"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sistance 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 ma.n.u.script 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 inc.u.mbrance, 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 n.o.bly 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. G.o.d bless him for his kindly exertions to emanc.i.p.ate 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 pa.s.sages 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing sweet sc.r.a.ps 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.

MAY

Now comes the bonny May, dancing and skipping Across the stepping-stones of meadow streams, Bearing no kin to April showers a-weeping, But constant Sunshine as her servant seems.

Her heart is up--her sweetness, all a-maying, Streams in her face, like gems on Beauty's breast; The swains are sighing all, and well-a-daying, Lovesick and gazing on their lovely guest.

The Sunday paths, to pleasant places leading, Are graced by couples linking arm in arm, Sweet smiles enjoying or some book a-reading, Where Love and Beauty are the constant charm; For while the bonny May is dancing by, Beauty delights the ear, and Beauty fills the eye.

Birds sing and build, and Nature scorns alone On May's young festival to be a widow; The children, too, have pleasures all their own, In gathering lady-smocks along the meadow.

The little brook sings loud among the pebbles, So very loud, that water-flowers, which lie Where many a silver curdle boils and dribbles, Dance too with joy as it goes singing by.

Among the pasture mole-hills maidens stoop To pluck the luscious marjoram for their bosoms; The greensward's littered o'er with b.u.t.tercups, And whitethorns, they are breaking down with blossoms.

'T is Nature's livery for the bonny May, Who keeps her court, and all have holiday.

Princess of Months (so Nature's choice ordains,) And Lady of the Summer still she reigns.

In spite of April's youth, who charms in tears, And rosy June, who wins with blushing face; July, sweet shepherdess, who wreathes the shears Of shepherds with her flowers of winning grace; And sun-tanned August, with her swarthy charms, The beautiful and rich; and pastoral, gay September, with her pomp of fields and farms; And wild November's sybilline array;-- In spite of Beauty's calendar, the Year Garlands with Beauty's prize the bonny May.

Where'er she goes, fair Nature hath no peer, And months do love their queen when she's away.

MEMORY

I would not that my memory all should die, And pa.s.s away with every common lot: I would not that my humble dust should lie In quite a strange and unfrequented spot, By all unheeded and by all forgot, With nothing save the heedless winds to sigh, And nothing but the dewy morn to weep About my grave, far hid from the world's eye: I fain would have some friend to wander nigh And find a path to where my ashes sleep-- Not the cold heart that merely pa.s.ses by, To read who lies beneath, but such as keep Past memories warm with deeds of other years, And pay to friendship some few friendly tears.

"The Rural Muse" sold tolerably well for some months, and Mr.

Whittaker told Mr. Emmerson that "he thought they would get off" the first edition. But the time was rapidly approaching when literary fame or failure, the constancy or fickleness of friends, the pangs of poverty or the joys of competence were to be alike matters of indifference to John Clare. He began to write in a piteous strain to Mrs. Emmerson, Mr. Taylor, and Dr. Darling, all of whom a.s.sured him of their deep sympathy, and promised a.s.sistance. Mrs. Emmerson, although completely prostrated by repeated and serious attacks of illness, sent him cheering letters so long as she could hold her pen, while Mr. Taylor wrote:--

"If you think that you can now come here for the advice of Dr.

Darling I shall be very happy to see you, and any one who may attend you." The attacks of melancholy from which he had suffered occasionally for many years became more frequent and more intense, his language grew wild and incoherent, and at length he failed to recognize his own wife and children and became the subject of all kinds of hallucinations. There were times when he was perfectly rational, and he returned to work in his garden or in his little study with a zest which filled his family and neighbours with eager antic.i.p.ations of his recovery, but every succeeding attack of his mental malady was more severe than that which preceded it. Of all that followed little need be said, for it is too painful to be dwelt upon, and the story of Clare's life hurries therefore to its close.

His lunacy having been duly certified, Mr. Taylor and other of Clare's old friends in London charged themselves with the responsibility of removing him to the private asylum of Dr. Allen at High Beech, in Epping Forest. Mr. Taylor sending a trustworthy person to Northborough to accompany him to London and take care of him on the road. This was in June or July, 1837, and Clare remained under Mr. Allen's care for four years. Allan Cunningham, Mr. S. C. Hall, and others of Clare's literary friends energetically appealed to the public on behalf of the unhappy bard. Mr. Hall in the "Book of Gems"

for 1838 wrote:--

"It is not yet too late: although he has given indications of a brain breaking up, a very envied celebrity may be obtained by some wealthy and good Samaritan who would rescue him from the Cave of Despair,"

adding, "Strawberry Hill might be gladly sacrificed for the fame of having saved Chatterton."

This appeal brought Mr. Hall a letter from the Marquis of Northampton, whose name is now for the first time a.s.sociated with that of the poet. The Marquis informed Mr. Hall that he was not one of Clare's exceeding admirers, but he was struck and shocked by what that gentleman had said about "our county poet," and thought it would be "a disgrace to the county," to which Clare was "a credit," if he were left in a state of poverty. The county was neither very wealthy nor very literary, but his lordship thought that a collection of Clare's poems might be published by subscription, and if that suggestion were adopted he would take ten or twenty copies, or he would give a donation of money, if direct a.s.sistance of that kind were preferred. Mr. Hall says in his "Memories,":--