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.
I have talked enough on this string, so I will trouble you a little with
something else. I can scarcely tell you how I am, for I keep getting a
little better and a little worse, and remaining at last just as I were. I
was very bad this morning, but have recovered this evening as I generally
do, and I really fear that I shall never entirely overset it. I have
written to Hessey for Dr. Darling's assistance again today, and I have
desired him to forward this letter to you. Drop a line to say that you
receive it, and give my kind remembrances to your better half, Mrs.
Cunningham. I will try your patience no longer with this gossip, so
believe me, friend Allan,
Your hearty friend and well-wisher,