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:'—