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.'
The article in 'Blackwood's Magazine' occasioned some talk in the literary world of London; but on the whole made little impression, and probably did not contribute much to the sale of the 'Rural Muse.' The old patrons of Clare were glad to learn, on the authority of a great writer, that he was tolerably comfortable and,'contented,' with something to spare for 'the beggar at the door,' and for the rest people did not trouble themselves much about 'national disgrace,' engendered by the treatment of rural poets. Three months after the publication of his 'Rural Muse,' Clare was as much forgotten as ever; his name never mentioned in polite society; and the copies of his book lying unsold on the shelves of Messrs. Whittaker and Co. in Ave Maria Lane. The poet himself was not affected by it, for he had ceased to suffer from the neglect of the world and the rude buffetings of poverty and misery. Like Hamlet--
'He, repulsed, Fell into sadness, then into a fast, Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, Thence to a lightness; and, by this declension, Into the madness wherein now he raves.'
In the winter of 1835-6 the poet's mental state became alarming. His ordinarily quiet behaviour gave way at times to fits of excitement, during which he would talk in a violent manner to those around him. However, his wife and children were as yet almost the only people who knew of his mental derangement, the world being still entirely ignorant that the 'Northamptonshire Peasant,' who had just issued a new book of poetry, was a madman. Even Clare's own neighbours knew little of his state; to them he always was an inexplicable, erratic being, with words and actions not to be measured by the ordinary standard, and they, therefore, took little notice of occasional strange scenes which they witnessed. This was fortunate, in so far as it contributed to put poor Mrs. Clare more at her ease. She rightly judged that if she could but induce her husband to leave his narrow room and his books, and enjoy again as of old the sight of flowers, trees, and green fields, his health would be greatly improved. With this constant aim in view, she succeeded at last in drawing her unhappy partner from his gloomy retirement. The spring of 1836 was unusually fine, and when nature had put on her first smiling green, and the whole little village was wrapped in a belt of fragrant blossoms and flowers, Patty instructed her two eldest daughters to lead their father for a short walk through the neighbourhood. The poet, this time, made no resistance whatever, but allowed himself to be guided by his children. He returned much pleased with his excursion, expressing a wish to go again the next day. From the second walk he came back still more delighted, and the daily rambles continuing for more than a month, Clare at last seemed almost recovered from his malady. Except at rare intervals, when his speech would become somewhat wild and incoherent, his behaviour showed not the least signs of eccentricity, and though more quiet and subdued than formerly, the conversation he carried on seemed perfectly judicious and rational. Once more, Patty fervently hoped Heaven would restore her husband.