I would not that my memory all should die,
And pass away with every common lot:
I would not that my humble dust should lie
In quite a strange and unfrequented spot,
By all unheeded and by all forgot,
With nothing save the heedless winds to sigh,
And nothing but the dewy morn to weep
About my grave, far hid from the world's eye:
I fain would have some friend to wander nigh
And find a path to where my ashes sleep--
Not the cold heart that merely passes by,
To read who lies beneath, but such as keep
Past memories warm with deeds of other years,
And pay to friendship some few friendly tears.
"The Rural Muse" sold tolerably well for some months, and Mr.
Whittaker told Mr. Emmerson that "he thought they would get off" the
first edition. But the time was rapidly approaching when literary
fame or failure, the constancy or fickleness of friends, the pangs of
poverty or the joys of competence were to be alike matters of
indifference to John Clare. He began to write in a piteous strain to
Mrs. Emmerson, Mr. Taylor, and Dr. Darling, all of whom assured him
of their deep sympathy, and promised assistance. Mrs. Emmerson,
although completely prostrated by repeated and serious attacks of
illness, sent him cheering letters so long as she could hold her pen,
while Mr. Taylor wrote:--
"If you think that you can now come here for the advice of Dr.
Darling I shall be very happy to see you, and any one who may attend
you." The attacks of melancholy from which he had suffered
occasionally for many years became more frequent and more intense,
his language grew wild and incoherent, and at length he failed to
recognize his own wife and children and became the subject of all
kinds of hallucinations. There were times when he was perfectly
rational, and he returned to work in his garden or in his little
study with a zest which filled his family and neighbours with eager
anticipations of his recovery, but every succeeding attack of his
mental malady was more severe than that which preceded it. Of all
that followed little need be said, for it is too painful to be dwelt
upon, and the story of Clare's life hurries therefore to its close.
His lunacy having been duly certified, Mr. Taylor and other of
Clare's old friends in London charged themselves with the
responsibility of removing him to the private asylum of Dr. Allen at
High Beech, in Epping Forest. Mr. Taylor sending a trustworthy person
to Northborough to accompany him to London and take care of him on
the road. This was in June or July, 1837, and Clare remained under
Mr. Allen's care for four years. Allan Cunningham, Mr. S. C. Hall,
and others of Clare's literary friends energetically appealed to the
public on behalf of the unhappy bard. Mr. Hall in the "Book of Gems"
for 1838 wrote:--
"It is not yet too late: although he has given indications of a brain
breaking up, a very envied celebrity may be obtained by some wealthy
and good Samaritan who would rescue him from the Cave of Despair,"
adding, "Strawberry Hill might be gladly sacrificed for the fame of
having saved Chatterton."
This appeal brought Mr. Hall a letter from the Marquis of
Northampton, whose name is now for the first time associated with
that of the poet. The Marquis informed Mr. Hall that he was not one
of Clare's exceeding admirers, but he was struck and shocked by what
that gentleman had said about "our county poet," and thought it would
be "a disgrace to the county," to which Clare was "a credit," if he
were left in a state of poverty. The county was neither very wealthy
nor very literary, but his lordship thought that a collection of
Clare's poems might be published by subscription, and if that
suggestion were adopted he would take ten or twenty copies, or he
would give a donation of money, if direct assistance of that kind
were preferred. Mr. Hall says in his "Memories,":--
"The plan was not carried out, and if the Marquis gave any aid of any
kind to the peasant-poet the world, and I verily believe the poet
himself, remained in ignorance of the amount."