The short summer was followed by a long winter. Again Clare fell ill; and
with suffering and disease there came a train of misfortune completely
overwhelming the frail life of the poet. The year 1831 proved very
unfavourable to his farming operations, and, having no capital whatever
to fall back upon, he at once relapsed into his former state of
indigence. It was in vain that he attempted to make up for his losses by
increased exertions as a labourer. Working fifteen and sixteen hours a
day during harvest time, and not unfrequently standing up to his knees in
mud in the undrained fields, his health gave way before long, and then
there was an end of all work. He was confined to his bed for longer than
a month, and gaunt poverty now again made its appearance at the little
hut. There were ten persons to be clothed and fed, and no money incoming
save the small quarterly stipend settled upon the poet, which was scarce
sufficient to pay off the debts incurred by the unsuccessful farming of
the year. When Clare saw that his children were wanting bread, his heart
trembled in agony of despair. He rushed forth once more to labour in the
fields, but had to be carried home by his fellow workmen; a mere look at
his feverish ague-stricken frame being sufficient to show them that he
was utterly unfit to be out of doors. So he had to lay his head again on
his couch, happily unconscious for a time of what was passing around him.
There was deep sorrow and lamentation in the little hut of the poet.
When everything was at the worst, kind friends came to the rescue. The
Rev. Mr. Mossop, vicar of Helpston, and his kind-hearted sister, who had
often before assisted Clare and his family, gave once more active aid and
succour; and from Milton Park, too, there came valuable presents of food
and medicine. Thus when the poet was able again to leave his bed, he
found a much brighter outlook around him. Nevertheless, though there was
no more absolute want of the necessaries of life, grim poverty was still
standing at the threshold. The baker threatened to stop the supply of
bread if his debt should long remain unpaid, and even the owner of the
little ruinous dwelling, fourth part of a hut, in which Clare lived,
hinted that the inmates would be driven out, unless the arrears of rent
were discharged. This last menace almost drove the poet wild with
excitement. Narrow and dark as it was, he dearly loved the little hut in
which he was born, and the thought of leaving it, with, perhaps, the
ultimate prospect of going to the workhouse for shelter, was to him blank
despair. Agitated beyond measure, he ran to his friends at Milton Park,
imploring aid and advice. Mr. Edward Artis was, as usual, away on his
antiquarian rambles, intending to leave the service of Earl Fitzwilliam
altogether, and devote himself to authorship on Durobrivae and Roman
pottery. But Henderson was at home, and to him Clare poured out his tale
of woe. While talking in the garden, the earl happened to come near, and
kindly addressed Clare. The latter, in his excitement, found courage to
speak of all his troubles, and his fear of having to quit his little
home, with no place in the world where to lay his head. His lordship was
struck with the intensity of feeling exhibited by the poet. He told him
that he would attend to his wants, and provide a little cottage for him
somewhere in the neighbourhood. Clare was astonished; the offer seemed to
him so excessively generous that he scarce knew how to express his
thanks. Seeing his confusion, the earl turned to other subjects, asking
Clare whether he intended to bring out a new volume of poems, and being
answered in the negative, earnestly advised him to do so. The counsel of
the noble lord, no doubt, was well meant, but nevertheless very
injudicious. The grant of a few acres of land, in a healthy district and
at a moderate rent, would have been more beneficial to him than all the
fame he could ever hope to gain from book-making.
Clare returned to his cottage with a joyful heart, brimful of pleasant
visions of the future. The next day he was visited by Dr. Smith, a
physician of Peterborough, who came in consequence of orders received
from the noble owner of Milton Park. Earl Fitzwilliam, in his interview
with Clare, perceived, or fancied he perceived, a certain wildness of
looks about him, and not knowing what to think of it, was anxious to get
the opinion of a medical man, well known for his successful treatment of
mental diseases. The poet was not at all pleased with the visit of Dr.
Smith; however, in gratitude to his benefactor, he willingly submitted to
a lengthened examination. It had for result a report by the Peterborough
physician to Earl Fitzwilliam, stating that there was no mental
derangement whatever visible in Clare; but that his brain, developed to
an unusual degree, was liable to great and sudden fits of excitement,
from which it ought to be guarded by constant employment and a fair share
of physical labour. Here was useful advice; but which, unfortunately, was
misunderstood by his lordship. The earl quite agreed with the counsel of
giving employment; but fancied the most natural work for a poet was that
of writing poetry, at almost any time, and to any extent. In consequence,
he sent for Clare, and, repeating his promise of giving him a neat little
cottage with garden for occupation, urged him strongly not to neglect
writing poetry, and to publish his new volume as soon as possible. Clare
was but too willing to follow the advice of the noble lord.
The visits of Dr. Smith to Helpston did not cease with the first. Having
been very favourably impressed with the character of the poet, the
Peterborough physician took a great liking to him, and lost no occasion
for friendly intercourse. Clare being devoted anew to writing poetry,
some of the verses fell under the notice of the doctor, who expressed his
approbation of them in rapturous terms. This naturally won the heart of
the author, and, being urgently pressed, he consented to pay a visit to
his medical friend at Peterborough, and stay a few days at his house. The
visit took place in the spring of 1832, and led to some not unimportant
results. Having communicated to his friend his former unfavourable
attempts of book-publishing, and how the four volumes which had been
issued had brought him nothing more substantial than fame, Dr. Smith felt
moved by compassion, and began earnestly to reflect upon the great
problem of converting poetry into cash. The result of these meditations
came out in the shape of strong advice to Clare to fall back upon the old
plan he had once entertained of publishing his verses by subscription.
This was coupled with the promise that he would do his best to procure
subscribers, and otherwise assist in the matter. Clare joyfully entered
into the scheme, and, before leaving Peterborough, made arrangements with
a Mr. Nell, a bookseller, to be his local agent for getting
subscriptions, as well as to make arrangements with a London publisher to
bring out the new volume of poems as soon as sufficient subscribers had
ensured the success of the work. Mr. Nell promised his most energetic
support, and being on the point of undertaking a visit to the metropolis,
Clare furnished him with the following note to his friend Allan
Cunningham:--
'_Angel Inn, Peterborough_.
My Dear Allan,
Here is a friend of mine, a Mr. Nell, a very hearty fellow, and one who
is very desirous of seeing you--a poet, and, as I have convinced him, as
hearty a fellow as himself. Therefore I have taken the liberty of
introducing a stranger without any apology, feeling that such an
introduction was not needed. He will be particularly gratified in seeing
what you can show him of the immortal specimens of Chantrey's genius, and
any other matters that can interest a literary man; for his profession,
that of a bookseller, is not his only recommendation, he being a man of
no common taste, and also a great admirer of painting and sculpture, and
a lover of the muses.
Here ends my introduction of my friend Mr. Nell. And now, my dear Allan,
how are you? How is Mrs. Cunningham and your family, and our old friend
George Darley? As for myself, I am as dull as a fog in November, and as
far removed from all news of literary matters as the man in the moon;
therefore I hope you will excuse this dull scrawl, and believe me, as I
really am,
Yours heartily and affectionately,
John Clare.
Has Hogg visited London yet? When he does tell me, and I'll see if I
don't muster up every atom of my strength to have a sight of him.
Having left your address at Helpston, I am obliged to trust this letter
and my friend to Providence to find you, which I trust he will readily.
Your J. C.
Allan Cuningham, Esq. London.