Earl Fitzwilliam punctually kept his promise to assign a new dwelling to
Clare. The latter received notice at the beginning of May that he might
remove in the course of the month to a pretty and substantial cottage
which his lordship had erected for him at the hamlet of Northborough,
three miles from Helpston, nearer to the Peterborough Great Fen. The news
did not bring joy to the poet, but bitter sorrow. His heart was full of
anguish at the thought of quitting the little hut where he was born, the
village which he so dearly loved, and all the familiar scenes and objects
amidst which the quiet course of his existence had rolled on for nearly
forty years. He went over to Northborough, and saw the neat dwelling
which the kindness of Earl Fitzwilliam had prepared for him; and though
he liked the place, he could no more than before reconcile his mind to
the thought of leaving his dear old home and all its cherished
associations. The noble earl had fixed upon Northborough as the residence
of the poet on account of the thoroughly sylvan scenery all around, the
little hamlet lying hidden in a very sea of flowers, trees, and
evergreens. The spot indeed was beautiful enough; yet to Clare it did not
appear half so beautiful as the bare and bleak environs of his native
village. Here he knew every shrub and every inch, of ground, and, through
many years' converse with nature, had come to look upon the most minute
objects with intense feelings of love. Though strangers might see nothing
but a barren landscape all around, to him it was a Garden of Eden,
animated with living thought, and full of soul-inspiring beauty. The mere
thought of quitting this Eden filled his mind with terror.
The terror increased when the time came near that he was actually to
leave. More than once he was on the point of requesting an audience at
Milton Park, for the purpose of imploring the noble earl to take back his
kind gift and leave him in his little hut. But his friends at Milton
Park, Artis and Henderson, would not hear of this resolution, and got
quite angry at the mere mentioning of the subject. They represented to
Clare that it would be black ingratitude on his part not to accept the
generous benefaction of his lordship, who had taken all along the
greatest interest in his welfare, and in this very choice of a residence
in the evergreen vale of Northborough had shown the most delicate taste
and appreciation of his poetical genius. Clare could not deny the force
of these arguments, and, after another inward struggle, decided to go to
Northborough, at any sacrifice to his feelings. Yet even after this firm
determination of his mind, he could scarcely bring himself to the
execution of the task. Patty, radiant with joy to get away from the
miserable little hut into a beautiful roomy cottage, a palace in
comparison with the old dwelling, had all things ready for moving at the
beginning of June, yet could not persuade her husband to give his consent
to the final start. Day after day he postponed it, offering no excuse
save that he could not bear to part from his old home. Day after day he
kept walking through fields and woods among his old haunts, with wild
haggard look, muttering incoherent language. The people of the village
began to whisper that he was going mad. At Milton Park they heard of it,
and Artis and Henderson hurried to Helpston to look after their friend.
They found him sitting on a moss-grown stone, at the end of the village
nearest the heath. Gently they took him by the arm, and, leading him back
to the hut, told Mrs. Clare that it would be best to start at once to
Northborough, the earl being dissatisfied that the removal had not taken
place. Patty's little caravan was soon ready, and the poet, guided by his
friends, followed in the rear, walking mechanically, with eyes half shut,
as if in a dream.
His look brightened for a moment when entering his new dwelling place, a
truly beautiful cottage, with thatched roof, casemented windows, wild
roses over the porch, and flowery hedges all around. Yet, before many
hours were over, he fell back into deep melancholy, from which he was
relieved only by a new burst of song. His feelings found vent in the
verses:--
'I've left my own old Home of Homes,
Green fields, and every pleasant place;
The summer like a stranger comes,
I pause--and hardly know her face.
* * * * *
I miss the heath, its yellow furze,
Mole-hills and rabbit-tracks, that lead
Through besom-ling and teasel burrs
That spread a wilderness indeed:
The Woodland oaks, and all below
That their white powder'd branches shield,
The mossy paths--the very crow
Croaks music in my native field.
I sit me in my corner chair,
That seems to feel itself alone;
I hear fond music--here and there
From hawthorn-hedge and orchard come.
I hear--but all is strange and new:
I sat on my old bench last June,
The sailing puddock's shrill "pee-lew,"
O'er Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune.
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.