Although 'as dull as a fog in November,' Clare was in a hopeful mood at
this time. Sanguine as ever, and more than ever imbued with the
consciousness of his poetical power, he dreamt that his new publication
would be a success, and that his verses at last would gain a sufficient
circle of admirers to encourage him in writing more, and thus securing
independence for the rest of his days. This hopefulness was somewhat
disturbed after a while by news from his friends at Peterborough, who
told him that subscribers were coming in but very slowly. These
unfavourable tidings he communicated to Mr. Artis, in a note dated May,
1832, in which he said: 'I want to get out a new volume; but the way in
which I have started is not very practicable, for I Want to make it a
source of benefit.' The words bear a striking melancholy sound. Evidently
the poor poet, deeply impressed with his sad experience of the past,
scarcely dared to expect the golden millennium when his verses should
actually prove 'a source of profit' to him as well as to the booksellers.
There probably never lived, a poet--a printing and publishing poet--full
of more sublime meekness and resignation.