I received an interesting telphone call from Prof. Eric Robinson this morning. He was one of two editors of the Oxford Press edition of Clare's works and is considered the leading scholar on Clare. He also holds a copyright on all of Clare's poems not published in the poet's lifetime, which he purchased from the successor to Clare's publisher who bought it from Clare while he was yet alive and in his right mind, more or less.
I thought Prof. Robinson might be calling about some of the poems posted on this thread, but he says he has given up the copyright business, which has been violated several times, though he has prevented one or two books of "modernized" Clare from being published.
However, Prof. Robinson was calling about a recently discovered manuscript by, and in the handwriting of, Robert Bloomfield, a poor cobbler and "peasant poet" of Clare's day (known and admired by Clare) whose poems were at that time even more popular than Clare's. One of Bloomfield's books sold over 26,000 copies within three years. He, like Clare wrote in the East England dialect and had trouble with his editors who sometimes rewrote him in the high romantic style of late 18th century society verse.
This new-found Bloomfield manuscript (how long it is, I do not know) was unearthed by a Mr. Tom Cochran, an Englishman. Prof. Robinson says Mr. Cochran is interested in publicizing the poems on the Internet. He (Robinson) thought I might want to run it in the Susquehanna Quarterly, but as I don't have the SQ anymore and there seems scant prospect of anyone carrying it on, I told him I would ask around for suggestions and then telephone Mr. Cochran with whatever help I can provide.
Any ideas? Alex? Tim? Clive? Sam? Anyone?
Here is one Bloomfield poem,with his introduction, perhaps as edited by his upper-class publisher. For a couple of others, see
http://human.ntu.ac.uk/research/bloomfield/
__________________________________________________ _______
TO A SPINDLE (c. 1805)
The portrait of my mother was taken on her last visit to London, in the summer of 1804, and about six months previous to her dissolution. During the period of evident decline in her strength and faculties, she conceived, in place of that patient resignation which she had before felt, an ungovernable dread of ultimate want; and observed to a relative, with peculiar emphasis, that ‘to meet Winter, Old Age, and Poverty, was like meeting three giants.’
To the last hour of her life she was an excellent spinner; and latterly, the peculiar kind of wool she spun, was brought exclusively for her, as being the only one in the village, who exercised their industry on so fine a sort. During the tearful paroxysms of her last depression, she spun with the utmost violence, and with vehemence exclaimed, ‘I must spin!’ A paralytic affection, struck her whole right side, while at work, and obliged her to quit her spindle when only half filled, and she died within a fortnight afterwards. I have that spindle now.
She was buried on the last day of the year 1804. She returned from her visit to London, on Friday, the 29th of June, just to a day, 23 years after she brought me to London, which was also on a Friday, in the year 1781.
Relic! I will not bow to thee, nor worship!
Yet, treasure as thou art, remembrancer
Of sunny days, that ever haunt my dreams,
Where thy brown fellows as a task I twirl’d,
And sang my ditties, ere the farm received
My vagrant foot, and with its liberty,
And all its cheerful buds, and op’ning flowers,
Had taught my heart to wander:
- Relic of affection! come; -
Thou shalt a moral teach to me and mine;
The hand that wore thee smooth is cold, and spins
No more! Debility press’d hard, around
The seat of life, and terrors fill’d her brain, -
Nor causeless terrors. Giants grim and bold,
Three mighty ones she fear’d to meet: - they came -
Winter, Old Age, and Poverty, - all came;
The last had dropp’d his club, yet fancy made
Him formidable; and when Death beheld
Her tribulation, he fulfill’d his task,
And to her trembling hand and heart at once,
Cried, ‘Spin no more.’ - Thou then wert left half fill’d
With this soft downy fleece, such as she wound
Through all her days, she who could spin so well.
Half fill’d wert thou - half finish’d when she died!
- Half finish’d? ’Tis the motto of the world:
We spin vain threads, and strive, and die
With sillier things than spindles on our hands!
Then feeling, as I do, resistlessly,
The bias set upon my soul for verse;
Oh, should old age still find my brain at work,
And Death, o’er some poor fragment striding, cry
‘Hold! spin no more!’ grant, Heaven, that purity
Of thought and texture, may assimilate
That fragment unto thee, in usefulness,
In worth, and snowy innocence. Then shall
The village school-mistress, shine brighter through
The exit of her boy; and both shall live,
And virtue triumph too; and virtue’s tears,
Like Heaven’s pure blessings, fall upon their grave.
G.
[This message has been edited by Golias (edited April 01, 2005).]
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