Books: Life and Remains of John Clare
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J. L. Cherry >> Life and Remains of John Clare
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Wordsworth has had little share of popularity, though he bids fair to
be as great in one species of poetry as Byron was in another, but to
acknowledge such an opinion in the world's ear would only pucker the
lips of fashion into a sneer against it. Yet his lack of living
praise is no proof of his lack of genius. The trumpeting clamour of
public praise is not to be relied on as the creditor of the future.
The quiet progress of a name gaining ground by gentle degrees in the
world's esteem is the best living shadow of fame to follow. The
simplest trifle and the meanest thing in nature is the same now as it
shall continue to be till the world's end.
Men trample grass and prize the flowers in May,
But grass is green when flowers do fade away.
SCRAPS FOR AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM AND FASHION
None need be surprised to see these two false prophets in partnership
or conjunction for an essay, as they may be called brothers, for the
one attests what it pleases and the other takes it for granted.
Criticism is grown a sort of book milliner, who cuts a book to any
pattern of abuse or praise, and Fashion readily wears the opinion.
How many productions whose milk-and-water merits, or unintelligible
stupidity, have been considered as novelties, have by that means
gained the admiration of Criticism and the praise of Fashion, until a
more absurd novelty pushed them from their preferments and caused
them to be as suddenly forgotten! The vulgar, tasteless jargon of
"Dr. Syntax," with all the above-mentioned excellencies to excite
public notice from the butterflies of fashion, soon found what it
sought, though some of the plates or illustrations possess the
disadvantageous merit of being good. Yet the letter-press doubly made
up for all, for it was prose trebly prosified into wire-drawn
doggrel, and consequently met with a publicity and sale
unprecedented. Edition multiplied on edition, till it was found
needless to number the title page, and it was only necessary to say
"A New Edition;" while the poems of Wordsworth scarcely found
admirers enough to ensure a second edition. What will the admirers of
poetry in the next age think of the taste of this, which has been
called "the Golden Age of criticism, poetry, taste, and genius"?
* * * * *
Fashion is like a new book "elegantly bound and lettered." It
cannot endure dust and cobwebs; but true criticism is like a
newly-planted laurel: it thrives with age and gathers strength from
antiquity, till it becomes a spreading tree and shelters the objects
of its praise under its shadow. Just Criticism is a stern but laudable
prophet, and Time and Truth are the only disciples who can discern
and appreciate his predictions.
SCRAPS FOR AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM
Flowers must be sown and tended with care, like children, to grow up
to maturity, but weeds grow of themselves and multiply without any
attention, choking up those flowers that require it; and lies are
propagated as easily as weeds, and choke up the blossoms of truth in
the same manner. But the evils and misrepresentations of false
criticism, though great and many, are not lasting.
* * * * *
Upon its principles fashion and flattery have made many Shakespeares,
and these false prophets have flourished and will flourish for a
season, for truth, when she cannot be heard by the opposition of
falsehood, remains silent and leaves time to decide the difference,
who cometh quietly and impartially to her assistance, hurling without
ceremony, century after century, usurper after usurper from the
throne of the mighty, and erasing their names from his altar as
suddenly and as perfectly as the sunbeam passes over and washes away
the stains of a shadow on the wall. Fame hath weighed the false
criticisms and pretensions of centuries already, and found nothing as
yet but dust in the balance. Shadows of Shakespeare are cast away as
profane idols, and reality hath fallen short of even a trinity. She
acknowledges as sacred but one, and I fear that when she shall
calculate the claims of ten centuries she will find the number of the
mighty a unit. But why should fear be expressed for a repetition
which we neither hope for nor need? We have but one sun in our
firmament, and upwards of six thousand years have neither added to
nor diminished its splendour, neither have vain desires been
expressed for the existence of another. Needless wishes create
painful expectations. When a man is warm and comfortable on a cold
day he cannot wish for an excess that would burn him. Therefore we
need neither hope for more Shakespeares nor regret that there is but
one. When the Muses created him a poet they created him the sun of
the firmament of genius, and time has proved, and will prove, that
they glory in their creation, deeming it sufficient, without striving
to find or create another, for nature knows the impossibility. There
have been, both before and after, constellations of great and
wonderful beauty, and many in this age will be found in the number
who shine in their own light with becoming splendour, but whenever
flattery or vanity places them near the great luminary their little
lights lose their splendour and they vanish in his brightness as the
stars are lost at noon.
* * * * * *
The falling stars leave a stream of splendour behind them for a
moment; then utter darkness follows, and not a spark is left to show
where they fell.
* * * * * *
It is said that Byron is not to have a monument in Westminster Abbey.
To him it is no injury. Time is his monument, on whose scroll the
name of Byron shall be legible when the walls and tombs of
Westminster Abbey shall have mingled with the refuse of ruins, and
the sun, as in scorn, be left free again to smile upon the earth so
long darkened with the pompous shadows of bigotry and intolerance.
OLD SONGS AND BALLADS
Respecting these compositions Clare says:--
"I commenced sometime ago with an intention of making a collection
of Old Ballads, but when I had sought after them in places where I
expected to find them, namely, the hayfield and the shepherd's hut
on the pasture, I found that nearly all those old and beautiful
recollections had vanished as so many old fashions, and those who
knew fragments seemed ashamed to acknowledge it, as old people who
sung old songs only sung to be laughed at; and those who were proud
of their knowledge in such things knew nothing but the senseless
balderdash that is bawled over and sung at country feasts, statutes
and fairs, where the most senseless jargon passes for the greatest
excellence, and rudest indecency for the finest wit. So the matter
was thrown by, and forgotten, until last winter, when I used to
spend the long evenings with my father and mother, and heard them by
accident hum over scraps of the following old melodies, which I have
collected and put into their present form."
Two of the collection are omitted from this volume: the well-known
ballad of "Lord Randall," and a second the subject of which appeared
to render its inclusion inexpedient.
ADIEU TO MY FALSE LOVE FOREVER
The week before Easter, the days long and clear,
So bright shone the sun and so cool blew the air,
I went in the meadow some flowers to find there,
But the meadow would yield me no posies.
The weather, like love, did deceitful appear,
And I wandered alone when my sorrow was near,
For the thorn that wounds deeply doth bide the whole year,
When the bush it is naked of roses.
I courted a girl that was handsome and gay,
I thought her as constant and true as the day,
Till she married for riches and said my love "Nay,"
And so my poor heart got requited.
I was bid to the bridal; I could not say "No:"
The bridemen and maidens they made a fine show;
I smiled like the rest but my heart it was low,
To think how its hopes they were blighted.
The bride started gaily, the weather was fine,
Her parents looked after, and thought her divine;
She smiled in their faces, but looked not in mine,
Indeed I'd no heart to regard her.
Though love like the poplar doth lift its head high,
The top it may fade and the root it may die,
And they may have heart-aches that now live in joy,
But Heaven I'll leave to reward her.
When I saw my false love in the merry church stand,
With her ring on her finger and her love in her hand,
Smiling out in the joy of her houses and land,
My sighs I strove vainly to smother.
When my false love for dinner did dainties partake,
I sat me down also, but nothing could eat;
I thought her sweet company better than meat,
Although she was tied to another.
When my false love had gone to her bride bed at night,
My eyes filled with water which made double my sight;
I thought she was there when she'd bade us "Good night"
And her chair was put by till the morrow.
I drank to her joy with a tear on my face,
And the wine glass as usual I pushed on the space,
Nor knew she was gone till I looked at the place,
Such a fool was I made of by sorrow.
Now make me a bed in yon river so deep,
Let its waves be my mourners; nought living will weep,
And there let me lie and take a long sleep,
So adieu to my false love for ever.
O SILLY LOVE! O CUNNING LOVE!
O silly love! O cunning love!
An old maid to trepan:
I cannot go about my work
For loving of a man.
I cannot bake, I cannot brew,
And, do the best I can,
I burn the bread and chill the mash,
Through loving of a man.
Shrove Tuesday last I tried, and tried,
To turn the cakes in pan,
And dropt the batter on the floor,
Through thinking of a man.
My mistress screamed, my master swore,
Boys cursed me in a troop;
The cat was all the friends I had,
Who helped to clean it up.
Last Christmas eve, from off the spit
I took the goose to table,
Or should have done, but teasing Love
Did make me quite unable;
And down slipt dish, and goose, and all
With din and clitter-clatter;
All but the dog fell foul on me;
He licked the broken platter.
Although I'm ten years past a score,
Too old to play the fool,
My mistress says I must give o'er
My service for a school.
Good faith! What must I do, and do,
To keep my service still;
I'll give the winds my thoughts to love,
Indeed and so I will.
And if the wind my love should lose,
Right foolish were the play,
For I should mourn what I had lost,
And love another day.
With crosses and with losses
Right double were the ill,
So I'll e'en bear with love and all,
Alack, and so I will.
NOBODY COMETH TO WOO
On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark,
And I opened the window to see,
When every maiden went by with her spark,
But ne'er a one came to me.
And O dear what will become of me?
And O dear what shall I do,
When nobody whispers to marry me--
Nobody cometh to woo?
None's born for such troubles as I be:
If the sun wakens first in the morn,
"Lazy hussy" my parents both call me,
And I must abide by their scorn,
For nobody cometh to marry me,
Nobody cometh to woo,
So here in distress must I tarry me--
What can a poor maiden do?
If I sigh through the window when Jerry
The ploughman goes by, I grow bold;
And if I'm disposed to be merry,
My parents do nothing but scold;
And Jerry the clown, and no other,
E'er cometh to marry or woo;
They think me the moral of mother,
And judge me a terrible shrew.
For mother she hateth all fellows,
And spinning's my father's desire,
While the old cat growls bass with the bellows
If e'er I hitch up to the fire.
I make the whole house out of humour,
I wish nothing else but to please,
Would fortune but bring a good comer
To marry, and make me at ease!
When I've nothing my leisure to hinder,
I scarce get as far as the eaves;
Her head's instant out of the window,
Calling out like a press after thieves.
The young men all fall to remarking,
And laugh till they're weary to see 't,
While the dogs at the noise begin barking,
And I slink in with shame from the street.
My mother's aye jealous of loving,
My father's aye jealous of play,
So what with them both there's no moving,
I'm in durance for life and a day.
O who shall I get for to marry me?
Who will have pity to woo?
'T is death any longer to tarry me,
And what shall a poor maiden do?
FARE THEE WELL
[Clare's note:--"Scraps from my father and mother, completed."]
Here's a sad good bye for thee, my love,
To friends and foes a smile:
I leave but one regret behind,
That's left with thee the while,
But hopes that fortune is our friend
Already pays the toil.
Force bids me go, your friends to please.
Would they were not so high!
But be my lot on land or seas,
It matters not where by,
For I shall keep a thought for thee,
In my heart's core to lie.
Winter shall lose its frost and snow,
The spring its blossomed thorn,
The summer all its bloom forego,
The autumn hound and horn
Ere I will lose that thought of thee,
Or ever prove forsworn.
The dove shall change a hawk in kind,
The cuckoo change its tune,
The nightingale at Christmas sing,
The fieldfare come in June--
Ere I do change my love for thee
These things shall change as soon.
So keep your heart at ease, my love,
Nor waste a joy for me:
I'll ne'er prove false to thee, my love,
Till fish drown in the sea,
And birds forget to fly, my love,
And then I'll think of thee.
The red cock's wing may turn to grey,
The crow's to silver white,
The night itself may be for day,
And sunshine wake at night:
Till then--and then I'll prove more true
Than Nature, life, and light.
Though you may break your fondest vow,
And take your heart from me,
And though my heart should break to hear
What I may never see,
Yet never can'st thou break the link
That binds my love to thee.
So fare-thee-well, my own true love;
No vow from thee I crave,
But thee I never will forego,
Till no spark of life I have,
Nor will I ever thee forget
Till we both lie in the grave.
MARY NEELE
[Notwithstanding the company in which it is found, this poem may
safely be attributed to Clare.]
My love is tall and handsome;
All hearts she might command;
She's matchless for her beauty,
The queen of all the land.
She has my heart in keeping,
For which there's no repeal,
For the fairest of all woman kind
Is my love, Mary Neele.
I felt my soul enchanted
To view this turtle dove,
That lately seems descended
From heavenly bowers of love;
And might I have the fortune
My wishes could reveal,
I'd turn my back on splendour
And fly to Mary Neele.
She is the flower of nations,
The diamond of my eye;
All others are but gloworms
That in her splendour die.
As shining stars all vanish
When suns their light reveal,
So beauties shrink to shadows
At the feet of Mary Neele.
I ask no better fortune
Than to embrace her charms;
Like Plato I would laugh at wealth
While she was in my arms;
And if I cannot gain her
From grief there's no appeal;
My joy, my pain, my life, my all
Are fixed with Mary Neele.
The stone of vain philosophers,
That wonder-working toy,
The golden fleece of Jason,
That Helen stole from Troy,
The beauty and the riches
That all these fames unseal,
Are nothing all, and less than that,
Compared to Mary Neele.
O if I cannot gain her
Right wretched must I be,
And caves and lonely mountains
Must be the life for me,
To pine in gloom and sorrow,
And hide the deaths I feel,
For light nor life I may not share
When lost to Mary Neele.
LOVE SCORNED BY PRIDE
O far is fled the winter wind,
And far is fled the frost and snow,
But the cold scorn on my love's brow
Hath never yet prepared to go.
More lasting than ten winters' wind,
More cutting than ten weeks of frost,
Is the chill frowning of thy mind,
Where my poor heart was pledged and lost.
I see thee taunting down the street,
And by the frowning that I see
I might have known it long ere now,
Thy love was never meant for me.
And had I known ere I began
That love had been so hard to win,
I would have filled my heart with pride,
Nor left one hope to let love in.
I would have wrapped it in my breast,
And pinned it with a silver pin,
Safe as a bird within its nest,
And 'scaped the trouble I am in.
I wish I was a happy bird,
And thou a true and timid dove:
O I would fly the land of grief,
And rest me in the land of love.
O I would rest where I love best;
Where I love best I may not be:
A hawk doth on that rose-tree sit,
And drives young love to fear and flee.
O would I were the goldfinch gay!
My richer suit had tempted strong.
O would I were the nightingale!
Thou then had'st listened to my song.
Though deep my scorn I cannot hate,
Thy beauty's sweet though sour thy pride;
To praise thee is to love thee still,
And it doth cheer my heart beside.
For I could swim the deepest lake,
And I could climb the highest tree,
The greatest danger face and brave,
And all for one kind kiss of thee.
O love is here, and love is there:
O love is like no other thing:
Its frowns can make a king a slave,
Its smiles can make a slave a king.
BETRAYED
Dream not of love, to think it like
What waking love may prove to be,
For I dreamed so and broke my heart,
When my false lover slighted me.
Love, like to flowers, is sweet when green;
The rose in bud aye best appears;
And she that loves a handsome man
Should have more wit than she has years.
I put my finger in a bush,
Thinking the sweeter rose to find;
I pricked my finger to the bone,
And left the sweetest rose behind.
I threw a stone into the sea,
And deep it sunk into the sand,
And so did my poor heart in me
When my false lover left the land.
I watched the sun an hour too soon
Set into clouds behind the town;
So my false lover left, and said
"Good night" before the day was down.
I cropt a lily from the stalk,
And in my hand it died away;
So did my joy, so will my heart,
In false love's cruel grasp decay.
THE MAIDEN'S WELCOME
Of all the swains that meet at eve
Upon the green to play,
The shepherd is the lad for me,
And I'll ne'er say him nay.
Though father glowers beneath his hat,
And mother talks of bed,
I'll take my cloak up, late or soon,
To meet my shepherd lad.
Aunt Kitty loved a soldier lad,
Who left her love for war;
A sailor loved my sister Sue,
Whose jacket smelt of tar;
But my love's sweet as land new ploughed;
He is my heart's delight,
And he ne'er leaves his love so far
But he can come at night.
So father he may glower and frown,
And mother scold about it;
The shepherd has my heart to keep,
And can I live without it?
I'm sure he will not part with it,
In spite of what they say,
And if he would as sure I am
It would not come away.
So friends may frown, while I can smile
To know I'm loved by one
Who has my heart, and him to seek
What better can be done?
And be it Spring or Summer both,
Or be it Winter cold,
If pots should freeze upon the fire
I'd meet him at the fold.
I'm fain to make my wedding gown,
Which he has bought for me,
But it will wake my mother's thoughts,
And evil they will be,
Although he has but stole my heart,
Which gives me nought of pain,
For bye and bye he'll buy the ring,
And bring my heart again.
THE FALSE KNIGHT'S TRAGEDY
[Students of ballad literature will be reminded by the following poem
of the "May Colleen" and "The Outlandish Knight" of other
collections. The resemblance between the three ballads is general up
to a certain point, but a striking contrast occurs in the denouement,
for whereas in other versions the maiden contrives by a simple
stratagem to fling her false lover into the sea, where she leaves him
to his fate, in the following she falls a victim to his treachery.
His fitting end is, however, indicated in the remarkable stanza with
which the ballad closes.]
A false knight wooed a maiden poor,
And his high halls left he
To stoop in at her cottage door,
When night left none to see.
And, well-a-day, it is a tale
For pity too severe--
A tale would melt the sternest eye,
And wake the deafest ear.
He stole her heart, he stole her love,
'T was all the wealth she had;
Her truth and fame likewise stole he,
* * * *
And they rode on, and they rode on;
Far on this pair did ride,
Till the maiden's heart with fear and love
Beat quick against her side.
And on they rode till rocks grew high.
"Sir Knight, what have we here?"
"Unsaddle, maid, for here we stop:"
And death's tongue smote her ear.
Some ruffian rude she took him now,
And wished she'd barred the door,
Nor was it one that she could read
Of having heard before.
"Thou art not my true love," she said,
"But some rude robber loon;
He'd take me from the saddle bow,
Nor leave me to get down."
"I ne'er was your true love," said he,
"For I'm more bold than true;
Though I'm the knight that came at dark
To kiss and toy with you."
"I know you're not my love," said she,
"That came at night and wooed;
Although ye try and mock his speech
His way was ne'er so rude.
He ne'er said word but called me dear,
And dear he is to me:
Ye spake as ye ne'er knew the word,
Rude ruffian as ye be.
Ye never was my knight, I trow,
Ye pay me no regard,
But he would take my arm in his
If we but went a yard."
"No matter whose true love I am;
I'm more than true to you,
For I'll ne'er wed a shepherd wench,--
Although I came to woo."
And on to the rock's top they walked,
Till they stood o'er the salt sea's brim.
"And there," said he, "'s your bridal bed,
Where you may sink or swim."
A moonbeam shone upon his face,
The maid sunk at his feet,
For 't was her own false love she saw,
That once so fond did greet.
"And did ye promise love for this?
Is the grave my priest to be?
And did ye bring this silken dress
To wed me with the sea?"
"O never mind your dress," quoth he,
'T is well to dress for sea:
Mermaids will love to see you fine;
Your bridesmaids they will be."
"O let me cast this gown away,
It's brought no good to me,
And if my mother greets my clay
Too wretched will she be.
For she, for my sad sake, would keep
This guilty bridal dress,
To break and tell her bursting heart
She had a daughter less."
So off she threw her bridal gown,
Likewise her gold clasped shoon:
His looks frowned hard as any stone,
Hers pale turned as the moon.
"O false, false knight you've wrapped me warm
Ere I was cold before,
And now you strip me unto death,
Although I'm out of door.
O dash away those thistles rude,
That crowd about the shore;
They'll wound my tender feet, that ne'er
Went barefoot thus before.
O dash those stinging nettles down,
And cut away the brier,
For deep they wound those lily arms
Which you did once admire."
And he nor briers nor thistles cut,
Although she grieved full sore,
And he nor shed one single tear,
Nor kiss took evermore.
She shrieked--and sank, and is at rest,
All in the deep, deep sea;
And home in base and scornful pride,
With haunted heart, rode he.
Now o'er that rock there hangs a tree,
And chains do creak thereon;
And in those chains his memory hangs,
Though all beside is gone.
LOVE'S RIDDLE
"Unriddle this riddle, my own Jenny love,
Unriddle this riddle for me,
And if ye unriddle the riddle aright,
A kiss your prize shall be,
And if ye riddle the riddle all wrong,
Ye're treble the debt to me:
I'll give thee an apple without any core;
I'll give thee a cherry where stones never be;
I'll give thee a palace, without any door,
And thou shalt unlock it without any key;
I'll give thee a fortune that kings cannot give,
Nor any one take from thee."
"How can there be apples without any core?
How can there be cherries where stones never be?
How can there be houses without any door?
Or doors I may open without any key?
How can'st thou give fortunes that kings cannot give,
When thou art no richer than me?"
"My head is the apple without any core;
In cherries in blossom no stones ever be;
My mind is love's palace without any door,
Which thou can'st unlock, love, without any key.
My heart is the wealth, love, that kings cannot give,
Nor any one take it from thee.
So there are love's riddles, my own Jenny love,
Ye cannot unriddle to me,
And for the one kiss you've so easily lost
I'll make ye give seven to me.
To kiss thee is sweet, but 't is sweeter by far
To be kissed, my dear Jenny, by thee.
Come pay me the forfeit, my own Jenny love;
Thy kisses and cheeks are akin,
And for thy three sweet ones I'll give thee a score
On thy cheeks, and thy lips, and thy chin."
She laughed while he gave her, as much as to say,
"'T were better to lose than to win."
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