Books: Life and Remains of John Clare
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J. L. Cherry >> Life and Remains of John Clare
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Ever sincerely yours,
'EMMA.'"
FRIENDS AT "THE PALACE"
In 1823, Clare suffered from a long and serious illness; brought on,
in all probability, by an insufficiency of food, and by mental
anxiety caused by his inability to free himself from the importunity
of creditors. During his illness he was visited by Mr. Taylor, who
had come down to Stamford to attend the funeral of Mr. Gilchrist, and
Mr. Taylor, shocked at the poet's appearance, procured for him at
once the services of the principal physician in Peterborough. Clare
had also an excellent and warm-hearted friend in Mrs. Marsh, wife of
the Bishop of Peterborough, who corresponded with him frequently, in
a familiar and almost motherly manner, from 1821 to 1837. When Clare
complained of indisposition, a messenger would be dispatched from
"The Palace," with medicines or plaisters, camphor lozenges, or "a
pound of our own tea," with sensible advice as to personal habits and
diet. At another time hot-house grapes are sent, or the messenger
bears toys for the children, or a magnifying glass to assist Clare in
his observations in entomolgy, or books, or "three numbers of
Cobbett's penny trash, which Mr. Clare may keep." One day Mrs. Marsh
writes--
"To show you how I wish to cheer you I am sending you cakes, as one
does to children: they are harmless, so pray enjoy them, and write to
tell me how you are."
Engravings of the new chain pier are sent from Brighton, and on one
occasion (in 1829) a steel pen was enclosed in a letter, as a great
curiosity. Clare was on several occasions a visitor at the Bishop's
Palace, and in July, 1831, Mrs. Marsh wrote the following note, which
confirms the impression received from the perusal of other letters,
that about that time Clare's mind had been much exercised with
respect to his soul's health:--
"My dear Mr. Clare,--I must take my leave, and in doing so must add
that in thinking of you it is my greatest comfort to know that you
fix your trust where our only and never-failing trust rests."
Lady Milton also frequently sent her humble neighbour presents
suitable to his invalid condition.
ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON
Clare had not entirely recovered from this illness, when in May,
1824, he once more accepted the invitation of his publishers to visit
London. They were desirous that he should have the benefit of the
advice of Dr. Darling, the kind-hearted physician already mentioned.
On seeing him in Fleet Street, Dr. Darling ordered that he should be
kept perfectly free from excitement of all kinds, but at the end of
two or three weeks he was permitted to meet a literary party composed
chiefly of contributors to the "London Magazine." Among the guests
were Coleridge, Lamb, De Quincey, Hazlitt, and Allan Cunningham. In
the manuscript memoir to which reference has already been made, Clare
noted down his impressions of Coleridge and others, and they are
embodied in Mr. Martin's account of this visit. He was a frequent
visitor to Mrs. Emmerson, and a few days before he left London was
once more thrown into the society of Rippingille, who declared that
he had left Bristol solely for the purpose of meeting his friend.
Clare, obeying implicitly the injunctions of Dr. Darling, declined
all invitations to revelry, and therefore the companionship was less
prejudicial to his health and spirits than on the occasion of his
former visit. At his publishers, Clare made the acquaintance of
Mr.(afterwards Sir Charles) Elton, brother-in-law of Hallam, the
historian, and uncle to the subject of "In Memoriam." Mr. Elton, who
was a friend and patron of Rippingille, was much pleased with Clare,
and while he was yet in London sent him from Clifton the following
metrical epistle, which afterwards appeared in the "London Magazine."
It contains several interesting touches of portraiture:--
So loth, friend John, to quit the town!
'T was in the dales thou won'st renown;
I would not, John, for half a crown,
Have left thee there,
Taking my lonely journey down
To rural air.
The pavement flat of endless street
Is all unsuited to thy feet,
The fog-wet smoke is all unmeet
For such as thou,
Who thought'st the meadow verdure sweet,
But think'st not now.
"Time's hoarse unfeather'd nightingales" [3]
Inspire not like the birds of vales:
I know their haunts in river dales,
On many a tree,
And they reserve their sweetest tales,
John Clare, for thee.
I would not have thee come to sing
Long odes to that eternal spring
On which young bards their changes ring,
With buds and flowers:
I look for many a better thing
Than brooks and bowers.
'T is true thou paintest to the eye
The straw-thatched roof with elm trees high,
But thou hast wisdom to descry
What lurks below--
The springing tear, the melting sigh,
The cheek's heart-glow.
The poets all, alive and dead,
Up, Clare, and drive them from thy head!
Forget whatever thou hast read
Of phrase or rhyme,
For he must lead and not be led
Who lives through time.
What thou hast been the world may see,
But guess not what thou still may'st be:
Some in thy lines a Goldsmith see,
Or Dyer's tone:
They praise thy worst; the best of thee
Is still unknown.
Some grievously suspect thee, Clare:
They want to know thy form of prayer:
Thou dost not cant, and so they stare,
And hint free-thinking:
They bid thee of the devil beware,
And vote thee sinking.
With smile sedate and patient eye,
Thou mark'st the zealots pass thee by
To rave and raise a hue and cry
Against each other:
Thou see'st a Father up on high;
In man a brother.
I would not have a mind like thine
Its artless childhood tastes resign,
Jostle in mobs, or sup and dine
Its powers away,
And after noisy pleasures pine
Some distant day.
And, John, though you may mildly scoff,
That hard, afflicting churchyard cough
Gives pretty plain advice, "Be off,
While yet you can."
It is not time yet, John, to doff
Your outward man.
Drugs! can the balm of Gilead yield
Health like the cowslip-yellow'd field?
Come, sail down Avon and be heal'd,
Thou Cockney Clare.
My recipe is soon reveal'd--
Sun, sea, and air.
What glue has fastened thus thy brains
To kennel odours and brick lanes?
Or is it intellect detains?
For, faith, I'll own
The provinces must take some pains
To match the town.
Does Agnus (1) fling his crotchets wild--
"In wit a man," in heart a child?
Has Lepus (2) sense thine ear beguiled
With easy strain?
Or hast thou nodded blithe, and smiled
At Janus' (3) vein?
Does Nalla, (4) that mild giant, bow
His dark and melancholy brow?
Or are his lips distending now
With roaring glee
That tells the heart is in a glow--
The spirit free?
Or does the Opium-eater (5) quell
Thy wondering sprite with witching spell?
Read'st thou the dreams of murkiest hell
In that mild mien?
Or dost thou doubt yet fear to tell
Such e'er have been?
And while around thy board the wine
Lights up the glancing eyeballs' shine,
Seest thou in elbow'd thought recline
The Poet true (6)
Who in "Colonna" seems divine
To me and you?
But, Clare, the birds will soon be flown:
Our Cambridge wit resumes his gown:
Our English Petrarch trundles down
To Devon's valley:
Why, when our Maga's out of town,
Stand shilly-shally?
The table-talk of London still
Shall serve for chat by rock and rill,
And you again may have your fill
Of season'd mirth,
But not if spade your chamber drill
Six feet in earth.
Come, then! Thou never saw'st an oak
Much bigger than a wagon spoke:
Thou only could'st the Muse invoke
On treeless fen:
Then come and aim a higher stroke,
My man of men.
The wheel and oar, by gurgling steam,
Shall waft thee down the wood-brow'd stream,
And the red channel's broadening gleam
Dilate thy gaze,
And thou shalt conjure up a theme
For future lays.
And thou shalt have a jocund cup
To wind thy spirits gently up--
A stoup of hock or claret cup
Once in a way,
And we'll take notes from Mistress Gupp (8)
That same glad day.
And Rip Van Winkle (9) shall awake
From his loved idlesse for thy sake,
In earnest stretch himself, and take
Pallet on thumb,
Nor now his brains for subjects rake--
John Clare is come!
His touch will, hue by hue, combine
Thy thoughtful eyes, that steady shine,
The temples of Shakesperian line,
The quiet smile,
The sense and shrewdness which are thine,
Withouten guile.
The following key accompanied the letter on its publication:--
1. Agnus = Charles Lamb.
2. Lepus = Julius Hare, author of "Guesses at Truth."
3. Janus = The writer in the "London Magazine" who signed himself
Janus Weathercock.
4. Nalla = Allan Cunningham.
5. Opium-eater = De Quincey, author of "The Confessions of an English
Opium-eater."
6. The Poet true = The writer who assumes the name of Barry Cornwall.
7. The English Petrarch = The Rev. Mr. Strong, translator of Italian
sonnets.
8. Mistress Gupp = A lady immortalized by her invention to keep
muffins warm on the lid of the tea-urn.
9. Rip Van Winkle = E. V. Rippingille, painter of the "Country Post
Office," the "Portrait of a Bird," &c.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM
The friendship of Allan Cunningham was always highly prized by Clare,
and shortly after his return from London he sent him an autograph of
Bloomfield, the receipt of which Cunningham acknowledged in the
following letter:--
"27, Belgrave Place, 23rd September, 1824.
Dear Clare,--
I thank you much for Bloomfield's note, and as much for your own kind
letter. I agree with you in the praise you have given to his verse.
That he has living life about his productions there can be little
doubt. He trusts too much to Nature and to truth to be a fleeting
favourite, and he will be long in the highway where Fame dispenses
her favours. I have often felt indignant at the insulting way his
name has been introduced both by critics and poets. To scorn him
because of the humility of his origin is ridiculous anywhere, and
most of all here, where so many of our gentles and nobles have come
from the clods of the valley. Learned men make many mistakes about
the value of learning. I conceive it is chiefly valuable to a man's
genius in enabling him to wield his energies with greater readiness
or with better effect. But learning, though a polisher and a refiner,
is not the creator. It may be the mould out of which genius stamps
its coin, but it is not the gold itself. I am glad to hear that you
are a little better. Keep up your heart and sing only when you feel
the internal impulse, and you will add something to our poetry more
lasting than any of the peasant bards of old England have done yet.
I remain, dear Clare, your very faithful friend,
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM."
GEORGE DARLEY
George Darley, another member of the "London" brotherhood, conceived
a sincere regard for Clare, and frequently wrote to him. He was
author of several dramatic poems, and of numerous works on
mathematics, and was besides a candidate for the Professorship of
English Literature at the founding of the London University. The
following are among the more entertaining of the letters which he
addressed to the poet:--
"Friday, March 2 1827,
5, Upper Eaton Street, Grosvenor Place.
My dear Clare,--
You see in what a brotherly way I commence my letter: not with the
frigid 'Sir' as if I were addressing one of a totally unkindred clay,
one of the drossy children of earth, with whom I have no relationship
and feel I could never have any familiarity. Have you ever felt that
the presence of a man without feeling made you a fool? I am always
dumb, or pusillanimous or (if I speak) ridiculous, in the company of
such a person. I love a reasoner, and do not by any means wish to be
flashing lightning, cloud-riding, or playing with stars. But a
marble-hearted companion, who, if you should by chance give way to an
impetuous fancy, or an extravagant imagination, looks at you with a
dead fish's eye, and asks you to write the name under your picture--I
would as soon ride in a post chaise with a lunatic, or sleep with a
corse. Never let me see the sign of such a man over an alehouse! It
would fright me away sooner than the report of a mad dog or a
scolding landlady. I would as soon enter the house if it hung out a
pestle and mortar. The fear of a drug in my posset would not repel me
so inevitably as the horror with which I should contemplate the
frost-bitten face of a portrait such as I have described. But perhaps
with all your feeling you will think my heart somewhat less sound
than a ripe medlar, if it be so unhealthily sensitive as what I have
said appears to indicate. There is, I grant, as in all other things,
a mean which ought to be observed. Recollect, however, I am not an
Englishman [Darley was an Irishman.] I should have answered your
letter long since, without waiting for your poems, in order to say
something handsome upon them, but have been so occupied with a myriad
of affairs that I have scarcely had a moment to sleep in. It is now
long, long past midnight, and all is as silent around my habitation
as if it were in the midst of a forest, or the plague had depopulated
London. After a day's hard labour at mathematical operations and
corrections I sit down to write to you these hasty and, I fear,
almost unreadable lines. Will you excuse them for the promise of
something better when I have more leisure to be point-device? Your
opinion of my geometry was very grateful, chiefly as it confirmed my
own--that there has been a great deal too much baby-making of the
English people by those who pretend to instruct them in science.
These persons write upon the Goody-two-shoes plan, and seem to look
upon their readers as infants who have not yet done drivelling. To
improve the reason is quite beside their purpose; they merely design
to titillate the fancy or provide talking matter for village oracles.
In not one of their systems do I perceive a regular progression of
reasoning whereby the mind may be led, from truth to truth, to
knowledge, as we ride step by step up to a fair temple on a goodly
hill of prospect. They jumble together heaps of facts, the most
wonder-striking they can get, which may indeed be said to confound
the imagination by their variety; but there is no ratiocinative
dependence between them, nor are they referred to demonstrative
principles, which would render people knowledgeable, as well as
knowing, of them. Each is a syllabus indeed, but not a science. It
tells many things but teaches none. There is little merit due to me
for perceiving this error, and none for avoiding it. Algebra is the
only true arithmetic. The latter is founded on the former in almost
all its rules, and one is just as easily learned as the other. If
arithmetic is to be taught rationally it must be taught
algebraically. With half the pains that a learner takes to make
himself master of the rule of three and fractions, he would acquire
as much algebra as would render every rule in arithmetic as easy as
chalking to an inn-keeper. I am apt to speak in the King Cambyses'
vein, but you understand what I wish to convey. As to the
continuation of the "Lives of the Poets," it is a work sadly wanting,
but I am not the person to supply the desideratum, even were my power
equal to the deed. Criticism is abomination in my sight. It is fit
only for the headsmen and hangmen of literature, fellows who live by
the agonies and death of others. You will say this is not the
criticism you mean, and that there is a different species (the only
genuine and estimable species) which has an eye to beauty rather than
defect, and which delights in glorifying true poetry rather than
debating it. Aye, but have you ever considered how much harder it is
to praise than to censure piquantly? I should ever be running into
the contemptuous or abusive style, as I did in the "Letters to
Dramatists." Besides, even in the best of poets, Shakspeare and
Milton, how much is there justly condemnable? On the inferior
luminaries, I should have to be continually pointing out spots and
blemishes. In short, as a vocation I detest criticism. It is a
species of fratricide with me, for I never can help cutting,
slashing, pinking, and carbonadoing--a most unnatural office for one
of the brotherhood, one who presumes to enrol himself among those
whom he conspires with the Jeffreys and Jerdans to mangle and
destroy. It is a Cain-like profession, and I deserve to be branded,
and condemned to wander houseless over the world, if ever I indulge
the murderous propensity to criticism. I was sorry to hear from
Taylor yesterday that you were not in good health. What can be the
matter with you, so healthfully situated and employed? Methinks you
should live the life of an oak-tree or a sturdy elm, that groans in a
storm, but only for pleasure. Do you meditate too much or sit too
immovably? Poetry, I mean the composition of it, does not always
sweeten the mind as much as the reading of it. There is always an
anxiety, a fervour, an impatience, a vaingloriousness attending it
which untranquillizes even in the sweetest-seeming moods of the poet.
Like the bee, he is restless and uneasy even in collecting his
sweets. Farewell, my dear Clare, and when you have leisure and
inclination, write to me again.
Sincerely yours,
GEORGE DARLEY."
"London, 5 Upper Eaton Street, Grosvenor Place,
March 14th, 1829.
My dear Clare,--
You have been reproaching me, I dare say, for my long neglect of your
last letter, but you might have saved yourself that trouble, as my
own conscience has scourged me repeatedly these two months about it.
The truth is I have been a good deal harassed in several ways, and
now sit down, in the midst of a headache, to write, when I can hardly
tell which end of my pen is paper-wards. I will attempt, however, to
return your questions legible if not intelligible answers. There have
been so many 'Pleasures' of so-and-so that I should almost counsel
you against baptizing your poem on Spring the 'Pleasures' of
anything. Besides, when a poem is so designated it is almost
assuredly prejudged as deficient in action (about which you appear
solicitous). 'The Pleasures of Spring' from you, identified as you
are with descriptive poesy, would almost without doubt sound in the
public ear as an announcement of a series of literary scene
paintings. Beautiful as these may be, and certainly would be from
your pencil, there is a deadness about them which tends to chill the
reader: he must be animated with something of a livelier prospect,
or, as Hamlet says of Polonius, 'he sleeps'. It may be affirmed
without hesitation that, however independent of description a drama
may be, no descriptive poem is independent of something like dramatic
spirit to give it interest with human beings. How dull a thing would
even the great descriptive poem of the Creation be without Adam and
Eve, their history and hapless fall, to enliven it! But I cannot see
why you should not infuse a dramatic spirit into your poem on Spring,
which is only the development of the living principle in Nature. See
how full of life those descriptive scenes in the 'Midsummer Night's
Dream' and the 'Winter's Tale' are. Characters may describe the
beauties or qualities of Spring just as well as the author, and
nothing prevents a story going through the season, so as to gather up
flowers and point out every beautiful feature in the landscape on its
way. Thomson has a little of this, but not enough. Imagine his
'Lavinia' spread out into a longer story, incidents and descriptions
perpetually relieving each other! Imagine this, and you have a model
for your poem. Allan Ramsay's 'Gentle Shepherd' would be still
better, only that his poem is cast into actual dramatic characters.
Besides, though with plenty of feeling and a good deal of homestead
poetry, he wants imagination, elegance, and a certain scorn of mere
earth, which is essential to the constitution of a true poet. You
want none of these, but you want his vivacity, character, and action:
I mean to say you have not as yet exhibited these qualities. The
hooks with which you have fished for praise in the ocean of
literature have not been garnished with live bait, and none of us can
get a bite without it. How few read 'Comus' who have the 'Corsair' by
heart! Why? Because the former, which is almost dark with the
excessive bright of its own glory, is deficient in human passions and
emotions, while the latter possesses these although little else.
Your sincere friend and brother poet,
GEORGE DARLEY."
CLARE'S DIARY
It was on the occasion of his third visit to London that Dr. Darling
exacted from Clare the promise, already referred to, that he would
observe the strictest moderation in drinking, and if possible abstain
altogether. Clare kept his word, but his domestic difficulties
remaining unabated he suffered much, not only from physical weakness
but from melancholy forebodings which were destined to be only too
completely realized. He made many ineffectual attempts to obtain
employment in the neighbourhood of Helpstone, and it is especially to
be regretted that his applications, first to the Marquis of Exeter's
steward and then to Earl Fitzwilliam's, for the situation of gardener
were unsuccessful, because the employment would have been congenial
to his tastes, and the wages, added to his annuities, would have been
to him a competence.
During the years 1824-23 Clare kept a diary, which, for those who
desire to know the man as well as the poet, is full of interest, on
account of the side-lights which it throws upon his character, and
also upon his pursuits during this period of involuntary leisure. The
following extracts are selected:--
September 7, 1824.--
I have read "Foxe's Book of Martyrs" and finished it to-day, and the
sum of my opinion is, that tyranny and cruelty appear to be the
inseparable companions of religious power, and the aphorism is not
far from truth that says "all priests are the same."
September 11.--
Wrote an essay to-day on the sexual system of plants, and began one
on the fungus tribe, and on mildew, blight, &c., intended for "A
Natural History of Helpstone," in a series of letters to Hessey, who
will publish it when finished. Received a kind letter from C.A.
Elton.
September 12.--
Finished another page of my life. I have read the first chapter of
Genesis, the beginning of which is very fine, but the sacred
historian took a great deal upon credit for this world when he
imagined that God created the sun, moon, and stars, those mysterious
hosts of heaven, for no other purpose than its use. It is a harmless
and universal propensity to magnify consequences that pertain to
ourselves, and it would be a foolish thing to test Scripture upon
these groundless assertions, for it contains the best poetry and the
best morality in the world.
September 19.--
Read snatches of several poets and the Song of Solomon: thought the
supposed allusions in that luscious poem to our Saviour very
overstrained, far-fetched, and conjectural. It appears to me an
Eastern love poem, and nothing further, but an over-heated religious
fancy is strong enough to fancy anything. I think the Bible is not
illustrated by that supposition: though it is a very beautiful poem
it seems nothing like a prophetic one, as it is represented to be.
September 22.--
Very ill, and did nothing but ponder over a future existence, and
often brought up the lines to my memory said to have been uttered by
an unfortunate nobleman when on the brink of it, ready to take the
plunge:--
In doubt I lived, in doubt I die,
Nor shrink the dark abyss to try,
But undismayed I meet eternity.
The first line is natural enough, but the rest is a rash courage in
such a situation.
September 23.--
A wet day: did nothing but nurse my illness: could not have walked
out had it been fine. Very disturbed in conscience about the troubles
of being forced to endure life and die by inches, and the anguish of
leaving my children, and the dark porch of eternity, whence none
return to tell the tale of their reception.
September 24.--
Tried to walk out and could not: have read nothing this week, my mind
almost overweighting me with its upbraidings and miseries: my
children very ill, night and morning, with a fever, makes me
disconsolate, and yet how happy must be the death of a child! It
bears its sufferings with an innocent patience that maketh man
ashamed, and with it the future is nothing but returning to sleep,
with the thought, no doubt, of waking to be with its playthings
again.
September 29.--
Took a walk in the fields: saw an old wood stile taken away from a
familiar spot which it had occupied all my life. The posts were
overgrown with ivy, and it seemed akin to nature and the spot where
it stood, as though it had taken it on lease for an undisturbed
existence. It hurt me to see it was gone, for my affections claim a
friendship with such things; but nothing is lasting in this world.
Last year Langley Bush was destroyed--an old white-thorn that had
stood for more than a century, full of fame. The gipsies, shepherds,
and herdsmen all had their tales of its history, and it will be long
ere its memory is forgotten.
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