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SKETCH 
 
 OF 
 
 M'DONALD CLARKE. 
 
 "the mad poet." 
 
 By CLARK JILLSON. 
 

 
 CS?^c^ia^ 't^^4/-<' 
 
SKETCH 
 
 OF 
 
 M'DONALD CLAEKE. 
 
 'THE MAD POET. 
 
 "men call me mad — 'tis a wonder I AM NOT." 
 
 By CLARK JILLSON. 
 
 WORCESTER : 
 PRTVATELT PRINTED, FIFTY COPIES. 
 
 1878. 
 
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"It has long been the fashion to abuse me — I don't expect 
 much else among mortals. It cannot curdle my temper, nor 
 cover my memory with thorns. If I could win the good wish- 
 es of a few noiseless names — interest one in my welfare, I 
 should be quite contented with a very low rank on the rolls 
 of the present. Posterity will put us in oiu- proper places. 
 
 M'D. C. 
 
M'DONAID CLzVRKE. 
 
 —--^^'3^4'^ 
 
 WEAR tlie clo?e of the last century, there was 
 Mi standing in New London, Connecticut, a dilap- 
 ^ idated old house, occupied by one Captain 
 Clarke, a seafaring man, and his wife. 
 
 In this house, on the 18th day of June, 1798, 
 the subject of this sketch was born. He was an 
 only son, a frail and sensitive child, but the idol 
 of an affectionate mother, who watched over him 
 in his early years with the most tender fidelity. 
 
 His rights were constantly being invaded by 
 his playmates, who were always ready to take 
 advantage of his physical delicacy, or \70und by 
 vulgar words, his sensitive nature ; and it was no 
 uncommon thing for him to leave his associates in 
 disgust at their rudeness, and take shelter in his 
 mother's arms. 
 
On one of these occasions she made to him the 
 following remarks : — 
 
 "My poor child, you arc in a, world where an affectionate 
 nature will be sadly disappointed, if it expects to be fondled 
 with kisses." 
 
 His mother died at sea when he was but twelve 
 years old, and was buried beneath the stormy 
 flood, without coffin, shroud or funeral rite. 
 
 In speaking of the time when his mother last 
 sailed from the port of New London, he says : — 
 
 "I watched the ship-lights, long and late ; 
 When I could see them no more, for tears, 
 I tm-ned drooping away, 
 And felt — that mine were darkening years." 
 
 He alludes to the return of the vessel in which 
 she sailed, as follows : — 
 
 "I saw the Log Book of the ship. 
 When it came back from its stormy trip, — 
 There was scrawl'd on a dirty leaf. 
 As if by one who knew not grief — 
 
 Died, at Sea, of consumption, 
 
 Ann M' Donald, 
 
 The Captain's Wife. 
 
 Nov. 27th, 1810." 
 
 This frail and delicate boy, so unfit for the stern 
 purposes of life, went out alone to struggle with 
 selfishness, without the first q^ualification for the- 
 task he had undertaken. 
 
On the IStli day of August, 1819, at the age of 
 twenty-one, he first appeared on Broadway in 
 New York, and in that city his future life-work 
 was performed. His social nature led him to seek 
 the companionship of those of similar tastes to his 
 own, but such persons were not very plenty in the 
 great city ; and when disappointment and reverses 
 came to blight his happiness, no kind mother with 
 tearful eye stood ready to share his sorrow. 
 
 Being a stranger, and a peculiar one at that, 
 without wealth or influence, his prospect for be- 
 coming acquainted with persons of respectibility 
 of his own age, was not flattering. 
 
 At length his affections were placed upon a 
 young actress, who responded to his generous na- 
 ture with the most ardent devotion. Her mother, 
 not pleased with his prospects in life, forbade their 
 marriage ; but the two kindred spirits could not 
 thus be separated, and they were soon married in 
 spite of maternal authority. This female demon 
 was not satisfied to let them live quietly and hap- 
 pily together, but sought out their place of abode, 
 and at midnight took her daughter away, declar- 
 ing she should never live with Clarke another 
 hour. They soon met again, but being pennyless, 
 were often obliged to seek repose with no shelter 
 except the starry dome above. 
 
 Through the influence of this inhuman mother, 
 they were again separated, never more to meet 
 
on earth. In conse(|uence of this sad event the 
 noble spirit of the young jDoet was crushed, and 
 reason no h)nger sat undisturbed upon her jiccus- 
 tomed throne. He wandered up and down the 
 principal thoroughfare of New York, friendless 
 and alone, more desolate than before he had 
 known his lost wife. 
 
 Thus, a young man of brilliant intellect, and as 
 pure a heart as ever beat within a human breast, 
 was doomed to suffer the most malignant abuse. 
 
 Ere long he manifested strong symptoms of in- 
 sanity, and was immediately conveyed to the Asy- 
 lum on Blackwell's Island, where he remained for 
 a short time. His death occurred on the 5th day 
 of March, 1842, under the most melancholy cir- 
 cumstances. He was found by a policeman late 
 at night in a destitute condition, and was placed 
 in a cell in the city prison, where he was found 
 dead in the morning, drowned by the How of water 
 from an open faucet. 
 
 In accordance with his own request, he was 
 buried near Sylvan Lake, in Greenwood Cemetery, 
 
 "Where flowers will bloom in May, 
 Where birds will love to sing." 
 
 His monument is plain and humble, but the 
 inscription is truthful and pathetic. It will not 
 fail to moisten the eye of many a wanderer who 
 may chance to look upon this humble stone. 
 
The inscription tells the story of his life in a 
 single word, as follows : — 
 
 "Poor M'Donald Clarke." 
 
 Much of his poetry is strikingly original, and 
 contains some of the most beautiful expressions ; 
 and his social nature had such control of the en- 
 tire man as to be traced in all his writings. 
 
 The following may be quoted as a specimen : — 
 
 "A fair — an unforgotten girl — 
 The chosen of my childish days, 
 With brow o'er which soft ringlets curl, 
 Smiles, from her grave, upon my gaze. 
 
 Again I see the old arm chair. 
 Where many a summer night I've knelt ; 
 The rounded cheek that rested there. 
 The sparkhng eyes that seemed to melt." 
 
 As a general thing he paid but little regard to 
 the rules of poetical composition, but seems to 
 have written from impulse ; consequently many 
 of his poems reached the jDublic in an unfinished 
 condition, and yet they contain an occasional gem 
 like the following beautiful lines : — 
 
 "Now twilight lets her curtain down. 
 And pins it with a star." 
 
 In his poem entitled "Spring," which is an ill 
 constructed piece of composition, full of odd ex- 
 pressions, extending entirely beyond all poetic 
 
6 
 
 license, may be found one of the most beautiful 
 lines ever written in the English language — 
 
 "God bless the warm blue eyes of Spring." 
 
 On one occasion he was sneeringly alluded to by 
 a reviewer, who used the word zigzag in reference 
 to brains. Clarke called at the office of the paper 
 in which it was published, asking permission to 
 reply, which was granted, on condition that he 
 would occupy only four lines. He made a reply 
 in the following words: — 
 
 "I will tell Johnny , in the way of a laugh, 
 
 Since he's dragged my name into his pen-and-ink scrawl, 
 
 That most people think it is better by half 
 
 To have brains that are '-zigzag' than no brains at all." 
 
 In his poem entitled "Sabbath Evening" may be 
 found the following lines which, show the sweet 
 simplicity and devotion of their author : — 
 
 "I feel the happier all the week, 
 If my foot has pressed the sacred aisle ; 
 The pillow seems softer to my cheek ; 
 I sink to slumber with a smile ; 
 With sinful passions cease to fight, 
 And sweetly dream on Sunday night." 
 
 Had this child of genius been favored with 
 proper treatment in his early years, he would un- 
 doubtedly have been one of the brightest stars in 
 America's constellation of poets. But his entire 
 
life was a struggle for existence, which had a ten- 
 dency to crush out his finer feeHngs, and deprive 
 him of every opportunity and advantage which 
 others, less worthy, were permitted to enjoy. 
 
 When he was so situated as to be able to pro- 
 mote the happiness of another in the least degree, 
 he was happy himself; and on many occasions he 
 has been known to share his last farthing with a 
 more needy brother. 
 
 Mrs. Child speaks of him as one of the purest 
 hearted and most affectionate of beings, "Simple 
 and temperate in all his habits ; and in his deepest 
 poverty he always kej)t up the neat appearance 
 of a gentleman." 
 
 He died at the age of forty-four, expressing the 
 desire to be buried by the side of children. He 
 said "Four things I am sure there will be in Hea- 
 ven — music, flowers, pure air, and plenty of little 
 children." 
 
 In 1836 the Poems of M'Donald Clarke were 
 published in a volume of two hundred and eighty 
 eight pages. It contains a fine portrait of the 
 author, whose beautiful features are at once im- 
 pressed upon the mind, and there forever fixed, 
 like the charm of an enchanted vision. 
 
 In speaking of social life, he says : — 
 
 "Marriage can alone soothe the \ailgar iritations of business, 
 and reconcile man to his destiny. It is a poet's only hope of 
 usefulness. The heart must be at rest, before the mind, like 
 
8 
 
 a quiet lake under an unclouded evening of summer, can 
 reflect the solemn starlight, and the splendid mysteries 
 of heaven." 
 
 His j)oems are full of allusions to the memory 
 of his mother, and in his introductory remarks he 
 says with much ajjparant feeling : — 
 
 "I've suffered in haughty' silence undeserved neglect, and 
 often hear my dear dead Mother's solemn voice tolling thro' 
 my dreams, telling me io fight vaj wa^- through ungenerous 
 obstacles that burden my soul." 
 
 His preface closes with the following words : — 
 
 "If the life of my poetr}' is wholesome, it will breathe after 
 the wild spirit that inspired it has been sobered at the terrible 
 tribunal of Eternity, and the weak hand that traced it, long 
 wasted to ashes." 
 
 But all these beautiful traits of character, his 
 pure motives, his blameless life, his genius and 
 his affectionate nature, were not appreciated by 
 the people, and he was allowed to die neglected, 
 and almost unknown to the literary world, except 
 as "The Mad Foet of New York:' 
 
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