The reply to this note was an invitation to come to London at once, and
consult Dr. Darling, who would be glad to see his old friend and patient.
But the advice was easier than its execution. There was such dire poverty
within the pretty cottage at Northborough, that many a day its inmates
had to go without a dinner; and to raise the money for paying the journey
to London and back seemed sheer impossibility. Clare had made
arrangements, some time previous, for the printing of his new volume of
poems; but this, too, had not yet proved a remunerative affair. The
publishers who had undertaken the task, Messrs. Whittaker and Co. of Ave
Maria Lane, informed him that, before sending any remuneration for the
book, they must see how it would sell; clearly hinting that, if not
successful, there would be no payment. Thus the poor poet was again
baffled in his endeavours to extricate himself from his dire misery by
the want of a few pounds. Probably, could he but have raised at this
moment sufficient money to pay for his journey to London and consult Dr.
Darling, his life, and what was more than his life, might yet have been
saved. But, again and again, there was not a hand stretched forth from
among the host of high friends and patrons to save a glorious soul from
perdition.
A last appeal for help and assistance issued forth from the cottage at
Northborough at the beginning of August. Clare once more informed his
friend Taylor that he felt terribly anxious to consult Dr. Darling, but
could not undertake the journey for want of means. 'If I could but go to
London,' he wrote, 'I think I should get better. How would you advise me
to come? I dare not come up by myself. Do you think one of my children
might go with me? Write to me as soon as you can. God bless you! Excuse
the short letter, for I am not able to say more. Thank God, my wife and
children are all well.' There was no answer to this note, nor to a final
still more piercing cry for help. After that, all was quiet at the pretty
cottage at Northborough. The last struggle was over.
Months and months passed, and no change took place in the mental
condition of the poet. He kept reading and writing all day long; spoke
but little, and seemed averse to the society of even his wife and
children. At times, and for long consecutive periods, his remarks to his
family, and some few neighbours or visitors who were admitted to the
house, were quite rational; but again at other times his language
betrayed the sad aberration of a noble intellect. At such moments he
always spoke of himself as a stranger, in the third person, alternately
praising and condemning the sayings and doings of the man John Clare. He
was fond, too, of appealing to some invisible 'Mary,' as his wife, quite
ignoring the faithful spouse at his side, and treating her with utter
indifference. Throughout, however, he was calm and quiet; never
complaining of anything, nor possessing, to all appearance, any other
desire than that of being left alone in his little room, among his books
and papers. Thus the winter passed, and the spring made its
appearance--the spring of 1835. At the approach of it the dark clouds
seemed to vanish once more for a short time. Throughout March and April,
he did not show the least sign of mental derangement, and on there coming
a letter from his publishers, asking him to write a preface to his little
book of poems, just on the point of being issued, he did so without
hesitation. This preface, dated 'Northborough, May 9, 1835'--containing
nothing remarkable, except a melancholy allusion to 'old friends' long
vanished from the scene, and to 'ill health,' which had left the writer
'incapable of doing anything,'--was duly issued with the new book in the
month of June.
The book was entitled 'The Rural Muse,' and, by desire of the publishers,
was dedicated to Earl Fitzwilliam. It was but a small volume of 175
pages, comprising some forty-four ballads and songs, together with
eighty-six sonnets. Messrs. Whittaker and Co. fearful of risking money in
printing too large a quantity of rural verse, so much out of fashion for
the time, had picked these short pieces from about five times as many
poems, furnished to them by the author. The pieces, however, were well
chosen; and were likewise tastefully printed, besides being illustrated
with the inevitable steel engravings--pictures of Clare's cottage and of
the, church at Northborough. Short as most of the poems were, it was on
the whole a splendid collection of exquisite verse, such, as had not been
published for many a day. The 'Rural Muse,' compared to Clare's first
book, the 'Poems of Rural Life,' was as much higher in thought as the
works of the master are to those of the apprentice, and as much more
beautiful in outward form as the butterfly is to the chrysalis.
Nevertheless, the new volume, so far from passing, like the first,
through four editions, and being praised by 'Quarterly Reviews' and other
high organs of criticism, proved thoroughly unsuccessful. The reviewers
refused to notice, and the public to buy, the 'Rural Muse.' There was no
critic in all England to say one word in its recommendation; nor one of
all the old friends and patrons who sent a cheering note of praise to the
author. Of the ill success of his book Clare, however, heard soon enough.
The publishers let him know that he could expect no remuneration, the
entire receipts being insufficient to pay the expenses, including the
cost of the much-admired steel engravings. Clare received the information
very calmly. His soul, once more, was beyond the strife of hopes and
fears.
Though there was no literary review in England to say a word in favour of
the forgotten poet at Northborough, there was one in Scotland. Professor
Wilson, of Edinburgh, had no sooner seen the new book when he broke forth
in eloquent praise of it in 'Blackwood's Magazine.' In the number for
August, 1835, he gave an article of sixteen pages, headed 'Clare's Rural
Muse,' containing not a few strong honest words about the poet and the
unjust neglect under which he was suffering. After comparing Clare with
Burns, and setting him, at the same time, far above Bloomfield, Professor
Wilson broke forth in indignant strain:--
'Our well-beloved brethren, the English--who, genteel as they are, have a
vulgar habit of calling us the Scotch--never lose an opportunity of
declaiming on the national disgrace incurred by our treatment of Burns.
We confess that the people of that day were not blameless--nor was the
bard whom now all the nations honour. There was some reason for sorrow,
and perhaps for shame; and there was avowed repentance. Scotland stands
where it did in the world's esteem. The widow outlived her husband nearly
forty years; she wanted nothing, and was happy. The sons are prosperous,
or with a competence; all along with that family all has been right.
England never had a Burns. We cannot know how she would have treated him
had he "walked in glory and in joy" upon _her_ mountain-side. But we do
know how she treated her Bloomfield. She let him starve. Humanly
speaking, we may say that but for his imprisonment--his exclusion from
light and air--he would, now have been alive. As it was, the patronage he
received served but to prolong a feeble, a desponding, a melancholy
existence; cheered at times but by short visits from the Muse, who was
scared from that dim abode, and fain would have wafted him with her to
the fresh fields and the breezy downs. But his lot forbad--and generous
England. There was some talk of a subscription, and Southey, with hand
"open as day to melting charity," was foremost among the poets. But
somehow or, other it fell through, and was never more heard of--and
meanwhile Bloomfield died. Hush then about Burns.'
When brave Christopher North wrote these lines in 'Blackwood,' he
probably knew nothing about the actual position of Clare, except the
general rumour that he was not very well off, though not absolutely poor.
He therefore thought to do enough in inviting all the admirers of genuine
poetry to purchase the 'Rural Muse,' in order that 'the poet's family be
provided with additional comforts.' That some 'comforts' were theirs
already, Professor Wilson judged from the elaborate steel engraving of
Clare's dwelling, prefixed to the new volume. 'The creeping plants,' he
said, 'look pretty in front of the poet's cottage, but they bear no
fruit. There is, however, a little garden attached, and in it may he dig
without anxiety, nor need to grudge among the esculents the gadding
flowers.... Clare is contented, and his Patty has her handful for the
beggar at the door, her heartful for a sick neighbour.'
Alas! had but Professor Wilson known the bitter actual truth, the
frightful condition of another Burns, it might have been time yet to
rouse with thunder voice the heart of England--of England and of
Scotland--to prevent another 'national disgrace.'