The New York herald. [volume] (New York, N.Y.) 1920-1924, 1922-02-05
Macdonald Clarke, Mad Poet,
4 Genius of Old NeW York

reaped rime. A dozen volumes of manu-
script were burnt by a lackadaisical landlady
three years ago, cause, as she said, 1.-THE
papers were kivered with SIGH divilish look
ing letters" she was "afeared to sleep under
the same roof with EN- In one of his
many moods Clarke pokes fun at the well
to do beaux and bellies who rode on Broad
way missing the pleasures of walking:
Whose hearts are bolstered with doctors
bills,
Who shoot at death with box of pills.
In their prancng prisons drive.
Are never quite sure they're alive"
Although the poet complained sadly about
their treatment Of him, the lonely man never
tired Of composing sonnets to the Broadway
bellies, and many black eye did blue
one cost him."
Broadway was Macdonald Clarke's loung-
ing place by day, but Windust's was his
favorite haunt in the evening. When this
popular resort of poets, authors and players
broke up at night it would have been diff
cult to trace the gloomy poet beyond City
Hall Park. where doubtless he spent many
uncomfortable nights. To attempt to locate
his various lodgings one is reminded of
what Laurence Sterne says: When man
sits down to write a history, though it be
only the history of Tom Thumb, he knows
no more than his heel what let's and
hindrances he is to meet with in his way"
New Yorks spirit of tearing down and
building up again makes it the hardest city
in the world for tracing landmarks. One
starts out confidently, with an address snugly
tucked away in his pocket only to find, in
some cases. that the very name of the street
has been changed, old buildings have disap-
peared and pretentious lofts or Office build
ings stand on the streets where every flag
in the sidewalks has been worn thin by the
~ IT,
For some time Clarke made his home In an
upper room in low spirited house on
Chapel street. He also occupied for time
a small attic room in the alley back of the
Park Row Theatre. Here by standing on a
chair he was able to catch glimpses of his
beloved Bellies of Broadway" as they went
to and fro to the opera. Perhaps it was dur
ing these opera night watches that he COM
posed his Queen of the Aristocracy."
For have met so much of scorn
From those to whom my thoughts were kind.
I've fancied there was never born
On earth, for me. one kindred mind"
Clarke's regular morning walk took him
along Broadway between Canal and Fulton
streets. Here he might be seen almost any
day, before the rest of the town was awake.
peering through the iron rails OF St Paul's
Churchyard. And them one day. he may
have forgotten the hour, or was overcome
with Sleep the people began to pass on their
way to business, and seeing a man acting so
strangely they thought he was insane and
took him away to Randalls Island. When
he was revived from the stupor that seemed
to have affected him and found that he was
in a mad house the shock was too great for
his high strung nerves. He became raving
lunatic and died d few days later.
In Greenwood Cemetery beautiful though
modest monument marks the spot where
the neglected poet lies. The grass around
the grave is not so well trodden as his adj
mirers would have 1t, but quite recently a
tiny faded American flag, eloquent of the
passing of a pilgrim, lay on his grave. The
shrine is located near lovely Sylvan Lake. on
what Is called Poets Mound Two giant
oaks that were probably sturdy saplings and
offered generous shade to the new made
grave, now reach long, dead leafless arms
over the monument The Inscriptions read:
Macdonald Clarke Born June 49, 1888.
Died March 3, 1912.
by friendships willing hands erected
BY genius taste and art adorned
For one too long in life neglected,
But now In death sincerely mourned."
There Is an epitaph written by himself
beginning
Sacred to the memory of poor Macdonald
Clarke" but the rest is indistinguishable.