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:'--
'O the voice of woman's love!
What a bosom stirring word!
Was a sweeter ever uttered,
Was a dearer ever heard,
Than woman's love?
How it melts upon the ear!
How it nourishes the heart!
Cold, cold must his appear
Who has never shared a part
Of woman's love.
'Tis pleasure to the mourner,
'Tis freedom to the thrall;
The pilgrimage of many,
And the resting place of all,
Is woman's love.
'Tis the gem of beauty's birth,
It competes with joys above;
What were angels upon earth
If without woman's love?
A woman's love.'
It did not seem to strike the publishers, to whom this poem, with many
similar ones, was submitted, that there was anything beautiful in it; and
after having travelled up and down Paternoster Row, the verses were
returned to the author, 'with thanks.' One bookseller, indeed, offered to
bring out the volume, but on condition that Clare was to advance one
hundred pounds, to be spent in steel engravings and other
'embellishments.' Without embellishments, he told his correspondent, the
verses would never attract public attention, the taste of the day being
all for high art, as exhibited in the annuals. Clare wrote an angry note
in return, deeming it an insult that a man should ask him to spend a
hundred pounds upon steel engravings, when he was in want of bread.
The winter of 1832-3 proved the greatest trial the unhappy poet had yet
undergone. With scarcely food for his children; with not money enough to
satisfy even a fraction of the claims of his most importunate creditors;
and with no expectations of earning anything, either by work in the
fields or by the publication of his new volume of verses, he saw nothing
but the dreariest prospect of misery staring him in the face. He wept
bitterly when, on the 4th of January, 1833, his wife brought him another
boy, his seventh child. Passionately fond of his little ones, and devoted
to them heart and soul, he could not bear the thought of the coming day
when he might have no bread to give them. The mere idea made him feel
faint and giddy, and he rushed forth into the fields to cool his
throbbing head. Not returning in time for the evening meal, his eldest
daughter went in search through all the neighbourhood. After long
inquiries and searching, she found her father lying on an embankment,
close to a footpath leading from Northborough to the village of Etton. He
looked deadly pale, and being quite insensible, had to be carried home on
the shoulders of some labourers, who were called for assistance.
Consciousness did not return till some hours after, and for nearly a
month he was unable to leave his bed. The parish doctor, when called in,
shook his head, talked something of ague and fever, and ended by sending
some bottles full of yellowish stuff, which Clare refused to take. He
knew, better than the doctor, that something else than medicine was
required to restore his health--health of the mind, as well as of the
body.
When the spring came, Clare had gathered sufficient strength to be able
to leave the house. But he now, to the infinite surprise of his family,
refused to leave it. He seemed to have lost, all at once, his old love
for flowers, sunshine, and green trees, and kept sitting in his little
study, silently writing verses, or poring over his books. In vain his
children begged him to go with them into the smiling fields, spread out
temptingly on all sides around their pretty cottage. He went, now and
then, as far as the garden; but quickly returned, sitting down again to
his books and papers. Some theological works in his collection, which had
been presented to him years ago, but at which he had scarcely ever looked
before, now chiefly engrossed his attention. He sat reading them all day
long, and often till late at night, neglecting food and rest over the
perusal of these works. Sometimes he ceased reading for a few hours, and
took to writing religious verses, attempting paraphrases of the Psalms,
the Proverbs, and the Book of Job. Visitors he now altogether refused to
see, and even to his wife and children he spoke but little. Thus the news
of his illness did not spread beyond the village, and remained unknown
even to his friends at Milton Park. It was quite accidentally that Dr.
Smith looked in upon his friend one day, and was admitted after some
difficulty. The doctor was startled on seeing the pale and haggard face
of Clare, and the fixed stare of his eyes. But a short examination of his
friend went far to reassure the physician, for he found that Clare talked
not only quite rationally, but with more than usual good sense and
apparent firmness of purpose. He informed his visitor that, as his former
productions had not been as favourably received as he hoped they would
be, he had bethought himself of writing a volume of religious poetry; not
controversial, but simple expositions of the truth proclaimed in the
Bible. To show the work he was doing, Clare read two of his renderings of
the Psalms, which pleased the doctor so much that he broke out into
rapturous applause. He promised at the same time that he would leave no
stone unturned to get subscribers both for the book of ballads and
sonnets previously planned, and for the new volume of religious verse.
The poet, usually so sensitive to words of kindness, received both the
praise and the promise with great coldness. This again surprised the
Peterborough physician.
Dr. Smith kept word in regard to the beating-up of subscribers. After
indefatigable exertions, and by almost forcing his poor patients, lay and
clerical, to take a poetical prospectus together with their pills, he
succeeded in getting a couple of hundred names to the subscription list.
He carried the paper in triumph to Northborough; but was again received
in a cold and apathetic manner. Clare expressed no pleasure whatever on
hearing that there was now a good prospect of bringing out his new
volume. He scarcely listened to what the doctor said, and kept on
interrupting him every minute with remarks of his own on biblical
subjects. 'Is not this Book of Job a wonderful poem--one of the most
wonderful elegies ever written?' he asked again and again. Dr. Smith was
somewhat surprised; the man of science had never been thinking much about
the Book of Job, and, perhaps, knew it only by repute. He looked Clare
steadfastly in the face; but the latter averted the glance, bonding over
the papers before him. 'Shall I read to you some of my verses?' he
inquired, after a pause. The doctor willingly consented, and Clare began
declaiming his paraphrase of the 38th chapter of Job:--
'Then God, half angered, answered Job aright,
Out of the whirlwind and the darkening storm--'
When he had finished reading, with tremulous voice, the last lines,
scarcely altered from the text:--
'And who provides
The raven with his food--His young ones cry
To God, and wander forth for lack of meat'--
Clare burst out crying, hiding his face in his hands. The medical man got
alarmed, and went out to see Mrs. Clare. He asked her whether she had
observed anything unusual about her husband of late; in fact, words or
doings betoking mental disorder. She replied that she had not noticed
anything, except his being unusually silent and reserved, and utterly
disinclined to leave the house. Thereupon both went into Clare's room,
and found that he had overcome his sudden burst of grief, and was looking
out of the window. He now entered freely into conversation with the
doctor, betraying not the slightest sign of incoherent thought or
reflection. Thanking his friend for all his kindness in getting
subscribers for the intended volume of poems, he told him that he was
going to write immediately to London, and make arrangements for the
publication of the book. The doctor then left, promising to call again.
He often called, and invariably met Clare in the same mood. Though
somewhat reserved in manner, he was cheerful, and his talk completely
rational; so that Dr. Smith almost reproached himself for having
harboured suspicions about the mental condition of his friend. What
dispelled the last remnant of these suspicions, was the character of some
of the poems which Clare was writing in his presence, and afterwards
reading aloud. The doctor was a fair judge of verses, and he confessed to
himself that those which his friend was now composing were more exquisite
in form than any which had ever before come from his pen. When visiting
Clare early one morning, he found him in a happier mood than usual, and
learned that he had just written some lines in praise of an old
sweetheart, whom he had seen the day before from his window, when she was
walking along the road. The poet, being asked to do so, willingly read
the verses to his friend. But his voice quivered with emotion, when
commencing:--
'First love will with the heart remain
When all its hopes are bye,
As frail rose-blossoms still retain
Their fragrance when they die;
And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind
With shades from whence they sprung,
As summer leaves the stems behind
On which spring's blossoms hung.
Mary! I dare not call thee dear,
I've lost that right so long;
Yet once again I vex thine ear
With memory's idle song.
Had time and change not blotted out
The love of former days,
Thou wert the last that I should doubt
Of pleasing with my praise.'
The doctor highly praised these and the following verses addressed to
'Mary;' and, on proffering the wish, was promised a copy of them. The
poem seemed to him a convincing proof that, whatever Clare's sufferings
had been, they had left no effect upon his mind. Had the man of science
been aware of all the facts, he would have known that these very verses
were indications of a partial disturbance of reason. Sweet 'Mary,' to
whom Clare's verses were addressed, and whom he fancied to have seen in
the road the day before, had long been lying in her grave.