Being under the impression that his friend was perfectly well, Dr. Smith soon discontinued his visits, and, not being called upon, never saw him again. But just at this time the poet's condition got rapidly worse, and the first tokens of insanity began to show themselves. Morbidly occupied with one set of thoughts, he had now lost the consciousness of his own identity, and addressed his wife and children as strangers. When the former first heard her husband speaking of 'John Clare' as a third person, she became terribly frightened; but thinking he might recover from his mental aberration by being carefully nursed and kept as quiet as possible, she resolved to do her own duty independent of the world. She was successful, to some extent; for after a while the clouds began, to disappear, and the poet again spoke in a rational manner. He seemed to feel as if awakening from a heavy, oppressive dream; his thoughts perfectly clear, yet with a conscious remembrance that his reason had been disturbed, and an infinite dread that the same calamity might happen again. Full of this apprehension, and in terrible anxiety to shield himself against the coming danger, he resolved to consult his friend, Mr. John Taylor, from whom he had not heard for a long time. He wrote a first note at the beginning of July, 1834; but, not getting an immediate reply, despatched a second letter. It ran:—

'Northborough, July 10, 1834.

My Dear Taylor,—I am in such a state that I cannot help feeling some alarm that I may be as I have been. You must excuse my writing; but I feel if I do not write now I shall not be able. What I wish is to get under Dr. Darling's advice, or to have his advice to go somewhere; for I have not been from home this twelvemonth, and cannot get anywhere. Yet I know if I could reach London I should be better, or else get to salt water. Whatever Dr. Darling advises I will do if I can.

Mrs. Emmerson, I think, has forsaken me. I do not feel neglect now as I have done: I feel only very anxious to get better. I cannot describe my feelings; perhaps in a day or two I shall not be able to do anything, or get anywhere. Write, dear Taylor, and believe me.

Yours sincerely, John Clare.'

The reply to this note was an invitation to come to London at once, and consult Dr. Darling, who would be glad to see his old friend and patient. But the advice was easier than its execution. There was such dire poverty within the pretty cottage at Northborough, that many a day its inmates had to go without a dinner; and to raise the money for paying the journey to London and back seemed sheer impossibility. Clare had made arrangements, some time previous, for the printing of his new volume of poems; but this, too, had not yet proved a remunerative affair. The publishers who had undertaken the task, Messrs. Whittaker and Co. of Ave Maria Lane, informed him that, before sending any remuneration for the book, they must see how it would sell; clearly hinting that, if not successful, there would be no payment. Thus the poor poet was again baffled in his endeavours to extricate himself from his dire misery by the want of a few pounds. Probably, could he but have raised at this moment sufficient money to pay for his journey to London and consult Dr. Darling, his life, and what was more than his life, might yet have been saved. But, again and again, there was not a hand stretched forth from among the host of high friends and patrons to save a glorious soul from perdition.

A last appeal for help and assistance issued forth from the cottage at Northborough at the beginning of August. Clare once more informed his friend Taylor that he felt terribly anxious to consult Dr. Darling, but could not undertake the journey for want of means. 'If I could but go to London,' he wrote, 'I think I should get better. How would you advise me to come? I dare not come up by myself. Do you think one of my children might go with me? Write to me as soon as you can. God bless you! Excuse the short letter, for I am not able to say more. Thank God, my wife and children are all well.' There was no answer to this note, nor to a final still more piercing cry for help. After that, all was quiet at the pretty cottage at Northborough. The last struggle was over.

Months and months passed, and no change took place in the mental condition of the poet. He kept reading and writing all day long; spoke but little, and seemed averse to the society of even his wife and children. At times, and for long consecutive periods, his remarks to his family, and some few neighbours or visitors who were admitted to the house, were quite rational; but again at other times his language betrayed the sad aberration of a noble intellect. At such moments he always spoke of himself as a stranger, in the third person, alternately praising and condemning the sayings and doings of the man John Clare. He was fond, too, of appealing to some invisible 'Mary,' as his wife, quite ignoring the faithful spouse at his side, and treating her with utter indifference. Throughout, however, he was calm and quiet; never complaining of anything, nor possessing, to all appearance, any other desire than that of being left alone in his little room, among his books and papers. Thus the winter passed, and the spring made its appearance—the spring of 1835. At the approach of it the dark clouds seemed to vanish once more for a short time. Throughout March and April, he did not show the least sign of mental derangement, and on there coming a letter from his publishers, asking him to write a preface to his little book of poems, just on the point of being issued, he did so without hesitation. This preface, dated 'Northborough, May 9, 1835'—containing nothing remarkable, except a melancholy allusion to 'old friends' long vanished from the scene, and to 'ill health,' which had left the writer 'incapable of doing anything,'—was duly issued with the new book in the month of June.

The book was entitled 'The Rural Muse,' and, by desire of the publishers, was dedicated to Earl Fitzwilliam. It was but a small volume of 175 pages, comprising some forty-four ballads and songs, together with eighty-six sonnets. Messrs. Whittaker and Co. fearful of risking money in printing too large a quantity of rural verse, so much out of fashion for the time, had picked these short pieces from about five times as many poems, furnished to them by the author. The pieces, however, were well chosen; and were likewise tastefully printed, besides being illustrated with the inevitable steel engravings—pictures of Clare's cottage and of the, church at Northborough. Short as most of the poems were, it was on the whole a splendid collection of exquisite verse, such, as had not been published for many a day. The 'Rural Muse,' compared to Clare's first book, the 'Poems of Rural Life,' was as much higher in thought as the works of the master are to those of the apprentice, and as much more beautiful in outward form as the butterfly is to the chrysalis. Nevertheless, the new volume, so far from passing, like the first, through four editions, and being praised by 'Quarterly Reviews' and other high organs of criticism, proved thoroughly unsuccessful. The reviewers refused to notice, and the public to buy, the 'Rural Muse.' There was no critic in all England to say one word in its recommendation; nor one of all the old friends and patrons who sent a cheering note of praise to the author. Of the ill success of his book Clare, however, heard soon enough. The publishers let him know that he could expect no remuneration, the entire receipts being insufficient to pay the expenses, including the cost of the much-admired steel engravings. Clare received the information very calmly. His soul, once more, was beyond the strife of hopes and fears.

Though there was no literary review in England to say a word in favour of the forgotten poet at Northborough, there was one in Scotland. Professor Wilson, of Edinburgh, had no sooner seen the new book when he broke forth in eloquent praise of it in 'Blackwood's Magazine.' In the number for August, 1835, he gave an article of sixteen pages, headed 'Clare's Rural Muse,' containing not a few strong honest words about the poet and the unjust neglect under which he was suffering. After comparing Clare with Burns, and setting him, at the same time, far above Bloomfield, Professor Wilson broke forth in indignant strain:—

'Our well-beloved brethren, the English—who, genteel as they are, have a vulgar habit of calling us the Scotch—never lose an opportunity of declaiming on the national disgrace incurred by our treatment of Burns. We confess that the people of that day were not blameless—nor was the bard whom now all the nations honour. There was some reason for sorrow, and perhaps for shame; and there was avowed repentance. Scotland stands where it did in the world's esteem. The widow outlived her husband nearly forty years; she wanted nothing, and was happy. The sons are prosperous, or with a competence; all along with that family all has been right. England never had a Burns. We cannot know how she would have treated him had he "walked in glory and in joy" upon her mountain-side. But we do know how she treated her Bloomfield. She let him starve. Humanly speaking, we may say that but for his imprisonment—his exclusion from light and air—he would, now have been alive. As it was, the patronage he received served but to prolong a feeble, a desponding, a melancholy existence; cheered at times but by short visits from the Muse, who was scared from that dim abode, and fain would have wafted him with her to the fresh fields and the breezy downs. But his lot forbad—and generous England. There was some talk of a subscription, and Southey, with hand "open as day to melting charity," was foremost among the poets. But somehow or, other it fell through, and was never more heard of—and meanwhile Bloomfield died. Hush then about Burns.'

When brave Christopher North wrote these lines in 'Blackwood,' he probably knew nothing about the actual position of Clare, except the general rumour that he was not very well off, though not absolutely poor. He therefore thought to do enough in inviting all the admirers of genuine poetry to purchase the 'Rural Muse,' in order that 'the poet's family be provided with additional comforts.' That some 'comforts' were theirs already, Professor Wilson judged from the elaborate steel engraving of Clare's dwelling, prefixed to the new volume. 'The creeping plants,' he said, 'look pretty in front of the poet's cottage, but they bear no fruit. There is, however, a little garden attached, and in it may he dig without anxiety, nor need to grudge among the esculents the gadding flowers…. Clare is contented, and his Patty has her handful for the beggar at the door, her heartful for a sick neighbour.'

Alas! had but Professor Wilson known the bitter actual truth, the frightful condition of another Burns, it might have been time yet to rouse with thunder voice the heart of England—of England and of Scotland—to prevent another 'national disgrace.'