The article in 'Blackwood's Magazine' occasioned some talk in the
literary world of London; but on the whole made little impression, and
probably did not contribute much to the sale of the 'Rural Muse.' The old
patrons of Clare were glad to learn, on the authority of a great writer,
that he was tolerably comfortable and,'contented,' with something to
spare for 'the beggar at the door,' and for the rest people did not
trouble themselves much about 'national disgrace,' engendered by the
treatment of rural poets. Three months after the publication of his
'Rural Muse,' Clare was as much forgotten as ever; his name never
mentioned in polite society; and the copies of his book lying unsold on
the shelves of Messrs. Whittaker and Co. in Ave Maria Lane. The poet
himself was not affected by it, for he had ceased to suffer from the
neglect of the world and the rude buffetings of poverty and misery. Like
Hamlet--
'He, repulsed,
Fell into sadness, then into a fast,
Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness,
Thence to a lightness; and, by this declension,
Into the madness wherein now he raves.'
In the winter of 1835-6 the poet's mental state became alarming. His
ordinarily quiet behaviour gave way at times to fits of excitement,
during which he would talk in a violent manner to those around him.
However, his wife and children were as yet almost the only people who
knew of his mental derangement, the world being still entirely ignorant
that the 'Northamptonshire Peasant,' who had just issued a new book of
poetry, was a madman. Even Clare's own neighbours knew little of his
state; to them he always was an inexplicable, erratic being, with words
and actions not to be measured by the ordinary standard, and they,
therefore, took little notice of occasional strange scenes which they
witnessed. This was fortunate, in so far as it contributed to put poor
Mrs. Clare more at her ease. She rightly judged that if she could but
induce her husband to leave his narrow room and his books, and enjoy
again as of old the sight of flowers, trees, and green fields, his health
would be greatly improved. With this constant aim in view, she succeeded
at last in drawing her unhappy partner from his gloomy retirement. The
spring of 1836 was unusually fine, and when nature had put on her first
smiling green, and the whole little village was wrapped in a belt of
fragrant blossoms and flowers, Patty instructed her two eldest daughters
to lead their father for a short walk through the neighbourhood. The
poet, this time, made no resistance whatever, but allowed himself to be
guided by his children. He returned much pleased with his excursion,
expressing a wish to go again the next day. From the second walk he came
back still more delighted, and the daily rambles continuing for more than
a month, Clare at last seemed almost recovered from his malady. Except at
rare intervals, when his speech would become somewhat wild and
incoherent, his behaviour showed not the least signs of eccentricity, and
though more quiet and subdued than formerly, the conversation he carried
on seemed perfectly judicious and rational. Once more, Patty fervently
hoped Heaven would restore her husband.
It was not long before Clare's old love of nature came back with such
renewed ardour that he could not be made to stop a single day at home.
Whenever the weather was moderately fine, he sallied forth, mostly
unaccompanied by any one, and seldom returned before the sun had set. He
extended his excursions as far as Helpston Heath on the one side, and
Peterborough on the other, seemingly as much as ever acquainted with
every nook and piece of ground for miles around the neighbourhood of his
ancient haunts. One day, when rambling about on the confines of the
cathedral city, he met and was recognised by Mrs. Marsh. The good old
lady was delighted to see her poet again, and insisted that he should
make up for his former neglect by accompanying her at once, and staying a
few days at the episcopal mansion. Clare said he was expected home by his
wife, and could not go the same day; but promised to pay a visit to
Peterborough in the course of a week. He kept his word, and on the
appointed time presented himself before Mrs. Marsh. She was exceedingly
pleased, and to prevent her poet from running away again, kept him
constantly in her company. Conversing with him on all subjects, Mrs.
Marsh at times thought his remarks rather singular; while his sudden
swerving from one topic to another often astonished her not a little. But
all this the good lady held to be perfectly natural in a poet and a man
of genius. To her a poet was nothing if not eccentric.
Clare remained for several days a guest at the residence of the bishop,
and on the last evening of his visit was taken by Mrs. Marsh to the
theatre. A select band of roving tragedians had taken possession of the
Peterborough stage--converted, by a more prosaic living generation, into
a corn-exchange--and were delighting the inhabitants of the episcopal
city with Shakespeare, and the latest French melodramas. On the evening
when Clare went to the theatre in company with Mrs. Marsh, the 'Merchant
of Venice' was performed. Clare sat and listened quietly while the first
three acts were being played, not even replying to the questions as to
how he liked the piece, addressed to him by Mrs. Marsh. But at the
commencement of the fourth act, he got restless and evidently excited,
and in the scene where Portia delivered judgment, he suddenly sprang up
on his seat, and began addressing the actor who performed the part of
Shylock. Great was the astonishment of all the good citizens of
Peterborough, when a shrill voice, coming from the box reserved to the
wife of the Lord Bishop, exclaimed, 'You villain, you murderous villain!'
Such an utter breach of decorum was never heard of within the walls of
the episcopal city. It was in vain that those nearest to Clare tried to
keep him on his seat and induce him to be quiet; he kept shouting, louder
than ever, and ended by making attempts to get upon the stage. At last,
the performance had to be suspended, and Mrs. Marsh, after some
difficulty, got away with her guest. The old lady, in her innocence, even
now did not apprehend the real cause of the exciting scene which she had
witnessed, but, as before, attributed the behaviour of her unfortunate
visitor to poetic eccentricity. But she began thinking that he was almost
too eccentric.
The next morning, Clare went back to Northborough, having received an
intimation from Mrs. Marsh that it would be best he should go home at
once. He wandered forth from the city in a dreamy mood, and lost his way
before he had gone far. Some acquaintances found him sitting in a meadow,
near the hamlet of Gunthorpe, and seeing his wild haggard looks and
strange manners, they took him by the arm, and led him back to
Peterborough, delivering him over to the porter at the episcopal mansion.
Mrs. Marsh, on hearing that her poet had again made his appearance, was
somewhat alarmed; her guest had ceased to be ornamental to her
establishment, and her chief object now was to get rid of him as soon as
possible. She therefore ordered a servant to take charge of Clare and
deliver him up to his wife, with instructions not to let him go, under
any pretence, to Peterborough. The order was duly obeyed, and the poet
soon found himself in his little cottage. Patty was frightened to see
what a sad change the few days' absence had wrought in her husband. He no
longer talked sensibly as before, but addressed her and the children in
an abrupt manner, asking for his 'Mary,' and complaining that all his
friend's had left him. The poor wife soothed him as best she could, and
after some efforts succeeded in calming his mind. At the end of a few
days, Clare seemed again sufficiently well to leave the house, and
renewed his daily walks in company with one or the other of his children.
The inhabitants of the village, together with most of his acquaintances
in the neighbourhood, were still ignorant that the poet whom they saw
daily roving through the fields was at madman.
The ignorance was so general as to be shared by most, of Clare's friends
and patrons. One of the latter, the Rev. Mr. Mossop, Vicar of Helpston,
had frequent occasions of seeing him, but never detected the slightest
sign of mental derangement. Thus one morning, soon after the poet's
return from Peterborough, he invited him to his house, to meet a friend
who wished to make the acquaintance of the author of the 'Rural Muse.'
Mrs. Clare was rather unwilling to let her husband depart; but had not
the courage to detain him, remembering the exceeding kindness, always
shown to her family by the vicar and his sister. The poet accordingly
made his appearance at Mr. Mossop's house; but had not been long there
before he showed unmistakeable signs of a wandering intellect. In the
midst of an animated conversation, he suddenly broke off, and pointing to
the ceiling, cried that he saw figures moving up and down. Surprised as
the host and hostess were at this exclamation, they at once perceived the
real condition of their unhappy visitor. The reverend gentleman, without
loss of time, hurried off to get medical assistance, while his sister,
Miss Jane Mossop, did her best to quiet the poet by conversing with him
on his favourite topics, and drawing his attention to the plants and
flowers in the garden. It was not long before a surgeon arrived, in the
person of a Mr. Skrimshaw, resident at Market Deeping. He pronounced at
once--what, indeed, was obvious to all the persons in the house--that the
poor poet was a lunatic. The kind-hearted vicar thereupon had Clare
carefully conveyed back to his own home, making further arrangements for
his comfort and safety.
Through Mr. Mossop, the Earl Fitzwilliam and other patrons of Clare were
made acquainted with the mental state of the poet, of which they had been
so long ignorant. The earl at once proposed to send the poet to the
county lunatic asylum, at Northampton, where he would be kept under safe
restraint; but this scheme met with some opposition on the part of Mrs.
Clare, who thought that her husband might yet recover by being left
quietly at home. For a short time, indeed, it seemed as if this was the
case. During the next four or five months, and up to the spring of 1837,
the cottage at Northborough bore as quiet an aspect as if disease and
misery had never entered it. Clare kept working in his garden, and
reading in his little study, week after week, speaking to his family in
the most rational manner, and occasionally writing verses as sweet and
beautiful as any that had ever come from his pen. But with the warm days
of summer, his mind seemed again to get distracted, and the report
reaching Milton Park, imprisonment at the Northampton asylum was once
more advised, or ordered. By desire of the noble earl, negotiations were
entered into with the authorities at the county establishment to receive
Clare, against payment of a small weekly sum, at a somewhat better
footing than the ordinary paupers; but while these were pending, there
came letters from London offering to do a little more for the unhappy
poet. Mr. John Taylor and other old friends and patrons, having now
become fully acquainted with the condition of Clare, proposed to place
him in a private lunatic asylum, near the metropolis, discharging all the
expenses of his maintenance there. The earl, being a clear gainer by this
new arrangement, had no objection whatever to make against it, and
signified his desire of having his pensioner at Northborough at once
removed to the new place of safety. This was done without loss of time.
Early on the morning of the 16th of July, 1837, Clare was led away from
his wife and children, by two stern-looking men, who placed him in a
small carriage and drove rapidly away southward. Late the same day, the
poet found himself an inmate of Dr. Allen's private lunatic asylum, at
Fair Mead House, High Beech, in the centre of Epping Forest.