Books: Life and Remains of John Clare
J >>
J. L. Cherry >> Life and Remains of John Clare
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 | 6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15
October 8.--
Very ill to-day and very unhappy. My three children are all unwell.
Had a dismal dream of being in hell: this is the third time I have
had such a dream. As I am more than ever convinced that I cannot
recover I will make a memorandum of my temporal concerns, for next to
the spiritual they ought to be attended to for the sake of those left
behind. I will insert them in No. 5 in the Appendix.
October 9.--
Patty has been to Stamford, and brought me a letter from Ned Drury,
who came from Lincoln to the mayor's feast on Thursday. It revives
old recollections. Poor fellow: he is an odd one, but still my
recollections are inclined in his favour. What a long way to come to
the mayor's feast! I would not go one mile after it to hear the din
of knives and forks, and to see a throng of blank faces about me,
chattering and stuffing, "that boast no more expression than a
muffin."
October 12.--
Began to teach a poor lame boy the common rules of arithmetic, and
find him very apt and willing to learn.
October 16.--
Wrote two more pages of my life: find it not so easy as I at first
imagined, as I am anxious to give an undisguised narrative of facts,
good and bad. In the last sketch which I wrote for Taylor I had
little vanities about me to gloss over failings which I shall now
take care to lay bare, and readers, if they ever are published, to
comment upon as they please. In my last four years I shall give my
likes and dislikes of friends and acquaintances as free as I do of
myself.
December 25.--
Christmas Day: gathered a handful of daisies in full bloom: saw a
woodbine and dogrose in the woods putting out in full leaf, and a
primrose root full of ripe flowers. What a day this used to be when I
was a boy! How eager I used to be to attend the church to see it
stuck with evergreens (emblems of eternity), and the cottage windows,
and the picture ballads on the wall, all stuck with ivy, holly, box,
and yew! Such feelings are past, and "all this world is proud of."
January 7, 1825.--
Bought some cakes of colours with the intention of trying to make
sketches of curious snail horns, butterflies, moths, sphinxes, wild
flowers, and whatever my wanderings may meet with that are not too
common.
January 19.--
Just completed the 9th chapter of my life. Corrected the poem on the
"Vanities of the World," which I have written in imitation of the old
poets, on whom I mean to father it, and send it to Montgomery's paper
"The Iris," or the "Literary Chronicle," under that character.
February 26.--
Received a letter in rhyme from a John Pooley, who ran me tenpence
further in debt, as I had not money to pay the postage.
March 6.--
Parish officers are modern savages, as the following will testify:
"Crowland Abbey.--Certain surveyors have lately dug up several
foundation stones of the Abbey, and also a great quantity of stone
coffins, for the purpose of repairing the parish roads."--Stamford
Mercury.
March 9.--
I had a very odd dream last night, and take it as an ill omen, for I
don't expect that the book will meet a better fate. I thought I had
one of the proofs of the new poems from London, and after looking at
it awhile it shrank through my hands like sand, and crumbled into
dust. The birds were singing in Oxey Wood at six o'clock this evening
as loud and various as in May.
March 31.--
Artis and Henderson came to see me, and we went to see the Roman
station agen Oxey Wood, which he says is plainly Roman.
April 16.--
Took a walk in the fields, bird-nesting and botanizing, and had like
to have been taken up as a poacher in Hilly Wood, by a meddlesome,
conceited gamekeeper belonging to Sir John Trollope. He swore that he
had seen me in the act, more than once, of shooting game, when I
never shot even so much as a sparrow in my life. What terrifying
rascals these woodkeepers and gamekeepers are! They make a prison of
the forest, and are its gaolers.
April 18.--
Resumed my letters on Natural History in good earnest, and intend to
get them finished with this year, if I can get out into the fields,
for I will insert nothing but what has come under my notice.
May 13.--
Met with an extraordinary incident to-day, while walking in Openwood.
I popt unawares on an old fox and her four young cubs that were
playing about. She saw me, and instantly approached towards me
growling like an angry dog. I had no stick, and tried all I could to
fright her by imitating the bark of a fox-hound, which only irritated
her the more, and if I had not retreated a few paces back she would
have seized me: when I set up an haloo she started.
May 25.--
I watched a bluecap or blue titmouse feeding her young, whose nest
was in a wall close to an orchard. She got caterpillars out of the
blossoms of the apple trees and leaves of the plum. She fetched 120
caterpillars in half an hour. Now suppose she only feeds them four
times a day, a quarter of an hour each time, she fetched no less than
480 caterpillars.
May 28.--
Found the old frog in my garden that has been there four years. I
know it by a mark which it received from my spade four years ago. I
thought it would die of the wound, so I turned it up on a bed of
flowers at the end of the garden, which is thickly covered with ferns
and bluebells. I am glad to see it has recovered.
June 3.--
Finished planting my auriculas: went a-botanizing after ferns and
orchises, and caught a cold in the wet grass, which has made me as
bad as ever. Got the tune of "Highland Mary" from Wisdom Smith, a
gipsy, and pricked another sweet tune without name as he riddled it.
June 4.--
Saw three fellows at the end of Royce Wood, who I found were laying
out the plan for an iron railway from Manchester to London. It is to
cross over Round Oak spring by Royce Wood corner for Woodcroft
Castle. I little thought that fresh intrusions would interrupt and
spoil my solitudes. After the enclosure they will despoil a boggy
place that is famous for orchises at Royce Wood end.
June 23.--
Wrote to Mrs. Emmerson and sent a letter to "Hone's Every-day Book,"
with a poem which I fathered on Andrew Marvel.
July 12.--
Went to-day to see Artis: found him busy over his antiquities and
fossils. He told me a curious thing about the manner in which the
golden-crested wren builds her nest: he says it is the only English
bird that suspends its nest, which it hangs on three twigs of the fir
branch, and it glues the eggs at the bottom of the nest, with the gum
out of the tree, to keep them from being thrown out by the wind,
which often turns them upside down without injury.
August 21.--
Received a letter from Mr. Emmerson which tells me that Lord Radstock
died yesterday. He was the best friend I have met with. Though he
possessed too much simple-heartedness to be a fashionable friend or
hypocrite, yet it often led him to take hypocrites for honest friends
and to take an honest man for a hypocrite.
September 11.--
Went to meet Mr. and Mrs. Emmerson at the New Inn at Deeping, and
spent three days with them.
From "No. 5 in the Appendix."--
I will set down before I forget it a memorandum to say that I desire
Mrs. Emmerson will do just as she pleases with any MSS. of mine which
she may have in her possession, to publish them or not as she
chooses; but I desire that any living names mentioned in my letters
may be filled up by * * * and all objectionable passages omitted--a
wish which I hope will be invariably complied with by all. I also
intend to make Mr. Emmerson one of the new executors in my new will.
I wish to lie on the north side of the churchyard, about the middle
of the ground, where the morning and evening sun can linger the
longest on my grave. I wish to have a rough unhewn stone, something
in the form of a mile stone, [sketched in the margin] so that the
playing boys may not break it in their heedless pastimes, with
nothing more on it than this inscription:--"Here rest the hopes and
ashes of John Clare." I desire that no date be inserted thereon, as I
wish it to live or die with my poems and other writings, which if
they have merit with posterity it will, and if they have not it is
not worth preserving. October 8th, 1824. "Vanity of vanities, all is
vanity."
The "Artis" and "Henderson" referred to in the Diary were
respectively butler and head gardener at Milton Park. Artis made a
name for himself as the discoverer of extensive Roman remains at
Castor, the ancient Durobrivae, of which he published a description,
and Henderson was an accomplished botanist and entomologist. Their
uniform kindness to the poor poet did them great honour.
CORRESPONDENCE WITH JAMES MONTGOMERY
While Clare was amusing himself by rhyming in the manner of the poets
of the seventeenth century, he had the following correspondence with
James Montgomery:--
"Helpstone, January 5, 1825.
"My dear Sir,--
I copied the following verses from a MS. on the fly-leaves of an old
book entitled 'The World's Best Wealth, a Collection of Choice
Counsels in Verse and Prose, printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red
Lion in Paternoster Row, 1720:' they seem to have been written after
the perusal of the book, and are in the manner of the company in
which I found [them]. I think they are as good as many old poems that
have been preserved with more care; and, under that feeling, I was
tempted to send them, thinking they might find a corner from oblivion
in your entertaining literary paper, the 'Iris;' but if my judgment
has misled me to overrate their merit, you will excuse the freedom I
have taken, and the trouble I have given you in the perusal; for,
after all, it is but an erring opinion, that may have little less
than the love of poesy to recommend it.
I am yours sincerely,
JOHN CLARE."
To this letter Montgomery replied in the following terms:--
"Dear Sir,--
Some time ago I received from you certain verses said to be copied
from the fly-leaves of an old printed book on which they were
written. The title was 'The Vanity of Life,' and the book's title
'The World's Best Wealth,' &c. Now though I suspected, from a little
ambiguity in the wording of your letter, that these verses were not
quite so old as they professed to be, and that you yourself perhaps
had written them to exercise your own genius, and sent them to
exercise my critical acuteness, I thought that the glorious offence
carried its own redemption in itself, and I would not only forgive
but rejoice to see such faults committed every day for the sake of
such merits. It is, however, now of some importance to me to know
whether they are of the date which they affect, or whether they are
of your own production. The supposition of your being capable of such
a thing is so highly in your favour, that you will forgive the wrong,
if there be any, implied in my enquiry. But I am making a
chronological collection of 'Christian Poetry,' from the earliest
times to the latest dead of our contemporaries who have occasionally
tried their talents on consecrated themes, and if these stanzas were
really the work of some anonymous author of the last century I shall
be glad to give them the place and the honour due, but if they are
the 'happy miracle' of your 'rare birth' then, however reluctantly, I
must forego the use of them. Perhaps the volume itself contains some
valuable pieces which I have not seen, and which might suit my
purpose. The title tempts one to think that this may be the case, and
as I am in search of such jewels as certainly constitute 'the world's
best wealth,' I hope to find a few in this old-fashioned casket,
especially after the specimen you have sent, and which I take for
granted to be a genuine specimen of the quality (whatever be its
antiquity) of the hidden treasures. If you will oblige me by sending
the volume itself by coach I will take great care of it, and
thankfully return it in due time free of expense. Or if you are
unwilling to trust so precious a deposit out of your own hands, will
you furnish me with a list of those of its contents (with the
authors' names, where these are attached) which you think are most
likely to meet my views, namely, such as have direct religious
subjects and are executed with vigour or pathos? I can then see
whether there be any pieces which I have not already, and if there
be, I dare say you will not grudge the labour of transcribing two or
three hundred lines to serve, not a brother poet only, but the
Christian public. At any rate, an early reply to this application
will be greatly esteemed, and may you never ask in vain for anything
which it is honest or honourable to ask for. I need not add that this
letter comes from one who sincerely respects your talents and
rejoices in the success which has so conspicuously crowned them, when
hundreds of our fraternity can get neither fame nor profit--no, nor
even a hearing--and a threshing for all their pains.
I am truly your friend and servant,
J. MONTGOMERY.
Sheffield, May 5, 1826."
Clare was a great admirer of Chatterton, and the melancholy fate of
"the marvellous boy" was frequently referred to by him in his
correspondence. The idea of imitating the older poets was no doubt
suggested to him by Chatterton's successful efforts, but he possessed
neither the special faculty nor the consummate artifice of his model,
and therefore we are not surprised to find him confessing at once to
the trick he had attempted. He replied to Montgomery:--
"Helpstone, May 8, 1826.
My dear Sir,--
I will lose no time in answering your letter, for I was highly
delighted to meet so kind a notice from a poet so distinguished as
yourself; and if it be vanity to acknowledge it, it is, I hope, a
vanity of too honest a nature to be ashamed of--at least I think so,
and always shall. But your question almost makes me feel ashamed to
own to the extent of the falsehood I committed; and yet I will not
double it by adding a repetition of the offence. I must confess to
you that the poem is mine, and that the book from whence it was
pretended to have been transcribed has no existence (that I know of)
but in my invention of the title. And now that I have confessed to
the crime, I will give you the reasons for committing it. I have long
had a fondness for the poetry of the time of Elizabeth, though I have
never had any means of meeting with it, farther than in the confined
channels of Ritson's 'English Songs,' Ellis's 'Specimens,' and
Walton's 'Angler;' and the winter before last, though amidst a severe
illness, I set about writing a series of verses, in their manner, as
well as I could, which I intended to pass off under their names,
though some whom I professed to imitate I had never seen. As I am no
judge of my own verses, whether they are good or bad, I wished to
have the opinion of some one on whom I could rely; and as I was told
you were the editor of the 'Iris,' I ventured to send the first thing
to you, with many 'doubts and fears.' I was happily astonished to see
its favourable reception. Since then I have written several others in
the same style, some of which have been published; one in Hone's
'Everyday Book,' on 'Death' under the name of Marvell, and some
others in the 'European Magazine;' 'Thoughts in a Churchyard,' the
'Gipsy's Song,' and a 'Farewell to Love.' The first was intended for
Sir Henry Wootton; the next for Tom Davies; the last for Sir John
Harrington. The last thing I did in these forgeries was an 'Address
to Milton,' the poet, under the name of Davenant. And as your kind
opinion was the first and the last I ever met with from a poet to
pursue these vagaries or shadows of other days, I will venture to
transcribe them here for the 'Iris,' should they be deemed as worthy
of it as the first were by your judgment, for my own is nothing: I
should have acknowledged their kind reception [sooner] had I not
waited for the publication of my new poems, 'The Shepherd's
Calendar,' which was in the press then, where it has been ever since,
as I wish, at its coming, to beg your acceptance of a copy, with the
other volumes already published, as I am emboldened now to think they
will be kindly received, and not be deemed intrusive, as one commonly
fears while offering such trifles to strangers. I shall also be very
glad of the opportunity in proving myself ready to serve you in your
present undertaking; and could I light on an old poem that would be
worth your attention, 300 or even 1,000 lines, would be no objection
against my writing it out; but I do assure you I would not make a
forgery for such a thing, though I suppose now you would suspect me;
for I consider in such company it would be a crime, where blossoms
are collected to decorate the 'Fountain of Truth.' But I will end,
for I get very sleepy and very unintelligible.
I am, my dear Sir,
Yours very sincerely and affectionately,
JOHN CLARE."
PUBLICATION OF "THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR"
At intervals during the years 1825-26 Clare was occupied in supplying
his publishers with poems for his next volume--"The Shepherd's
Calendar," which was brought out in May, 1827, with a frontispiece by
De Wint. The descriptive poem which gives the title to the volume
consists of twelve cantos, of various measures, and is followed by
"Village Stories" and other compositions. Of the stories, that
entitled "Jockey and Jenny or, the Progress of Love," appears to have
made the most favourable impression upon Clare's contemporaries. In
this poem will be found the following bold and original apostrophe to
Night:--
Ah, powerful Night! Were but thy chances mine!
Had I but ways to come at joys like thine!
Spite of thy wizard look and sable skin,
The ready road to bliss 't is thine to win.
All nature owns of beautiful and sweet
In thy embraces now unconscious meet:
Young Jenny, ripening into womanhood,
That hides from day, like lilies while in bud,
To thy grim visage blooms in all her charms,
And comes, like Eve, unblushing to thy arms.
Of thy black mantle could I be possest,
How would I pillow on her panting breast,
And try those lips where trial rude beseems.
Breathing my spirit in her very dreams,
That ne'er a thought might wander from her heart,
But I possessed it, or ensured a part!
Of all the blessings that belong to thee,
Had I this one how happy should I be!
In "The Dream," which appeared in the same volume, Clare's muse took
a still more ambitious flight--with what success the reader has here
an opportunity to judge for himself. The obscurities in the
composition must find their excuse in the nature of the subject:--
THE DREAM
Thou scarest me with dreams.--JOB.
When Night's last hours, like haunting spirits, creep
With listening terrors round the couch of sleep,
And Midnight, brooding in its deepest dye,
Seizes on Fear with dismal sympathy,
"I dreamed a dream" something akin to fate,
Which Superstition's blackest thoughts create--
Something half natural to the grave that seems,
Which Death's long trance of slumber haply dreams;
A dream of staggering horrors and of dread,
Whose shadows fled not when the vision fled,
But clung to Memory with their gloomy view,
Till Doubt and Fancy half believed it true.
That time was come, or seem'd as it was come,
When Death no longer makes the grave his home;
When waking spirits leave their earthly rest
To mix for ever with the damn'd or blest;
When years, in drowsy thousands counted by,
Are hung on minutes with their destiny:
When Time in terror drops his draining glass,
And all things mortal, like to shadows, pass,
As 'neath approaching tempests sinks the sun--
When Time shall leave Eternity begun.
Life swoon'd in terror at that hour's dread birth;
As in an ague, shook the fearful Earth;
And shuddering Nature seemed herself to shun,
Whilst trembling Conscience felt the deed was done.
A gloomy sadness round the sky was cast,
Where clouds seem'd hurrying with unusual haste;
Winds urged them onward, like to restless ships;
And light dim faded in its last eclipse;
And Agitation turn'd a straining eye;
And Hope stood watching like a bird to fly,
While suppliant Nature, like a child in dread,
Clung to her fading garments till she fled.
Then awful sights began to be reveal'd,
Which Death's dark dungeons had so long conceal'd,
Each grave its doomsday prisoner resign'd,
Bursting in noises like a hollow wind;
And spirits, mingling with the living then,
Thrill'd fearful voices with the cries of men.
All flying furious, grinning deep despair,
Shaped dismal shadows on the troubled air:
Red lightning shot its flashes as they came,
And passing clouds seem'd kindling into flame;
And strong and stronger came the sulphury smell,
With demons following in the breath of hell,
Laughing in mockery as the doom'd complain'd,
Losing their pains in seeing others pain'd.
Fierce raged Destruction, sweeping o'er the land,
And the last counted moment seem'd at hand:
As scales near equal hang in earnest eyes
In doubtful balance, which shall fall or rise,
So, in the moment of that crushing blast,
Eyes, hearts, and hopes paused trembling for the last.
Loud burst the thunder's clap and yawning rents
Gash'd the frail garments of the elements;
Then sudden whirlwinds, wing'd with purple flame
And lightning's flash, in stronger terrors came,
Burning all life and Nature where they fell,
And leaving earth as desolate as hell.
The pleasant hues of woods and fields were past,
And Nature's beauties had enjoyed their last:
The colour'd flower, the green of field and tree,
What they had been for ever ceased to be:
Clouds, raining fire, scorched up the hissing dews;
Grass shrivell'd brown in miserable hues;
Leaves fell to ashes in the air's hot breath,
And all awaited universal Death.
The sleepy birds, scared from their mossy nest,
Beat through the evil air in vain for rest;
And many a one, the withering shades among,
Wakened to perish o'er its brooded young.
The cattle, startled with the sudden fright,
Sicken'd from food, and madden'd into flight;
And steed and beast in plunging speed pursued
The desperate struggle of the multitude,
The faithful dogs yet knew their owners' face.
And cringing follow'd with a fearful pace,
Joining the piteous yell with panting breath,
While blasting lightnings follow'd fast with death;
Then, as Destruction stopt the vain retreat,
They dropp'd, and dying lick'd their masters' feet.
When sudden thunders paus'd, loud went the shriek,
And groaning agonies, too much to speak,
From hurrying mortals, who with ceaseless fears
Recall'd the errors of their vanish'd years;
Flying in all directions, hope bereft,
Followed by dangers that would not be left;
Offering wild vows, and begging loud for aid,
Where none was nigh to help them when they pray'd.
None stood to listen, or to soothe a friend,
But all complained, and sorrow had no end.
Sons from their fathers, fathers sons did fly,
The strongest fled, and left the weak to die;
Pity was dead: none heeded for another;
Brother left brother, and the frantic mother
For fruitless safety hurried east and west,
And dropp'd the babe to perish from her breast;
All howling prayers that would be noticed never,
And craving mercy that was fled for ever;
While earth, in motion like a troubled sea,
Open'd in gulfs of dread immensity
Amid the wild confusions of despair,
And buried deep the howling and the prayer
Of countless multitudes, and closed--and then
Open'd and swallow'd multitudes again.
Stars, drunk with dread, roll'd giddy from the heaven,
And staggering worlds like wrecks in storms were driven;
The pallid moon hung fluttering on the sight,
As startled bird whose wings are stretch'd for flight;
And o'er the East a fearful light begun
To show the sun rise-not the morning sun,
But one in wild confusion, doom'd to rise
And drop again in horror from the skies.
To heaven's midway it reel'd, and changed to blood,
Then dropp'd, and light rushed after like a flood,
The heaven's blue curtains rent and shrank away,
And heaven itself seem'd threaten'd with decay;
While hopeless distance, with a boundless stretch,
Flash'd on Despair the joy it could not reach,
A moment's mockery-ere the last dim light
Vanish'd, and left an everlasting Night;
And with that light Hope fled and shriek'd farewell,
And Hell in yawning echoes mock'd that yell.
Now Night resumed her uncreated vest,
And Chaos came again, but not its rest;
The melting glooms that spread perpetual stains,
Kept whirling on in endless hurricanes;
And tearing noises, like a troubled sea,
Broke up that silence which no more would be.
The reeling earth sank loosen'd from its stay,
And Nature's wrecks all felt their last decay.
The yielding, burning soil, that fled my feet,
I seem'd to feel and struggled to retreat;
And 'midst the dread of horror's mad extreme
I lost all notion that it was a dream:
Sinking I fell through depths that seem'd to be
As far from fathom as Eternity;
While dismal faces on the darkness came
With wings of dragons and with fangs of flame,
Writhing in agonies of wild despairs,
And giving tidings of a doom like theirs.
I felt all terrors of the damn'd, and fell
With conscious horror that my doom was hell:
And Memory mock'd me, like a haunting ghost,
With light and life and pleasures that were lost;
As dreams turn night to day, and day to night,
So Memory flash'd her shadows of that light
That once bade morning suns in glory rise,
To bless green fields and trees, and purple skies,
And waken'd life its pleasures to behold;--
That light flash'd on me like a story told;
And days mis-spent with friends and fellow-men,
And sins committed,-all were with me then.
The boundless hell, whose demons never tire,
Glimmer'd beneath me like a world on fire:
That soul of fire, like to its souls entomb'd,
Consuming on, and ne'er to be consum'd,
Seem'd nigh at hand, where oft the sulphury damps
O'er-aw'd its light, as glimmer dying lamps,
Spreading a horrid gloom from side to side,
A twilight scene of terrors half descried.
Sad boil'd the billows of that burning sea,
And Fate's sad yellings dismal seem'd to be;
Blue roll'd its waves with horrors uncontrolled,
And its live wrecks of souls dash'd howlings as they roll'd.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 | 6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15