 | Letters from New York |  |
LETTER XV.
It may seem strange to you that among the mass of beings
in this great human hive, I should occupy an entire
letter with one whose life was like a troubled and fantastic
dream; apparently without use to himself or others.
and will not be soon forgotten. For several years past the
eccentricities of Macdonald Clarke have been the city talk,
and almost every child in the street was familiar with his
countenance. In latter years the record of inexpressible
misery was written there; but he is said to have had rather
an unusual portion of beauty in his youth; and even to the
last, the heart looked out from his wild eyes with most
friendly earnestness. I saw him but twice; and now mourn
sincerely that the pressure of many avocations prevented
my seeking to see him oftener. So many forms of unhappiness
crowd upon is in this world of perversion and disorder,
that it is impossible to answer all demands. But
stranger as poor Clarke was, it now makes me sad that I
did not turn out of my way to utter the simple word of
kindness, which never failed to rejoice his suffering and
childlike soul.
I was always deeply touched by the answer of the poor,
heart-broken page in Hope Leslie: “Yes, lady, I have lost
my way!” How often do I meet with those who, on the
crowded pathway of life, have lost their way. With poor
Clarke it was so from the very outset. Something that was
not quite insanity, but was nigh akin to it, marked his very
boyhood.
He was born in New London, Connecticut, and was
school-mate with our eloquent friend, Charles C. Burleigh,
who always speaks of him as the most kind-hearted of boys,
but even then characterized by the oddest vagaries. His
mother died at sea, when he was twelve years old; being
on a voyage for her health. He says—
Was sighing a dirge through the leafless trees,
She was borne by rough men in the chilly dark,
Down to the wharf-side, where a bark
Waited for its precious freight.
I watched the ship-lights long and late;
I turned drooping away,
And felt that mine were darkening years.”
he describes himself, “an only son, having been petted to
a pitiable unfitness for the sterner purposes of life, went
forth alone, to struggle with the world's unfriendliness, and
front its frowns.”
He was in Philadelphia, at one period; but all we ever
heard of him there was, that he habitually slept in the
grave-yard, on Franklin's monument. In 1819, he
came to New-York, where he wrote for newspapers,
and struggled as he could with poverty; assisted from
time to time by benevolence which he never sought. A
sad situation for one who, like him, had a nerve protruding
at every pore.
In New-York he became in love with a handsome young
actress, of seventeen, by the name of Brundage. His poverty,
and obvious incapacity to obtain a livelihood, made the
match objectionable in the eyes of her mother; and they
eloped. The time chosen was as wild and inopportune as
most of his movements. On the very night she was to play
Ophelia, on her way to the Park theatre, she absconded
with her lover, and was married. Of course, the play could
not go on; the audience were disappointed, and the manager
angry. The mother of the young lady, a strong, masculine
woman, was so full of wrath, that she pulled her
daughter out of bed at midnight, and dragged her home.
The bridegroom tried to pacify the manager by the most
polite explanations; but received nothing but kicks in return,
with orders never to show his face within the building
again. The young couple were strongly attached to each
other, and of course were not long kept separated. But
Macdonald, who had come of a wealthy family, was too
proud to have his wife appear on the stage again; and the
by the jar that ran through them all; of course, poverty
came upon them like an armed man. They suffered greatly,
but still clung to each other with the most fervid affection.
Sometimes they slept in the deserted market-house; and
when the weather would permit, under the shadow of the
trees. One dreadful stormy night, they were utterly without
shelter, and in the extremity of their need, sought the
residence of her mother. They knocked and knocked in
vain; at last, the suffering young wife proposed climbing a
shed, in order to enter the window of a chamber she used to
occupy. To accomplish this purpose, Macdonald placed
boards across a rain-water hogshead, at the corner of the
shed. He mounted first, and drew her up after him; when
suddenly the boards broke, and both fell into the water.
Their screams brought out the strong-handed and unforgiving
mother. She seized her offending daughter by the hair,
and plunged her up and down in the water several times,
before she would help her out. She finally took her into
the house, and left Macdonald to escape as he could. They
were not allowed to live together again, and the wife seemed
compelled to return to the stage, as a means of obtaining
bread. She was young and pretty, her affections were
blighted, she was poor, and her profession abounded with
temptations. It was a situation much to be pitied; for it
hardly admitted of other result than that which followed.
They who had loved so fondly, were divorced to meet no
more. Whenever Macdonald alluded to this part of his
strange history, as he often did to a very intimate friend,
he always added, “I never blamed her; though it almost
broke my heart. She was driven to it, and I always pitied
her.”
This lady is now an actress of considerable reputation in
England; by the name of Burrows, I think.
From this period, the wildness of poor Clarke's nature
name of the “Mad Poet.” His strange productions bore
about the same relation to poetry that grotesques, with
monkey faces jabbering out of lilly cups, and gnarled trees
with knot-holes twisted into hag's grimaces, bear to graceful
arabesques, with trailing vines and intertwisted blossoms.
Yet was the undoubted presence of genius always visible.
Ever and anon a light from another world shone on his innocent
soul, kindling the holiest aspirations, which could
find for themselves no form in his bewildered intellect, and
so fell from his pen in uncouth and jagged fragments, still
sparkling with the beauty of the region whence they came.
His metaphors were at times singularly fanciful. He thus
describes the closing day:—
And pins it with a star.”
And in another place, he talks of memory that shall last
M. B. Lamar, late President of Texas, once met this
eccentric individual at the room of William Page, the distinguished
artist. The interview led to the following very
descriptive lines from Lamar:
The poet of the Moon?
He is a d—eccentric lark
As famous as Zip Coon.
He talks of Love and dreams of Fame,
And lauds his ministrel art;
He has a kind of zig-zag brain—
But yet a straight-line heart.
Sometimes his strains so sweetly float,
His harp so sweetly sings,
Of Jubal touched the strings;
But soon, anon, with failing art,
The strain as rudely jars,
As if a driver tuned the harp,
In cadence with his cars.
He was himself well aware that his mind was a broken
instrument. He described himself as
As pliant as a weeping-willow—
Loves most everybody's girls; an't lazy—
Can write an hundred lines an hour,
With a rackety, whackety railroad power.”
From the phrase, “loves most everybody's girls,” it must
not be inferred that he was profligate. On the contrary, he
was innocent as a child. He talked of love continually;
but it was of a mystic union of souls, whispered to him by
angels, heard imperfectly in the lonely, echoing chambers
of his soul, and uttered in phrases learned on earth, all
unfit for the holy sentiment. Like the philosopher of the
East, he knew, by inward revelation, that his soul
Had lost its partner on the road,
And never joined their hands.”
half. This idea continually broke from him in plaintive,
wild, imploring tones.
From those to whom my thoughts were kind,
I've fancied there was never born
On earth, for me, one kindred mind.”
Again he says:
In one fierce, wavering, ghastly flare,
That dreams its mother's breast is there;
Calm as the deep midsummer's air—
Calm as that brow so mild and fair—
Calm as God's angels everywhere—
For all is Heaven—if Mary's there.”
This restless idea often centred itself upon some young
lady, whom he followed for a long time, with troublesome
but guileless enthusiasm. The objects of his pursuit were
sometimes afraid of him; but there was no occasion for
this. As a New-York editor very happily said, “He pursued
the little Red Riding Hoods of his imagination to
bless and not to devour.”
Indeed, in all respects, his nature was most kindly; in-somuch
that he suffered continual torture in this great
Babel of misery and crime. He wanted to relieve all the
world, and was frenzied that he could not. All that he had
—money, watch, rings, were given to forlorn street wanderers,
with a compassionate, and even deferential gentleness,
that sometimes brought tears to their eyes. Often,
when he had nothing to give, he would snatch up a ragged,
shivering child in the street, carry it to the door of some
princely mansion, and demand to see the lady of the house.
When she appeared, he would say, “Madam, God has made
you one of the trustees of his wealth. It is His, not yours.
Take this poor child, wash it, feed it, clothe it, comfort it—
in God's name.”
Ladies stared at such abrupt address, and deemed the
natural action of the heart sufficient proof of madness; but
the little ones were seldom sent away uncomforted.
Clarke was simple and temperate in all his habits; and
in his deepest poverty always kept up the neat appearance
of a gentleman; if his coat was thread-bare, it was never
soiled. His tendency to refinement was shown in the
church he chose to worship in. It was Grace church, the
churches in this city. He was a constant attendant, and
took comfort in the devotional frame of mind excited
by the music. He was confirmed at that church but a few
weeks before his death; and commemorated the event in
lines, of which the following are an extract:
The children of the Cross are kneeling.
Forward, brother—do not falter,
Fast the tears of sin are stealing;
Washing memory bright and clean
Making futurity serene.”
During the past winter, he raved more than usual.
The editor of the Aurora says he met him at his simple
repast of apples and milk, in a public house, on last
Christmas evening. He was absolutely mad. “You think
I am Macdonald Clarke,” said he; “but I am not. The
mad poet dashed out his brains, last Thursday night, at
the foot of Emmet's monument. The storm that night was
the tears Heaven wept over him. God animated the body
again. I am not now Macdonald Clarke, but Afara, an
archangel of the Almighty.”
“I went to Grace church to-day. Miss—sat in the
seat behind me, and I tossed this velvet bible, with its
golden clasps, into her lap. What do you think she did?
A moment she looked surprised, and then she tossed it
back again. So they all treat me. All I want is some
religious people, that love God and love one another, to
treat me kindly. One sweet smile of Mary—would
make my mind all light and peace; and I would write such
poetry as the world never saw.
“Something ought to be done for me,” said he; “I
can't take care of myself. I ought to be sent to the asylum;
or, wouldn't it be better to die? The moon shines
and they look all covered with diamonds—don't you
think they look like diamonds? Then there is a lake in
Greenwood Cemetery; that would be a good cool place for
me—I am not afraid to die. The stars of heaven look
down on that lake, and it reflects their brightness.”
The Mary to whom he alluded, was a wealthy young
lady of this city; one of those whom his distempered imagination
fancied was his lost half. Some giddy young
persons, with thoughtless cruelty, sought to excite him on
this favourite idea, by every species of joke and trickery.
They made him believe that the young lady was dying with
love for him, but restrained by her father; they sent him
letters, purporting to be from her hand; and finally led him
to the house, on pretence of introducing him, and then left
him on the door-step. The poor fellow returned to the
Carlton House, in high frenzy. The next night but one,
he was found in the streets, kneeling before a poor beggar,
to whom he had just given all his money. The beggar,
seeing his forlorn condition, wished to return it, and said,
“Poor fellow, you need it more than I.” When the watchman
encountered them, Clarke was writing busily on his
knee, the history of his companion, which he was beseeching
him to tell. The cap was blown from his head, on
which a pitiless storm was pelting. The watchman could
make nothing of his incoherent talk, and he was taken to
the Egyptian Tombs; a prison where vagabonds and
criminals await their trial.
In the morning, he begged that the book-keeper of the
Carlton House might be sent for; saying that he was his
only friend. This gentleman conveyed him to the Lunatic
Asylum, on Blackwell's Island. Two of my friends, who
visited him there, found him as comfortable as his situation
allowed. He said he was treated with great kindness, but
his earnest desire to get out rendered the interview very
might write hymns and spiritual songs all the rest of his
life. In some quiet intervals, he complained of the jokes
that had been practised on him, and said it was not kind;
but he was fearfully delirious most of the time—calling
vociferously for “Water! Water!” and complaining that
his brain was all on fire.
He died a few days after, aged about 44. His friend of
the Carlton House took upon himself the charge of his
funeral; and it is satisfactory to think that it was all
ordered, just as the kind and simple-hearted being would
have himself desired. The body was conveyed to Grace
church, and the funeral service performed in the presence
of a few who had loved him. Among these was Fitz-Greene
Halleck, who it is said often befriended him in the
course of his suffering life. Many children were present;
and one, with tearful eyes, brought a beautiful little bunch
of flowers, which a friend laid upon his bosom with reverent
tenderness. He was buried at Greenwood Cemetery, under
the shadow of a pine tree, next to the grave of a little child
—a fitting resting place for the loving and childlike poet.
He had often expressed a wish to be buried at Greenwood.
Walking there with a friend of mine, they selected
a spot for his grave; and he seemed pleased as a boy,
when told of the arrangements that should be made at his
funeral. “I hope the children will come,” said he, “I
want to be buried by the side of children. Four things I
am sure there will be in heaven; music, plenty of little
children, flowers, and pure air.”
They are now getting up a subscription for a marble
monument. It seems out of keeping with his character
and destiny. It were better to plant a rose-bush by his
grave, and mark his name on a simple white cross, that
the few who loved him might know where the gentle, sorrowing
wanderer sleeps.
| Letters from New York | |