Removal to Northborough
The cottage which Lord Milton set apart for Clare was situated at Northborough, a village three miles from Helpstone, and thus described by the author of “Rambles Roundabout”:—
“Northborough is a large village, not in the sense of its number of houses or its population, but of the space of ground which it covers. The houses are mostly cottages, half-hidden in orchards and luxuriant gardens, having a prodigality of ground. There is not an eminence loftier than a molehill throughout, yet the spacious roads and the wealth of trees and flowers make it a very picturesque and happy-looking locality. Clare’s cottage stands in the midst of ample grounds.”
It has been generally supposed that the cottage was provided for Clare rent-free, but that this was not the case is shown by the fact that in one of his letters to Mrs. Emmerson he told her that he had had to sub-let the piece of common for less than he was himself paying for it. The rent was either L13 or L15 a year, but whether the regular payment of that amount was insisted upon is very doubtful. To the astonishment and even annoyance of many of Clare’s friends, when he was informed that the cottage was ready for its new tenants, he showed the utmost reluctance to leave Helpstone. Mr. Martin gives the following account of what took place:—
“Patty, radiant with joy to get away from the miserable little hut into a beautiful roomy cottage, a palace in comparison with the old dwelling, had all things ready for moving at the beginning of June, yet could not persuade her husband to give his consent to the final start. Day after day he postponed it, offering no excuse save that he could not bear to part from his old home. Day after day he kept walking through fields and woods among his old haunts, with wild, haggard look, muttering incoherent language. The people of the village began to whisper that he was going mad. At Milton Park they heard of it, and Artis and Henderson hurried to Helpstone to look after their friend. They found him sitting on a moss-grown stone, at the end of the village nearest the heath. Gently they took him by the arm, and, leading him back to the hut, told Mrs. Clare that it would be best to start at once to Northborough, the Earl being dissatisfied that the removal had not taken place. Patty’s little caravan was soon ready, and the poet, guided by his friends, followed in the rear, walking mechanically, with eyes half shut, as if in a dream. His look brightened for a moment when entering his new dwelling place, a truly beautiful cottage, with thatched roof, casemented windows, wild roses over the porch, and flowery hedges all round. Yet before many hours were over he fell back into deep melancholy, from which he was relieved only by a new burst of song. His feelings found vent in the touching verses beginning ‘I’ve left my own old home of homes.’”
Shortly after removing to Northborough Clare made another ineffectual attempt to induce his trustees to draw out a portion of his fund money. Writing in connection with this subject Mr. Emmerson says:—
“Mrs. Emmerson and myself take a lively interest in your welfare, and we shall be glad to know exactly how you stand in your affairs, what debts you owe, and what stock you require for your present pursuit: by stock, I mean a cow or cows, pigs, &c. Pray give me an early reply to all these particulars, that we may see if anything can be done here to serve you.”
Clare replied at once, and in a few days Mrs. Emmerson wrote as follows:—
“We have consulted with Mr. Taylor. Mr. Emmerson went to him yesterday on the receipt of your letter, and informed him of its contents, and it was concluded to set on foot a private friendly subscription to help Farmer John in his concerns. E. L. E. will give L10, which must be laid out in the purchase of a cow, which she begs may be called by the poetic name of Rose or Blossom, or May. Mr. Taylor will kindly give L5 to purchase two pigs, and I dare say we shall succeed in getting another L5 to buy a butter churn and a few useful tools for husbandry, so that you may all set to work and begin to turn your labour to account, and by instalments pay off the various little debts which have accumulated in your own neighbourhood. Your garden, and orchard, and dairy will soon release you from these demands, I hope; at any rate you will thus have a beginning, and with the blessing of Providence, and health on your side, and care and industry on the part of your wife and children, I hope my dear Clare will sit down happy ere long in his new abode, rather than have cause to regret leaving his ‘own old home of homes.’ It is a very natural and tender lament.”
Clare had not lived long at Northborough when he was waited upon by the editor of a London magazine who wormed from him an account of his private affairs, and having dressed up that account in what would now be called a sensational style, published it to the world. The article contained many unjust insinuations against Clare’s patrons and publishers, and Mr. Taylor commenced actions, afterwards abandoned, against the magazine in which it originally appeared, the “Alfred,” and also against a Stamford paper, into which the article was copied. Clare indignantly protested against the use to which his conversation with his meddlesome visitor had been put, but it is impossible entirely to acquit him of blame. Mr. Taylor remonstrated with him upon his indiscretion, but with a consideration for his inexperience which it is very pleasant to notice, refrained from a severity of rebuke to which Clare had no doubt exposed himself. “I have been much hurt,” he says, “at finding that my endeavours to do you service have ended no better than they have, but if you supposed that I had been benefited by it, or that I had withheld from you anything you were entitled to—any profit whatever on any of your works—you have been grievously mistaken.” Mr. Taylor was constant to the end, for after this he promoted Clare’s interests by every means in his power, conferring with Dr. Darling on his behalf, discharging in conjunction with Mrs. Emmerson a heavy account sent in by a local medical man, advising him in all his troubles, offering him a home whenever he chose to come to London to see Dr. Darling, editing his last volume of poems, although it was brought out by a house with which he had no connection, and, finally, contributing to his maintenance when it became necessary to send him to a private asylum. Among the indications which Clare gave of the approaching loss of reason were frequent complaints that he was haunted by evil spirits, and that he and his family were bewitched. Writing on this subject in February, 1833, Mr. Taylor said:—
“As for evil spirits, depend upon it, my dear friend, that there are none, and that there is no such thing as witchcraft. But I am sure that our hearts naturally are full of evil thoughts, and that God has intended to set us free from the dominion of such thoughts by his good Spirit. You will not expect me to say much on this subject, knowing that I never press it upon my friends. I must, however, so far depart from my custom as to say, that I am perfectly certain a man may be happy even in this life if he will listen to the Word which came down from heaven, and be as a little child in his obedience and willingness to do what it requires of him. I am sure of this, that if we receive the Spirit of God in our hearts we shall never die. We shall go away from this scene, and our bodies will be consigned to the grave, but with less pain than we have often felt in life we shall be carried through what seem to be the pangs of death, and then we shall be with that holy and blessed company at once who have died fully believing in Christ, and who shall never again be separated from him and happiness.
Farewell, my dear Clare.
Believe me ever most sincerely yours,
JOHN TAYLOR.”
“THE RURAL MUSE”
In 1832 Clare projected a new volume of poems, and with the assistance of his friends obtained in a few months two hundred subscribers. Mr. Taylor having represented that as publisher to the London University poetry was no longer in his line of business, Mr. Emmerson undertook the task of finding another publisher, and opened a correspondence with Mr. How, a gentleman connected with the house of Whittaker & Co. A large number of manuscript poems and of fugitive pieces from the annuals were submitted to Mr. How, who was requested by Mr. Emmerson to make the poet an offer. The negotiation was successful, for on the 8th of March, 1834, Mr. Emmerson was enabled to write to Clare as follows:—
“My very dear Clare,—
At length with great pleasure, although after great anxiety and trouble, I have brought your affair with Mr. How to a conclusion. I have enclosed a receipt for your signature, and if you will write your name at the bottom of it and return it enclosed in a letter to me, I shall have the L40 in ready money for you immediately. You will perceive by the receipt that I have sold only the copyright of the first edition, and that Mr. How stipulates shall consist of only 750 copies, or at the utmost 1000. And now, with the license of a friend, I am about to talk to you about your affairs. This money has been hardly earned by your mental labour, and with difficulty obtained by me for you, only by great perseverance. We are therefore most anxious it should be the means of freeing you from all debt or incumbrance, in order that your mind may be once more at ease, and that you may revel with your muse at will, regardless of all hauntings save hers, and when she troubles you can pay her off in her own coin. The sum you stated some time since I think was L35 as sufficient to clear all your debts, and thus you will be able to start fairly with the world again.”
While the “Rural Muse” was in the press, Mr. How, one of the very few of Clare’s earlier friends who are still living, suggested to him the advisableness of his applying to the committee of the Literary Fund for a grant, and promising to exert himself to the utmost to secure the success of the application. Clare applied for L50, and obtained it, whereupon Mrs. Emmerson, to whose heart there was no readier way than that of showing kindness to poor Clare, writes:—
“In my last, I told you I had written to Mr. How on the subject of the Literary Fund, &c. Yesterday morning the good little man came to communicate to me the favourable result of the application. The committee have nobly presented you with fifty pounds. Blessings on them! for giving you the means to do honour to every engagement, and leave you, I hope, a surplus to fly to when needed. Mr. How is just the sort of man for my own nature. He is willing to do his best for Clare. He has shown himself in the recent event as one of the few who perform what they promise. God bless him for his kindly exertions to emancipate you from your thraldom!”
“The Rural Muse” was published in July, and was cordially received by the “Athenaeum,” “Blackwood’s Magazine,” the “Literary Gazette,” and other leading periodicals. It was well printed and embellished with engravings of Northborough Church and the poet’s cottage. It has been already intimated that the poems included within this volume, while retaining all the freshness and simplicity of Clare’s earlier works, exhibit traces of the mental cultivation to which for years so large a portion of his time had been devoted. The circle of subjects is greatly expanded, the passages to which exception may be taken on the score of carelessness or obscurity are few, and the diction is often refined and elevated to a degree of which the poet had not before shown himself capable. The following extracts are made almost at random:—
Autumn
Syren of sullen moods and fading hues,
Yet haply not incapable of joy,
Sweet Autumn! I thee hail
With welcome all unfeigned;
And oft as morning from her lattice peeps
To beckon up the sun, I seek with thee
To drink the dewy breath
Of fields left fragrant then,
In solitudes, where no frequented paths
But what thine own foot makes betray thine home,
Stealing obtrusive there
To meditate thy end;
By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks,
With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge,
Which woo the winds to play,
And with them dance for joy;
And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods,
Where waterlilies spread their oily leaves,
On which, as wont, the fly
Oft battens in the sun;
Where leans the mossy willow half way o’er,
On which the shepherd crawls astride to throw
His angle, clear of weeds
That crown the water’s brim;
Or crispy hills and hollows scant of sward,
Where step by step the patient, lonely boy,
Hath cut rude flights of stairs
To climb their steepy sides;
Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woods
With tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath,
Some sickly cankered leaf
Let go its hold and die.
And now the bickering storm, with sudden start,
In flirting fits of anger carps aloud,
Thee urging to thine end,
Sore wept by troubled skies.
And yet, sublime in grief, thy thoughts delight
To show me visions of most gorgeous dyes,
Haply forgetting now
They but prepare thy shroud;
Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades,
Improvident of wealth, till every bough
Burns with thy mellow touch
Disorderly divine.
Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream
Droop faintly, and so reckon for thine end,
As sad the winds sink low
In dirges for their queen;
While in the moment of their weary pause,
To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark
Starts from his shielding clod,
Snatching sweet scraps of song.
Thy life is waning now, and Silence tries
To mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds,
As stooping low she bends,
Forming with leaves thy grave;
To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods,
Till parch-lipped Summer pines in drought away;
Then from thine ivied trance
Awake to glories new.