Litchfield enquirer. [volume] (Litchfield, Conn.) 1829-current, 1851-06-26
Mcdonald Clarke.
1.-THE MAD POET"

J Mcdonald Clark was born in New
London, in this State, rom,earlyIboy-
hood was noted for his eccentriciiies.-
He was a kind-hcafted lad, and by his
amibility won the esteem Of his compan.
ions. At the age Of twelve years, his
mother died at sea. He thus sweetly
alludes to her
One night, as The bleak October breeze
| Was sighing dirge through the leaflrss trees
She was borne by rough men in the chilly dark,
Down TO the wharf>side, where bark
Waited for its precious freight.
| watched the ship light long and late;
When could see Thorn no more for tears,
turned di coping away,
And felt that mine were darkening years.
And Garkened indeed they were (says
Mrs. Child, in her letters from N. W
This beautiful writer thus pathetically
speaks of this hayward child of genius.
1t is so much better than anything we
can write on the subject, that we ask no
excuse of our readers for devoting so
large space to her out-gushing, tender
melody.
1T may seem strange to you that
among the mass of beings in this great
human hive, should occupy an entire
letter with one whose life was like a
troubled dream apparently without use
| to himself or others. Yet he was one
who has left a record on the public heart.
For several years past the eccentricities
of Mcdonald 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 wi tn friendly earnestness. l saw
! him but twice. and~now mourn sincerely
that the pressure of many avocations pre-
vented my seeking to see him oftener.
was always deeply touched by the
answer of the poor, heart>broken page in
Hope Leslie Yes, lady have lost my
way ! How often do meet with those
who, on the crowded pathway of lie
have lost their way. With poor Clarke
it was so from the very outset. Some
thing that was not insanity, but was nigh
akin to it, marked his very boyhood.
In 1891 he came to New York, where
he fell in love with handsome young
actress of seventeen, by the name OF
Brundage. His poverty, and obvious
, incapacity to obtain 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, 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 Mcdonald,
who had come of wealthy family, was
too proud to have his wife appear on the
stage again and the remarkable pow
ers of his own mind were rendered use
less by the jar that continually ran thro'
them all of course poverty came upon.
him like an armed man. They suffered
greatly, but still chung to each other with
TIE most fervid affection. Sometimes they
slept in the deserted marke:>house and
when the weather would permit, under
the shadow of the trees. Finally, they
who had loved so fondly, were divorced
to meet no more. Whenever Mcdonald
alluded to this part Of his strange hsto.
ry, as he often did to q very intimate
friend, he al ways added, l never blamed
her; though it almost broke my heart.
She was driven to it, and always pitied
her.
From this period the wldness Of poor
Clarke's nature increased until he came
to be generally known by the name of
the Mad Poet Ever and anon a light
| from dDOLllCE WOlJu va HAS
soul, kindling the hottest 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 singularly fanciful. He
thus describes The closing day =
Now IL. flight lets her curtain down,
And pins it with star ..
And in another place he talks of mem
DRY that shall last
whilst the ear of the earth hears the hymn
OF theocean,'
His whole life was in fact n restless
seeking for his other half. This idea
continually broke from him in plaintive,
wild. imploring tones.
II have met 50 much Of scorn