' already given.
'To Allan Cunningham,
(Left at Messrs. Taylor and Hessey's)
93, Fleet Street,
London.
Helpston, September 9th, 1824.
Brother Bard And Fellow Labourer,
I beg your acceptance according to promise of this autograph of our English Theocritus, Bloomfield. He is in my opinion our best Pastoral Poet. His "Broken Crutch," "Richard and Kate," &c. are inimitable and above praise. Crabbe writes about the peasantry as much like the Magistrate as the Poet. He is determined to show you their worst side; and, as to their simple pleasures and pastoral feelings, he knows little or nothing about them compared to the other, who not only lived amongst them, but felt and shared the pastoral pleasures with the peasantry of whom he sung. I had promised that I would visit him this summer at Shefford, but death went before me. He was a warm-hearted friend and an amiable man. His latter poems show that his best days were by. His "Remains" are very trifling, but these have nothing to do with his former fame. I never forgave Lord Byron's sneering mention of him in the "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers;" but, never mind, he has left a genius behind him that will live as late as his lordship's; and, though he was but a "Cobler," his poems will meet posterity as green and growing on the bosom of English nature and the muses as those of the Peer. I could hazard a higher opinion for truth, but this is enough. Titles and distinctions of pride have long ago been stript of their dignity by the levellers in genius; at least they have been convinced that the one is not a certain copyright or inheritance of the other. I should suppose, friend Allan, that "The Ettrick Shepherd," "The Nithsdale Mason," and "The Northamptonshire Peasant," are looked upon as intruders and stray cattle in the fields of the Muses (forgive the classification), and I have no doubt but our reception in that Pinfold of his lordship's "English Bards" would have been as far short of a compliment as Bloomfield's. Well, never mind, we will do our best, and as we never went to Oxford or Cambridge, we have no Latin and Greek to boast of, and no bad translations to hazard (whatever our poems may be), and that's one comfort on our side.