Books: Life and Remains of John Clare
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J. L. Cherry >> Life and Remains of John Clare
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"It will not be honourable in us to buy the interest in your poems
for five years for L200. It may be worth more than that, which would
be an injury to you, and a discredit to us; or less, which would be a
loss to us. Besides, if the original mortgage was for L200, it is not
that sum which would redeem it now. Many expenses have been created
by these money-lenders, all which must be satisfied before the
writings would be given up. It is meddling with a wasp's nest to
interfere rashly. I am happy that Lord Milton has taken the writings,
to look them over. He may be able to do some good, and to keep your
friends the Billingses in their little estate, but I fear it is not
possible for you to do it without incurring fresh risks, and
encountering such dangers from the want of sufficient legal advice as
would be more than you would get through."
Clare had set his heart upon accomplishing this little scheme; his
failure to compass it weighed upon his mind, and for a time he sought
an alleviation of his unhappiness in the society of the Blue Bell and
among hilarious friends at Stamford.
"LORD, WHAT FOOLS THESE MORTALS BE!"
Clare paid a second visit to London in May, 1822, and was again
hospitably entertained by his publishers, at whose house he met
several literary men of note, whose friendship he afterwards enjoyed
for years. Among these were Charles Lamb, Thomas Hood, H. F. Gary,
Allan Cunningham, George Barley, and others; but his most frequent
companion in town would appear to have been Rippingille, the painter,
to whom he was introduced at the house of Mrs. Emmerson. Clare was
assured by that lady that he would find Mr. Rippingille an excellent
and discreet young man, but there is reason to suspect that "friend
Rip," as he was called by his intimates, had carefully concealed some
of his foibles from Mrs. Emmerson, for he and Clare had several not
very creditable drinking bouts, and were not particular in the class
of entertainments which they patronized. After Clare had returned to
Helpstone and Rippingille to Bristol, where he lived for several
years, the latter repeatedly urged his poet-friend to visit him, and
this is the way in which the amusing rattlepate wrote:--
"My dear Johnny Clare,--I am perfectly sure that I sha'nt be able to
write one word of sense, or spin out one decent thought. If the old
Devil and the most romping of his imps had been dancing, and
jostling, and running stark mad amongst the delicate threads and
fibres of my brain, it could not be in a worse condition, but I am
resolved to write in spite of the Devil, my stars, and want of
brains, for all of which I have most excellent precedents and
examples, and sound orthodox authority, so here goes. Tonight; but
what is tonight? 'T was last night, my dear Johnny. I was up till
past five this morning, during which time I was stupid enough to
imbibe certain potions of porter, punch, moselle, and madeira, that
have been all day long uniting their forces in fermenting and fuming,
and bubbling and humming. Are you coming, Clare, or are you going to
remain until all the fine weather is gone, and then come and see
nothing? Or do you mean to come at all? Now is your time, if you do.
You will just be in time for the fair, which begins on the 1st of
September and lasts ten days. And most glorious fun it is, I can tell
you. Crowds, tribes, shoals, and natives of all sorts! I looked at
the standings the other night, and thought of you. Will he come, said
I? D--n the fellow! Nothing can move him. There he sticks, and there
he will stick. Will none but a draggle-tailed muse suit him?
His evening devotions and matins
Both addressed to a muse that wears pattens:
A poet that kneels in the bogs,
Where his muse can't go out without clogs,
Or stir without crushing the frogs!
--Old Play.
Where toads die of vapours and hip,
And tadpoles of ague and pip.
--Old Play.
Give 'em all, my dear Johnny, the slip,
And at once take to Bristol a trip.
By G--, you should come, and you must.
Do you mean I should finish your bust?
If you don't, stay away and be cussed!
My muse is taken a little qualmish, therefore pray excuse her. She is
a well-meaning jade, and if it was not for the wild treatment she
received last night would, I have no doubt, have given you a very
polite invitation, but I fear, Johnny, nothing will move you. Your
heart is as hard as an overseer's. I dined at Elton's two days ago.
We talked about you, wondered if you would come, feared not,
regretted it, and the loss of the fine weather, and the fine scenery,
and the other fine things: in fine, we lamented finely. Come and
cheer our hearts. Bring Patty and all the little bardettes, if you
will. We will find room for them somewhere. I have read only my
introductory lecture yet, so that you may hear 'em or read 'em all,
if you like. Having thrown my bread upon the waters, where I hope it
will be found after many days. I take my leave, my dear Clare, in the
full hope I shall see you by the 1st of September. Write to me by
return, saying what day you will be here.
Yours for ever and after, E. V. RIPPINGILLE."
LETTER FROM CHARLES LAMB
Clare visited Charles Lamb, and received from him the following
characteristic letter after his return to Helpstone:--
"India House, 1st Aug. 1822.
Dear Clare,--I thank you heartily for your present. I am an
inveterate old Londoner, but while I am among your choice collections
I seem to be native to them and free of the country. The quantity of
your observation has astonished me. What have most pleased me have
been 'Recollections after a Ramble,' and those 'Grongar Hill' kind of
pieces in eight-syllable lines, my favourite measure, such as 'Cowper
Hill' and 'Solitude.' In some of your story-telling ballads the
provincial phrases sometimes startle me. I think you are too profuse
with them. In poetry, slang of every kind is to be avoided. There is
a rustick Cockneyism as little pleasing as ours of London. Transplant
Arcadia to Helpstone. The true rustic style, the Arcadian English, I
think is to be found in Shenstone. Would his 'Schoolmistress,' the
prettiest of poems, have been better if he had used quite the Goody's
own language? Now and then a home rusticism is fresh and startling,
but where nothing is gained in expression it is out of tenor. It may
make folks smile and stare, but the ungenial coalition of barbarous
with refined phrases will prevent you in the end from being so
generally tasted as you deserve to be. Excuse my freedom, and take
the same liberty with my puns. I send you two little volumes of my
spare hours. They are of all sorts. There's a Methodist hymn for
Sundays, and a farce for Saturday night. Pray give them a place on
your shelf, and accept a little volume of which I have duplicate,
that I may return in equal number to your welcome present. I think I
am indebted to you for a sonnet in the 'London' for August. Since I
saw you I have been in France and have eaten frogs. The nicest little
rabbity things you ever tasted. Do look about for them. Make Mrs.
Clare pick off the hindquarters; boil them plain with parsley and
butter. The fore quarters are not so good. She may let them hop off
by themselves.
Yours sincerely,
CHAS. LAMB."
THE REVEREND CARY
During his second visit to London, Clare became for a few days the
guest of Mr. Cary, at Chiswick. Here, it is said, he wrote several
amorous sonnets in praise of Cary's wife, and presented them to the
lady, who passed them on to her husband. The learned translator of
Dante requested an explanation, which Clare at once gave. The
circumstance that Cary corresponded with Clare for at least ten years
afterwards will enable the reader to form his own estimate of the
importance of the incident. Among Cary's letters were the following:--
"Chiswick, London,
Jany. 3rd, 1822.
Many happy years to you, dear Clare.
Do not think because I have not written to you sooner that I have
forgot you. I often think of you in that walk we took here together,
and which I take almost every day, generally alone, sometimes musing
of absent friends and at others putting into English those old French
verses which I dare say sometimes occasion you to cry 'Pish!'--(I
hope you vent your displeasure in such innocent terms)--when turning
over the pages of the magazine. I was much pleased with a native
strain of yours, signed, I remember, 'Percy Green.' Mr. Taylor can
tell you that I enquired with much earnestness after the author of it
(it was the first with that signature), not knowing it to be yours,
and what pleasure it gave me to find it was so. I am glad to find a
new 'Shepherd's Calendar' advertised with your name. You will no
doubt bring before us many objects in Nature that we have often seen
in her but never before in books, and that in verse of a very musical
construction. There are two things, I mean description of natural
objects taken from the life, and a sweet melodious versification,
that particularly please me in poetry; and these two you can command
if you choose. Of sentiment I do not reck so much. Your admiration of
poets I felt most strongly earlier in life, and have still a good
deal of it left, but time deadens that as well as many of our other
pleasantest feelings. Still, I had rather pass my time in such
company than in any other, and the poetical part of my library is
increasing above all proportion above the rest. This you may think a
strange confession for me in my way of life to make, but whatever one
feels strongly impelled to, provided it be not wrong in itself and
can administer any benefit or pleasure to others, I am inclined to
think is the task allotted to one, and thus I quiet my conscience
about the matter. I did'nt intend to make you my father confessor
when I set out, but now it is done I hope you will grant me
absolution.
Believe me, dear Clare,
Ever sincerely yours,
H. F. CARY."
"Chiswick, April 12th, 1823.
Dear Clare,--
Have you visited the haunts of poor Cowper which you were invited to
see? And if so, what accordance did you find between the places and
his descriptions of them? What a glory it is for poetry that it can
make any piece of trumpery an object of curiosity and interest! I had
the pleasure of meeting last week with Mr. Wordsworth. He is no piece
of trumpery, but has all the appearance of being that noblest work,
an honest man. I think I scarcely ever met with any one eminent for
genius who had not also something very amiable and engaging in his
manners and character. In Mr. Wordsworth I found much frankness and
fervour. The first impression his countenance gave me was one which I
did not receive from Chantrey's bust of him--that of his being a very
benevolent man. Have you seen Barry Cornwall's new volume? He is one
of the best writers of blank verse we have, but I think blank verse
is not much in favour with you. The rhyme that is now in fashion runs
rather too wild to please me. It seems to want pruning and nailing
up. A sonnet, like a rose tree may be allowed to grow straggling, but
a long poem should be trained into some order. I hope you and your
family have got well through this hard winter. Mrs. Cary, who has
hitherto almost uniformly enjoyed good health, has suffered much from
it. She and the rest of my family join in kind remembrances to you
with, dear Clare, Yours sincerely,
H. F. CARY."
"Chiswick,
London, February 19th, 1825.
My dear Clare,
I have been reproaching myself some time for not answering your last
letter sooner, and as I am telling my congregation this Lent that it
is no use to reproach oneself for one's sins if one does not amend
them, I will mend this. I will freely own I should not have felt the
same compunction if you had been in health and spirits, but when I
find you so grievously complaining of the want of both, I cannot
leave you any longer without such poor comfort as a line for two from
me can give. I wish I were a doctor, and a skilful one, for your
sake. I mean a doctor of medicine. For though I were a doctor of
divinity I doubt I could recommend to you no better prescription in
that way than I can as plain Mister. Nay, it is one that any old
woman in your parish could hit upon as readily as myself, and that
is, patience and submission to a Will that is higher and wiser than
our own. How often have I stood in need of it myself, and with what
difficulty have I swallowed it, and how hard have I found it to keep
on my stomach! May you, my friend, have better success! If you do not
want it in one way you are sure to have occasion for it before long
in some other. If you should be raised up from this sickness, as I
trust you will, do not suppose but that you will have something else
to try you. This, you will say, is not a very cheering prospect, but
remember these lines in Crowe's poem, which you so justly admire:--
'Tis meet we jostle with the world, content,
If by our Sovereign Master we be found
At last not profitless.
What follows, I fear neither you nor I have philosophy enough to add
with sincerity:--
For worldly meed,
Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.
I will read the memoir of yourself which you purpose sending me, and
not fail to tell you if I think you have spoken of others with more
acrimony than you ought. There is no occasion for sending me with it
your new publication. I shall get it as I have those before. I hope
the last chapter of your memoir, if brought up to the present time,
will record your children's having got safely over the small pox, of
which you express apprehensions in your last letter. We have got well
through the winter hitherto. For want of better employment I have
been teaching my youngest boy Dicky to write. Perhaps you will think
me not over well qualified for so important an office, but I assure
you when I have two parallel lines ruled at proper distances I can
produce something like a copy. To teach others is no bad way to learn
one's self. In spite of the floggings which I had at school, I could
never learn that grammar for which you have so great an aversion,
thoroughly, till I began to instruct my own son in it, but then I
made a wonderful progress. I should not succeed so well in collecting
ferns. A physician once recommended to me the study of botany for the
good of my health, but he had published an edition of Linnaeus.
Another prescribed to me port wine, but, poor man, he soon fell a
martyr to his own system. In such matters common sense and one's own
inclination are the best guides. Mrs. C. and your other acquaintances
here remember you kindly. I am dear Clare, with best wishes for
yourself and family,
Your affectionate friend,
H. F. CARY."
"British Museum, April 13th, 1830,
Dear Clare,--
I have waited some time to answer your letter, in hopes of being able
to give you the information you require; but the information does not
come and I will wait no longer. I have not seen either Lamb or
Wainwright since last summer, when the former spent one day with me
here, and another day we all three met at the house of the latter,
who now resides in a place he has inherited from a relative at
Turnham Green. Lamb is settled at Endfield, about seven miles from
London, with his sister, who I fear is in a very indifferent state of
health; so his friends see very little of him. In this grand age of
utility, I suppose it will soon be discovered that a piece of canvas
is more advantageously employed as the door of a safe, where it will
secure a joint of meat from the flies, than if it was covered with
the finest hues that Titian or Rubens could lay upon it, and a piece
of paper better disposed of in keeping the same meat from being burnt
while it is roasting, than in preserving the idle fancies of a poet.
No matter: if it is so we must swim with the stream. You can employ
yourself in cultivating your cabbages and in handling the hay fork,
and I not quite so pleasantly in making catalogues of books. We will
not be out of fashion, but show ourselves as useful as the rest of
the world. In the meantime we may smile at what is going forward,
entertain ourselves with our own whims in private, and expect that
the tide some day may turn. My family, whom you are so kind as to
enquire about, are all well, and all following the order of the day,
except one, who has set himself to perverting canvas from its proper
use by smearing it over with certain colours, fair indeed to look
upon, but quite void of utility. I ought indeed to have made another
exception, which is, that they are multiplying much faster than Mr.
Malthus would approve. Cowper says somewhere of those who make the
world older than the Bible accounts of it, that they have found out
that He who made it and revealed its age to Moses was mistaken in the
date. May it not be said of the anti-populationers that they
virtually accuse him of as great ignorance in the command to multiply
and replenish the earth? Well, you and I, Clare, have kept to this
text. May we observe all the rest as well! which is so good a
conclusion for a parson that I will say no more than that I am ever
Yours truly,
H. F. CARY.
Mrs. C. is at Chiswick, but I can assure you of her good wishes."
"Dear Clare,--
You ask me for literary news. I have very little of a kind likely to
interest you. Have you seen in the 'Edinburgh Review' an account of
some poems by Elliott, a Sheffield workman? In his rhymes on the Corn
Trade are not 'words that burn,' but words that scald. In his 'Love'
there is a story told in a very affecting manner. In short they are
the only new things I have been struck with for some time, and that
before I knew who the writer was. I heard lately that our friend Mr.
Lamb was very well, and his sister just recovered from one of those
illnesses which she is often afflicted with. I have just sent to the
press a translation of an old Greek poet. I do not expect he will
please you much, as he treats of little but charioteering, boxing,
running, and some old heathenish stories. But I will send you a copy,
not requiring you to read it. Mrs. C., if she were at my elbow,
would, I am sure, desire to be kindly remembered to you.
Believe me, dear Clare,
Sincerely yours,
H. F. CARY.
British Museum, Oct. 30th, 1832."
LETTERS FROM MRS EMMERSON
Clare remained in London for several weeks, at the end of which time
he was suddenly recalled to Helpstone by alarming reports of the
state of his wife's health. It is to be feared that in more respects
than one this second visit to the metropolis had an unhealthy
influence upon the poet's mind and habits. At this time he appears to
have made very little effort to resist the pressing hospitality of
his friends, and to have complied only too readily with the convivial
customs of the time. He returned to Helpstone moody and discontented,
and in his letters to Mrs. Emmerson he complained fretfully of the
hardship of his lot in being compelled to spend his days without any
literary companionship whatsoever. About this time that lady wrote to
him two letters, which as illustrations of the style of her
correspondence are here given:--
"20 Stratford Place, 17th June, 1822.
My very dear Clare,--
"Your letter reached me this morning, and from the nature of its
contents it leaves me nothing to express in reply but my sincere
regrets that any necessity should have occurred to hasten your
departure from London without our again seeing each other. I wish, my
dear friend, you had expressed more fully the real cause of this
sudden measure, for you leave me with many painful fears upon my mind
for the safety of your dear wife, who I hope, ere this, has blessed
you with a little namesake, and that she is doing well with the dear
babe. I have also my own fears about yourself, your own health, your
state of mind, your worldly interests, &c., but perhaps I am wrong to
indulge in all these anxieties. Mr. Emmerson and myself had looked
for days past with great solicitude for your return to us, and we had
planned many little schemes for our mutual enjoyment while you were
with us, but these, with many other matters with which my mind and
heart were full, are now at an end, and God only knows when, or if
ever, we may meet again; but of this be assured, as long as my
friendship and correspondence are of value to you, you may command
them. In our, alas, too short interviews we had some interesting
conversations. These will not be forgotten by me, and I will hope on
your return to your own dear cot you will take the earliest
opportunity to write to your friend 'Emma.' Tell her all that affects
your happiness, and may you, my dear Clare, when restored to the calm
delights of retirement, experience also the restoration of mental
peace and every domestic blessing! Mr. E. desires his kindest regards
to you, and his sincere regrets you could not spend a few days with
him ere you quitted London. Our noble and dear friend [Lord Radstock]
will also feel much disappointment at not seeing you again. This is
not what we had hoped for and expected from your visit to Town. Yet
let me not reproach you with unkindness, though I feel much, very
much, at this moment. Mr. Rippingille spent last evening with us and
took his final leave. He goes off for Bristol this afternoon. I have
sent your silk handkerchief, with another for you, my dear Clare, as
a trifling remembrance of your very sincere and attached friend,
ELIZA L. EMMERSON.
P.S. Please let me know as soon as you reach home of your safe
arrival, and if the little stranger has entered this world of woe,
and if she bears the name of E. L. Lord R. has just left me, and
sends his kind regards, and regrets at not having the opportunity to
see you in Portland-place. Farewell.
'EMMA.'"
"Stratford Place, 26th June, 1822.
My very dear Friend,--
If it is necessary to make an apology for writing to you again so
soon, the only one I shall attempt to make is that of offering you my
sincere congratulations upon the birth of your sweet girl, Eliza
Louisa, if I did not misunderstand you when you were in Town, and the
certainty of which I wish to know in your next letter; also, if I may
be allowed to stand godmother to my little namesake, and likewise if
you have accepted the kind offer of Lord R. to become her noble
godfather. You mention your dear wife in language that alarms and
distresses me much for her safety. I hope in God, for your sake, and
for the sake of your dear children, that all danger is over, and that
she is now in a fair way to be speedily restored to you. Pardon me,
my clear Clare, when I entreat you to do all in your power to comfort
and compose her mind under her present delicate situation. Recollect
if she is now a faded flower she has become so under your influence,
and well may you be loth to lose the object who has shed her
brightest hues on you, and who in giving birth to your sweet
offspring may chance to fade almost to nothingness herself. But this
should serve to bind your affections still stronger to her. Forgive
me for talking thus to you, my dear Clare. I have no other motive
than your domestic happiness, which I anxiously pray may be
undisturbed by any event. I lament to learn by your letter that to
stifle recollections of the past, &c., you should have fled to such
resources on your journey home. Now you become the sufferer by such
means. Why not exert your philosophy, instead of seeking that which
serves to destroy your health and peace? You know, my dear Clare,
that you are injuring yourself in the deepest sense by such habits.
For God's sake, then, for your own dear children's sake, arm yourself
with a determination, a fortitude, which would do honour to your
excellent heart and good understanding, to fly from such a mode of
consolation as from a poison that will quickly destroy you. Remember
poor Burns! Let the solemn and affectionate warnings of your friend
'Emma' dissuade you, my dear Clare, from habits of inebriety.
Independent of the loss of your health and mental powers, your moral
character will be seriously injured by such means. You will charge me
with preaching a sermon, I fear, and will be inclined to commit my
good wishes to the flames, but you must not hate me for my counsel. I
can readily suppose how the 'good Quaker' would be shocked at your
'disguise' and I heartily regret the event, altho' I honour your
liberality and candour in telling me of it. I have not heard from our
friend Rippingille, but expect to do so daily. When I write to him I
will make known your wishes to correspond with him. You tell me you
'have many things to say to me in future about your journey, &c. &c.'
Pray do not be long, my dear Clare, ere you make such communications,
with all else that concerns you, for I shall be most anxious to hear
good accounts of your dear wife and the sweet babe. Mr. E. desires me
to say everything that is kind to you for him, as does our noble and
dear friend. Heaven bless you, my dear Clare.
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