IT has been observed in all ages that the advantages of nature or of
fortune have contributed very little to the promotion of happiness: and
that those whom the splendour of their rank, or the extent of their
capacity, has placed upon the summit of human life, have not often given
any just occasion to envy in those who look up to them from a lower
station; whether it be that apparent superiority incites great designs,
and great designs are naturally liable to fatal miscarriages; or that the
general lot of mankind is misery, and the misfortunes of those whose
eminence drew upon them universal attention have been more carefully
recorded, because they were more generally observed, and have in reality
been only more conspicuous than those of others, not more frequent, or
more severe.
That affluence and power, advantages extrinsic and adventitious, and
therefore easily separable from those by whom they are possessed, should
very often flatter the mind with expectations of felicity which they
cannot give, raises no astonishment: but it seems rational to hope that
intellectual greatness should produce better effects; that minds
qualified for great attainments should first endeavour their own benefit,
and that they who are most able to teach others the way to happiness,
should with most certainty follow it themselves. But this expectation,
however plausible, has been very frequently disappointed. The heroes of
literary as well as civil history have been very often no less remarkable
for what they have suffered than for what they have achieved; and volumes
have been written only to enumerate the miseries of the learned, and
relate their unhappy lives and untimely deaths.
To these mournful narratives I am about to add the Life of RICHARD
SAVAGE, a man whose writings entitle him to an eminent rank in the
classes of learning, and whose misfortunes claim a degree of compassion
not always due to the unhappy, as they were often the consequences of the
crimes of others rather than his own.
In the year 1697, Anne, Countess of Macclesfield, having lived some time
upon very uneasy terms with her husband, thought a public confession of
adultery the most obvious and expeditious method of obtaining her
liberty; and therefore declared that the child with which she was then
great, was begotten by the Earl Rivers. This, as may be imagined, made
her husband no less desirous of a separation than herself, and he
prosecuted his design in the most effectual manner: for he applied, not
to the ecclesiastical courts for a divorce, but to the Parliament for an
Act by which his marriage might be dissolved, the nuptial contract
annulled, and the children of his wife illegitimated. This Act, after the
usual deliberation, he obtained, though without the approbation of some,
who considered marriage as an affair only cognisable by ecclesiastical
judges; and on March 3rd was separated from his wife, whose fortune,
which was very great, was repaid her, and who having, as well as her
husband, the liberty of making another choice, she in a short time
married Colonel Brett.
While the Earl of Macclesfield was prosecuting this affair, his wife was,
on the 10th of January, 1607–8,[sic] delivered of a son: and the Earl
Rivers, by appearing to consider him as his own, left none any reason to
doubt of the sincerity of her declaration; for he was his godfather and
gave him his own name, which was by his direction inserted in the
register of St. Andrew’s parish in Holborn, but unfortunately left him to
the care of his mother, whom, as she was now set free from her husband,
he probably imagined likely to treat with great tenderness the child that
had contributed to so pleasing an event. It is not indeed easy to
discover what motives could be found to overbalance that natural
affection of a parent, or what interest could be promoted by neglect or
cruelty. The dread of shame or of poverty, by which some wretches have
been incited to abandon or murder their children, cannot be supposed to
have affected a woman who had proclaimed her crimes and solicited
reproach, and on whom the clemency of the Legislature had undeservedly
bestowed a fortune, which would have been very little diminished by the
expenses which the care of her child could have brought upon her. It was
therefore not likely that she would be wicked without temptation; that
she would look upon her son from his birth with a kind of resentment and
abhorrence; and, instead of supporting, assisting, and defending him,
delight to see him struggling with misery, or that she would take every
opportunity of aggravating his misfortunes, and obstructing his
resources, and with an implacable and restless cruelty continue her
persecution from the first hour of his life to the last. But whatever
were her motives, no sooner was her son born than she discovered a
resolution of disowning him; and in a very short time removed him from
her sight, by committing him to the care of a poor woman, whom she
directed to educate him as her own, and enjoined never to inform him of
his true parents.
Such was the beginning of the life of Richard Savage. Born with a legal
claim to honour and to affluence, he was in two months illegitimated by
the Parliament, and disowned by his mother, doomed to poverty and
obscurity, and launched upon the ocean of life only that he might be
swallowed by its quicksands, or dashed upon its rocks. His mother could
not indeed infect others with the same cruelty. As it was impossible to
avoid the inquiries which the curiosity or tenderness of her relations
made after her child, she was obliged to give some account of the
measures she had taken; and her mother, the Lady Mason, whether in
approbation of her design, or to prevent more criminal contrivances,
engaged to transact with the nurse, to pay her for her care, and to
superintend the education of the child.
In this charitable office she was assisted by his godmother, Mrs. Lloyd,
who, while she lived, always looked upon him with that tenderness which
the barbarity of his mother made peculiarly necessary; but her death,
which happened in his tenth year, was another of the misfortunes of his
childhood, for though she kindly endeavoured to alleviate his loss by a
legacy of three hundred pounds, yet as he had none to prosecute his
claim, to shelter him from oppression, or call in law to the assistance
of justice, her will was eluded by the executors, and no part of the
money was ever paid. He was, however, not yet wholly abandoned. The Lady
Mason still continued her care, and directed him to be placed at a small
grammar school near St. Albans, where he was called by the name of his
nurse, without the least intimation that he had a claim to any other.
Here he was initiated in literature, and passed through several of the
classes, with what rapidity or with what applause cannot now be known. As
he always spoke with respect of his master, it is probable that the mean
rank in which he then appeared did not hinder his genius from being
distinguished, or his industry from being rewarded; and if in so low a
state he obtained distinctions and rewards, it is not likely that they
were gained but by genius and industry.
It is very reasonable to conjecture that his application was equal to his
abilities, because his improvement was more than proportioned to the
opportunities which he enjoyed; nor can it be doubted that if his
earliest productions had been preserved, like those of happier students,
we might in some have found vigorous sallies of that sprightly humour
which distinguishes “The Author to be Let,” and in others strong touches
of that imagination which painted the solemn scenes of “The Wanderer.”
While he was thus cultivating his genius, his father, the Earl Rivers,
was seized with a distemper, which in a short time put an end to his
life. He had frequently inquired after his son, and had always been
amused with fallacious and evasive answers; but being now in his own
opinion on his death-bed, he thought it his duty to provide for him among
his other natural children, and therefore demanded a positive account of
him, with an importunity not to be diverted or denied. His mother, who
could no longer refuse an answer, determined at least to give such as
should cut him off for ever from that happiness which competence affords,
and therefore declared that he was dead; which is perhaps the first
instance of a lie invented by a mother to deprive her son of a provision
which was designed him by another, and which she could not expect
herself, though he should lose it. This was therefore an act of
wickedness which could not be defeated, because it could not be
suspected; the earl did not imagine that there could exist in a human
form a mother that would ruin her son without enriching herself, and
therefore bestowed upon some other person six thousand pounds which he
had in his will bequeathed to Savage.
The same cruelty which incited his mother to intercept this provision
which had been intended him, prompted her in a short time to another
project, a project worthy of such a disposition. She endeavoured to rid
herself from the danger of being at any time made known to him, by
sending him secretly to the American Plantations. By whose kindness this
scheme was counteracted, or by whose interposition she was induced to lay
aside her design, I know not; it is not improbable that the Lady Mason
might persuade or compel her to desist, or perhaps she could not easily
find accomplices wicked enough to concur in so cruel an action; for it
may be conceived that those who had by a long gradation of guilt hardened
their hearts against the sense of common wickedness, would yet be shocked
at the design of a mother to expose her son to slavery and want, to
expose him without interest, and without provocation; and Savage might on
this occasion find protectors and advocates among those who had long
traded in crimes, and whom compassion had never touched before.
Being hindered, by whatever means, from banishing him into another
country, she formed soon after a scheme for burying him in poverty and
obscurity in his own; and that his station of life, if not the place of
his residence, might keep him for ever at a distance from her, she
ordered him to be placed with a shoemaker in Holborn, that, after the
usual time of trial, he might become his apprentice.
It is generally reported that this project was for some time successful,
and that Savage was employed at the awl longer than he was willing to
confess: nor was it perhaps any great advantage to him, that an
unexpected discovery determined him to quit his occupation.
About this time his nurse, who had always treated him as her own son,
died; and it was natural for him to take care of those effects which by
her death were, as he imagined, become his own: he therefore went to her
house, opened her boxes, and examined her papers, among which he found
some letters written to her by the Lady Mason, which informed him of his
birth, and the reasons for which it was concealed. He was no longer
satisfied with the employment which had been allotted him, but thought he
had a right to share the affluence of his mother; and therefore without
scruple applied to her as her son, and made use of every art to awaken
her tenderness and attract her regard. But neither his letters, nor the
interposition of those friends which his merit or his distress procured
him, made any impression on her mind. She still resolved to neglect,
though she could no longer disown him. It was to no purpose that he
frequently solicited her to admit him to see her; she avoided him with
the most vigilant precaution, and ordered him to be excluded from her
house, by whomsoever he might be introduced, and what reason soever he
might give for entering it.
Savage was at the same time so touched with the discovery of his real
mother, that it was his frequent practice to walk in the dark evenings
for several hours before her door, in hopes of seeing her as she might
come by accident to the window, or cross her apartment with a candle in
her hand. But all his assiduity and tenderness were without effect, for
he could neither soften her heart nor open her hand, and was reduced to
the utmost miseries of want, while he was endeavouring to awaken the
affection of a mother. He was therefore obliged to seek some other means
of support; and, having no profession, became by necessity an author.
At this time the attention of the literary world was engrossed by the
Bangorian controversy, which filled the press with pamphlets, and the
coffee-houses with disputants. Of this subject, as most popular, he made
choice for his first attempt, and, without any other knowledge of the
question than he had casually collected from conversation, published a
poem against the bishop. What was the success or merit of this
performance I know not; it was probably lost among the innumerable
pamphlets to which that dispute gave occasion. Mr. Savage was himself in
a little time ashamed of it, and endeavoured to suppress it, by
destroying all the copies that he could collect. He then attempted a more
gainful kind of writing, and in his eighteenth year offered to the stage
a comedy borrowed from a Spanish plot, which was refused by the players,
and was therefore given by him to Mr. Bullock, who, having more interest,
made some slight alterations, and brought it upon the stage, under the
title of _Woman’s a Riddle_, but allowed the unhappy author no part of
the profit.
Not discouraged, however, at his repulse, he wrote two years afterwards
_Love in a Veil_, another comedy, borrowed likewise from the Spanish, but
with little better success than before; for though it was received and
acted, yet it appeared so late in the year, that the author obtained no
other advantage from it than the acquaintance of Sir Richard Steele and
Mr. Wilks, by whom he was pitied, caressed, and relieved.
Sir Richard Steele, having declared in his favour with all the ardour of
benevolence which constituted his character, promoted his interest with
the utmost zeal, related his misfortunes, applauded his merit, took all
the opportunities of recommending him, and asserted that “the inhumanity
of his mother had given him a right to find every good man his father.”
Nor was Mr. Savage admitted to his acquaintance only, but to his
confidence, of which he sometimes related an instance too extraordinary
to be omitted, as it affords a very just idea of his patron’s character.
He was once desired by Sir Richard, with an air of the utmost importance,
to come very early to his house the next morning. Mr. Savage came as he
had promised, found the chariot at the door, and Sir Richard waiting for
him, and ready to go out. What was intended, and whither they were to go,
Savage could not conjecture, and was not willing to inquire; but
immediately seated himself with Sir Richard. The coachman was ordered to
drive, and they hurried with the utmost expedition to Hyde Park Corner,
where they stopped at a petty tavern, and retired to a private room. Sir
Richard then informed him that he intended to publish a pamphlet, and
that he had desired him to come thither that he might write for him. He
soon sat down to the work. Sir Richard dictated, and Savage wrote, till
the dinner that had been ordered was put upon the table. Savage was
surprised at the meanness of the entertainment, and after some hesitation
ventured to ask for wine, which Sir Richard, not without reluctance,
ordered to be brought. They then finished their dinner, and proceeded in
their pamphlet, which they concluded in the afternoon.
Mr. Savage then imagined his task over, and expected that Sir Richard
would call for the reckoning, and return home; but his expectations
deceived him, for Sir Richard told him that he was without money, and
that the pamphlet must be sold before the dinner could be paid for; and
Savage was therefore obliged to go and offer their new production to sale
for two guineas, which with some difficulty he obtained. Sir Richard then
returned home, having retired that day only to avoid his creditors, and
composed the pamphlet only to discharge his reckoning.
Mr. Savage related another fact equally uncommon, which, though it has no
relation to his life, ought to be preserved. Sir Richard Steele having
one day invited to his house a great number of persons of the first
quality, they were surprised at the number of liveries which surrounded
the table; and after dinner, when wine and mirth had set them free from
the observation of a rigid ceremony, one of them inquired of Sir Richard
how such an expensive train of domestics could be consistent with his
fortune. Sir Richard very frankly confessed that they were fellows of
whom he would very willingly be rid. And being then asked why he did not
discharge them, declared that they were bailiffs, who had introduced
themselves with an execution, and whom, since he could not send them
away, he had thought it convenient to embellish with liveries, that they
might do him credit while they stayed. His friends were diverted with the
expedient, and by paying the debt, discharged their attendance, having
obliged Sir Richard to promise that they should never again find him
graced with a retinue of the same kind.
Under such a tutor, Mr. Savage was not likely to learn prudence or
frugality; and perhaps many of the misfortunes which the want of those
virtues brought upon him in the following parts of his life, might be
justly imputed to so unimproving an example. Nor did the kindness of Sir
Richard end in common favours. He proposed to have established him in
some settled scheme of life, and to have contracted a kind of alliance
with him, by marrying him to a natural daughter, on whom he intended to
bestow a thousand pounds. But though he was always lavish of future
bounties, he conducted his affairs in such a manner that he was very
seldom able to keep his promises, or execute his own intentions; and, as
he was never able to raise the sum which he had offered, the marriage was
delayed. In the meantime he was officiously informed that Mr. Savage had
ridiculed him; by which he was so much exasperated that he withdrew the
allowance which he had paid him, and never afterwards admitted him to his
house.
It is not, indeed, unlikely that Savage might by his imprudence expose
himself to the malice of a talebearer; for his patron had many follies,
which, as his discernment easily discovered, his imagination might
sometimes incite him to mention too ludicrously. A little knowledge of
the world is sufficient to discover that such weakness is very common,
and that there are few who do not sometimes, in the wantonness of
thoughtless mirth, or the heat of transient resentment, speak of their
friends and benefactors with levity and contempt, though in their cooler
moments they want neither sense of their kindness nor reverence for their
virtue; the fault, therefore, of Mr. Savage was rather negligence than
ingratitude. But Sir Richard must likewise be acquitted of severity, for
who is there that can patiently bear contempt from one whom he has
relieved and supported, whose establishment he has laboured, and whose
interest he has promoted?
He was now again abandoned to fortune without any other friend than Mr.
Wilks; a man who, whatever were his abilities or skill as an actor,
deserves at least to be remembered for his virtues, which are not often
to be found in the world, and perhaps less often in his profession than
in others. To be humane, generous, and candid is a very high degree of
merit in any case; but those qualifications deserve still greater praise
when they are found in that condition which makes almost every other man,
for whatever reason, contemptuous, insolent, petulant, selfish, and
brutal.
As Mr. Wilks was one of those to whom calamity seldom complained without
relief, he naturally took an unfortunate wit into his protection, and not
only assisted him in any casual distresses, but continued an equal and
steady kindness to the time of his death. By this interposition Mr.
Savage once obtained from his mother fifty pounds, and a promise of one
hundred and fifty more; but it was the fate of this unhappy man that few
promises of any advantage to him were performed. His mother was infected,
among others, with the general madness of the South Sea traffic; and
having been disappointed in her expectations, refused to pay what perhaps
nothing but the prospect of sudden affluence prompted her to promise.
Being thus obliged to depend upon the friendship of Mr. Wilks, he was
consequently an assiduous frequenter of the theatres: and in a short time
the amusements of the stage took such possession of his mind that he
never was absent from a play in several years. This constant attendance
naturally procured him the acquaintance of the players, and, among
others, of Mrs. Oldfield, who was so much pleased with his conversation,
and touched with his misfortunes, that she allowed him a settled pension
of fifty pounds a year, which was during her life regularly paid. That
this act of generosity may receive its due praise, and that the good
actions of Mrs. Oldfield may not be sullied by her general character, it
is proper to mention that Mr. Savage often declared, in the strongest
terms, that he never saw her alone, or in any other place than behind the
scenes.
At her death he endeavoured to show his gratitude in the most decent
manner, by wearing mourning as for a mother; but did not celebrate her in
elegies, because he knew that too great a profusion of praise would only
have revived those faults which his natural equity did not allow him to
think less because they were committed by one who favoured him; but of
which, though his virtue would not endeavour to palliate them, his
gratitude would not suffer him to prolong the memory or diffuse the
censure.
In his “Wanderer” he has indeed taken an opportunity of mentioning her;
but celebrates her not for her virtue, but her beauty, an excellence
which none ever denied her: this is the only encomium with which he has
rewarded her liberality, and perhaps he has even in this been too lavish
of his praise. He seems to have thought that never to mention his
benefactress would have an appearance of ingratitude, though to have
dedicated any particular performance to her memory would have only
betrayed an officious partiality, and that without exalting her character
would have depressed his own. He had sometimes, by the kindness of Mr.
Wilks, the advantage of a benefit, on which occasions he often received
uncommon marks of regard and compassion; and was once told by the Duke of
Dorset that it was just to consider him as an injured nobleman, and that
in his opinion the nobility ought to think themselves obliged, without
solicitation, to take every opportunity of supporting him by their
countenance and patronage. But he had generally the mortification to hear
that the whole interest of his mother was employed to frustrate his
applications, and that she never left any expedient untried by which he
might be cut off from the possibility of supporting life. The same
disposition she endeavoured to diffuse among all those over whom nature
or fortune gave her any influence, and indeed succeeded too well in her
design; but could not always propagate her effrontery with her cruelty;
for some of those whom she incited against him were ashamed of their own
conduct, and boasted of that relief which they never gave him. In this
censure I do not indiscriminately involve all his relations; for he has
mentioned with gratitude the humanity of one lady, whose name I am now
unable to recollect, and to whom, therefore, I cannot pay the praises
which she deserves for having acted well in opposition to influence,
precept, and example.
The punishment which our laws inflict upon those parents who murder their
infants is well known, nor has its justice ever been contested; but, if
they deserve death who destroy a child in its birth, what pain can be
severe enough for her who forbears to destroy him only to inflict sharper
miseries upon him; who prolongs his life only to make him miserable; and
who exposes him, without care and without pity, to the malice of
oppression, the caprices of chance, and the temptations of poverty; who
rejoices to see him overwhelmed with calamities; and, when his own
industry, or the charity of others, has enabled him to rise for a short
time above his miseries, plunges him again into his former distress?
The kindness of his friends not affording him any constant supply, and
the prospect of improving his fortune by enlarging his acquaintance
necessarily leading him to places of expense, he found it necessary to
endeavour once more at dramatic poetry; for which he was now better
qualified by a more extensive knowledge and longer observation. But
having been unsuccessful in comedy, though rather for want of
opportunities than genius, he resolved to try whether he should not be
more fortunate in exhibiting a tragedy. The story which he chose for the
subject was that of Sir Thomas Overbury, a story well adapted to the
stage, though perhaps not far enough removed from the present age to
admit properly the fictions necessary to complete the plan; for the mind,
which naturally loves truth, is always most offended with the violation
of those truths of which we are most certain; and we of course conceive
those facts most certain which approach nearer to our own time. Out of
this story he formed a tragedy, which, if the circumstances in which he
wrote it be considered, will afford at once an uncommon proof of strength
of genius and evenness of mind, of a serenity not to be ruffled and an
imagination not to be suppressed.
During a considerable part of the time in which he was employed upon this
performance, he was without lodging, and often without meat; nor had he
any other conveniences for study than the fields or the streets allowed
him; there he used to walk and form his speeches, and afterwards step
into a shop, beg for a few moments the use of the pen and ink, and write
down what he had composed upon paper which he had picked up by accident.
If the performance of a writer thus distressed is not perfect, its faults
ought surely to be imputed to a cause very different from want of genius,
and must rather excite pity than provoke censure. But when, under these
discouragements, the tragedy was finished, there yet remained the labour
of introducing it on the stage, an undertaking which, to an ingenuous
mind, was in a very high degree vexatious and disgusting; for, having
little interest or reputation, he was obliged to submit himself wholly to
the players, and admit, with whatever reluctance, the emendations of Mr.
Cibber, which he always considered as the disgrace of his performance. He
had, indeed, in Mr. Hill another critic of a very different class, from
whose friendship he received great assistance on many occasions, and whom
he never mentioned but with the utmost tenderness and regard. He had been
for some time distinguished by him with very particular kindness, and on
this occasion it was natural to apply to him as an author of an
established character. He therefore sent this tragedy to him, with a
short copy of verses, in which he desired his correction. Mr. Hill, whose
humanity and politeness are generally known, readily complied with his
request; but as he is remarkable for singularity of sentiment, and bold
experiments in language, Mr. Savage did not think this play much improved
by his innovation, and had even at that time the courage to reject
several passages which he could not approve; and, what is still more
laudable, Mr. Hill had the generosity not to resent the neglect of his
alterations, but wrote the prologue and epilogue, in which he touches on
the circumstances of the author with great tenderness.
After all these obstructions and compliances, he was only able to bring
his play upon the stage in the summer, when the chief actors had retired,
and the rest were in possession of the house for their own advantage.
Among these, Mr. Savage was admitted to play the part of Sir Thomas
Overbury, by which he gained no great reputation, the theatre being a
province for which nature seems not to have designed him; for neither his
voice, look, nor gesture were such as were expected on the stage, and he
was so much ashamed of having been reduced to appear as a player, that he
always blotted out his name from the list when a copy of his tragedy was
to be shown to his friends.
In the publication of his performance he was more successful, for the
rays of genius that glimmered in it, that glimmered through all the mists
which poverty and Cibber had been able to spread over it, procured him
the notice and esteem of many persons eminent for their rank, their
virtue, and their wit. Of this play, acted, printed, and dedicated, the
accumulated profits arose to a hundred pounds, which he thought at that
time a very large sum, having been never master of so much before.
In the dedication, for which he received ten guineas, there is nothing
remarkable. The preface contains a very liberal encomium on the blooming
excellence of Mr. Theophilus Cibber, which Mr. Savage could not in the
latter part of his life see his friends about to read without snatching
the play out of their hands. The generosity of Mr. Hill did not end on
this occasion; for afterwards, when Mr. Savage’s necessities returned, he
encouraged a subscription to a Miscellany of Poems in a very
extraordinary manner, by publishing his story in the _Plain Dealer_, with
some affecting lines, which he asserts to have been written by Mr. Savage
upon the treatment received by him from his mother, but of which he was
himself the author, as Mr. Savage afterwards declared. These lines, and
the paper in which they were inserted, had a very powerful effect upon
all but his mother, whom, by making her cruelty more public, they only
hardened in her aversion.
Mr. Hill not only promoted the subscription to the Miscellany, but
furnished likewise the greatest part of the poems of which it is
composed, and particularly “The Happy Man,” which he published as a
specimen.
The subscriptions of those whom these papers should influence to
patronise merit in distress, without any other solicitation, were
directed to be left at Button’s Coffee-house; and Mr. Savage going
thither a few days afterwards, without expectation of any effect from his
proposal, found, to his surprise, seventy guineas, which had been sent
him in consequence of the compassion excited by Mr. Hill’s pathetic
representation.
To this Miscellany he wrote a preface, in which he gives an account of
his mother’s cruelty in a very uncommon strain of humour, and with a
gaiety of imagination which the success of his subscription probably
produced. The dedication is addressed to the Lady Mary Wortley Montagu,
whom he flatters without reserve, and, to confess the truth, with very
little art. The same observation may be extended to all his dedications:
his compliments are constrained and violent, heaped together without the
grace of order, or the decency of introduction. He seems to have written
his panegyrics for the perusal only of his patrons, and to imagine that
he had no other task than to pamper them with praises, however gross, and
that flattery would make its way to the heart, without the assistance of
elegance or invention.
Soon afterwards the death of the king furnished a general subject for a
poetical contest, in which Mr. Savage engaged, and is allowed to have
carried the prize of honour from his competitors: but I know not whether
he gained by his performance any other advantage than the increase of his
reputation, though it must certainly have been with farther views that he
prevailed upon himself to attempt a species of writing, of which all the
topics had been long before exhausted, and which was made at once
difficult by the multitudes that had failed in it, and those that had
succeeded.
He was now advancing in reputation, and though frequently involved in
very distressful perplexities, appeared, however, to be gaining upon
mankind, when both his fame and his life were endangered by an event, of
which it is not yet determined whether it ought to be mentioned as a
crime or a calamity.
On the 20th of November, 1727, Mr. Savage came from Richmond, where he
then lodged that he might pursue his studies with less interruption, with
an intent to discharge another lodging which he had in Westminster; and
accidentally meeting two gentlemen, his acquaintances, whose names were
Merchant and Gregory, he went in with them to a neighbouring
coffee-house, and sat drinking till it was late, it being in no time of
Mr. Savage’s life any part of his character to be the first of the
company that desired to separate. He would willingly have gone to bed in
the same house, but there was not room for the whole company, and
therefore they agreed to ramble about the streets, and divert themselves
with such amusements as should offer themselves till morning. In this
walk they happened unluckily to discover a light in Robinson’s
Coffee-house, near Charing Cross, and therefore went in. Merchant with
some rudeness demanded a room, and was told that there was a good fire in
the next parlour, which the company were about to leave, being then
paying their reckoning. Merchant, not satisfied with this answer, rushed
into the room, and was followed by his companions. He then petulantly
placed himself between the company and the fire, and soon after kicked
down the table. This produced a quarrel, swords were drawn on both sides,
and one Mr. James Sinclair was killed. Savage, having likewise wounded a
maid that held him, forced his way, with Merchant, out of the house; but
being intimidated and confused, without resolution either to fly or stay,
they were taken in a back court by one of the company, and some soldiers,
whom he had called to his assistance. Being secured and guarded that
night, they were in the morning carried before three justices, who
committed them to the Gatehouse, from whence, upon the death of Mr.
Sinclair, which happened the same day, they were removed in the night to
Newgate, where they were, however, treated with some distinction,
exempted from the ignominy of chains, and confined, not among the common
criminals, but in the Press yard.
When the day of trial came, the court was crowded in a very unusual
manner, and the public appeared to interest itself as in a cause of
general concern. The witnesses against Mr. Savage and his friends were,
the woman who kept the house, which was a house of ill-fame, and her
maid, the men who were in the room with Mr. Sinclair, and a woman of the
town, who had been drinking with them, and with whom one of them had been
seen. They swore in general, that Merchant gave the provocation, which
Savage and Gregory drew their swords to justify; that Savage drew first,
and that he stabbed Sinclair when he was not in a posture of defence, or
while Gregory commanded his sword; that after he had given the thrust he
turned pale, and would have retired, but the maid clung round him, and
one of the company endeavoured to detain him, from whom he broke by
cutting the maid on the head, but was afterwards taken in a court. There
was some difference in their depositions; one did not see Savage give the
wound, another saw it given when Sinclair held his point towards the
ground; and the woman of the town asserted that she did not see
Sinclair’s sword at all. This difference, however, was very far from
amounting to inconsistency; but it was sufficient to show, that the hurry
of the dispute was such that it was not easy to discover the truth with
relation to particular circumstances, and that therefore some deductions
were to be made from the credibility of the testimonies.
Sinclair had declared several times before his death that he received his
wound from Savage: nor did Savage at his trial deny the fact, but
endeavoured partly to extenuate it, by urging the suddenness of the whole
action, and the impossibility of any ill design or premeditated malice;
and partly to justify it by the necessity of self-defence, and the hazard
of his own life, if he had lost that opportunity of giving the thrust: he
observed, that neither reason nor law obliged a man to wait for the blow
which was threatened, and which, if he should suffer it, he might never
be able to return; that it was allowable to prevent an assault, and to
preserve life by taking away that of the adversary by whom it was
endangered. With regard to the violence with which he endeavoured to
escape, he declared that it was not his design to fly from justice, or
decline a trial, but to avoid the expenses and severities of a prison;
and that he intended to appear at the bar without compulsion.
This defence, which took up more than an hour, was heard by the multitude
that thronged the court with the most attentive and respectful silence.
Those who thought he ought not to be acquitted owned that applause could
not be refused him; and those who before pitied his misfortunes now
reverenced his abilities. The witnesses which appeared against him were
proved to be persons of characters which did not entitle them to much
credit; a common strumpet, a woman by whom strumpets were entertained, a
man by whom they were supported: and the character of Savage was by
several persons of distinction asserted to be that of a modest,
inoffensive man, not inclined to broils or to insolence, and who had, to
that time, been only known for his misfortunes and his wit. Had his
audience been his judges, he had undoubtedly been acquitted, but Mr.
Page, who was then upon the bench, treated him with his usual insolence
and severity, and when he had summed up the evidence, endeavoured to
exasperate the jury, as Mr. Savage used to relate it, with this eloquent
harangue:—
“Gentlemen of the jury, you are to consider that Mr. Savage is a very
great man, a much greater man than you or I, gentlemen of the jury; that
he wears very fine clothes, much finer clothes than you or I, gentlemen
of the jury; that he has abundance of money in his pockets, much more
money than you or I, gentlemen of the jury; but, gentlemen of the jury,
is it not a very hard case, gentlemen of the jury, that Mr. Savage should
therefore kill you or me, gentlemen of the jury?”
Mr. Savage, hearing his defence thus misrepresented, and the men who were
to decide his fate incited against him by invidious comparisons,
resolutely asserted that his cause was not candidly explained, and began
to recapitulate what he had before said with regard to his condition, and
the necessity of endeavouring to escape the expenses of imprisonment; but
the judge having ordered him to be silent, and repeated his orders
without effect, commanded that he should be taken from the bar by force.
The jury then heard the opinion of the judge, that good characters were
of no weight against positive evidence, though they might turn the scale
where it was doubtful; and that though, when two men attack each other,
the death of either is only manslaughter; but where one is the aggressor,
as in the case before them, and, in pursuance of his first attack, kills
the other, the law supposes the action, however sudden, to be malicious.
They then deliberated upon their verdict, and determined that Mr. Savage
and Mr. Gregory were guilty of murder, and Mr. Merchant, who had no
sword, only of manslaughter.
Thus ended this memorable trial, which lasted eight hours. Mr. Savage and
Mr. Gregory were conducted back to prison, where they were more closely
confined, and loaded with irons of fifty pounds’ weight. Four days
afterwards they were sent back to the court to receive sentence, on which
occasion Mr. Savage made, as far as it could be retained in memory, the
following speech:—
“It is now, my lord, too late to offer anything by way of defence or
vindication; nor can we expect from your lordships, in this court, but
the sentence which the law requires you, as judges, to pronounce against
men of our calamitous condition. But we are also persuaded that as mere
men, and out of this seat of rigorous justice, you are susceptive of the
tender passions, and too humane not to commiserate the unhappy situation
of those whom the law sometimes perhaps exacts from you to pronounce
upon. No doubt you distinguish between offences which arise out of
premeditation, and a disposition habituated to vice or immorality, and
transgressions which are the unhappy and unforeseen effects of casual
absence of reason, and sudden impulse of passion. We therefore hope you
will contribute all you can to an extension of that mercy which the
gentlemen of the jury have been pleased to show to Mr. Merchant, who
(allowing facts as sworn against us by the evidence) has led us into this
our calamity. I hope this will not be construed as if we meant to reflect
upon that gentleman, or remove anything from us upon him, or that we
repine the more at our fate because he has no participation of it. No, my
Lord! For my part, I declare nothing could more soften my grief than to
be without any companion in so great a misfortune.”
Mr. Savage had now no hopes of life but from the mercy of the Crown,
which was very earnestly solicited by his friends, and which, with
whatever difficulty the story may obtain belief, was obstructed only by
his mother.
To prejudice the queen against him, she made use of an incident which was
omitted in the order of time, that it might be mentioned together with
the purpose which it was made to serve. Mr. Savage, when he had
discovered his birth, had an incessant desire to speak to his mother, who
always avoided him in public, and refused him admission into her house.
One evening, walking, as was his custom, in the street that she
inhabited, he saw the door of her house by accident open; he entered it,
and finding no person in the passage to hinder him, went up-stairs to
salute her. She discovered him before he entered the chamber, alarmed the
family with the most distressful outcries, and when she had by her
screams gathered them about her, ordered them to drive out of the house
that villain, who had forced himself in upon her and endeavoured to
murder her. Savage, who had attempted with the most submissive tenderness
to soften her rage, hearing her utter so detestable an accusation,
thought it prudent to retire, and, I believe, never attempted afterwards
to speak to her.
But shocked as he was with her falsehood and her cruelty, he imagined
that she intended no other use of her lie than to set herself free from
his embraces and solicitations, and was very far from suspecting that she
would treasure it in her memory as an instrument of future wickedness, or
that she would endeavour for this fictitious assault to deprive him of
his life. But when the queen was solicited for his pardon, and informed
of the severe treatment which he had suffered from his judge, she
answered that, however unjustifiable might be the manner of his trial, or
whatever extenuation the action for which he was condemned might admit,
she could not think that man a proper object of the king’s mercy who had
been capable of entering his mother’s house in the night with an intent
to murder her.
By whom this atrocious calumny had been transmitted to the queen, whether
she that invented had the front to relate it, whether she found any one
weak enough to credit it, or corrupt enough to concur with her in her
hateful design, I know not, but methods had been taken to persuade the
queen so strongly of the truth of it, that she for a long time refused to
hear any one of those who petitioned for his life.
Thus had Savage perished by the evidence of a bawd, a strumpet, and his
mother, had not justice and compassion procured him an advocate of rank
too great to be rejected unheard, and of virtue too eminent to be heard
without being believed. His merit and his calamities happened to reach
the ear of the Countess of Hertford, who engaged in his support with all
the tenderness that is excited by pity, and all the zeal which is kindled
by generosity, and, demanding an audience of the queen, laid before her
the whole series of his mother’s cruelty, exposed the improbability of an
accusation by which he was charged with an intent to commit a murder that
could produce no advantage, and soon convinced her how little his former
conduct could deserve to be mentioned as a reason for extraordinary
severity.
The interposition of this lady was so successful, that he was soon after
admitted to bail, and, on the 9th of March, 1728, pleaded the king’s
pardon.
It is natural to inquire upon what motives his mother could persecute him
in a manner so outrageous and implacable; for what reason she could
employ all the arts of malice, and all the snares of calumny, to take
away the life of her own son, of a son who never injured her, who was
never supported by her expense, nor obstructed any prospect of pleasure
or advantage. Why she would endeavour to destroy him by a lie—a lie which
could not gain credit, but must vanish of itself at the first moment of
examination, and of which only this can be said to make it probable, that
it may be observed from her conduct that the most execrable crimes are
sometimes committed without apparent temptation.
This mother is still (1744) alive, and may perhaps even yet, though her
malice was so often defeated, enjoy the pleasure of reflecting that the
life which she often endeavoured to destroy was at last shortened by her
maternal offices; that though she could not transport her son to the
plantations, bury him in the shop of a mechanic, or hasten the hand of
the public executioner, she has yet had the satisfaction of embittering
all his hours, and forcing him into exigencies that hurried on his death.
It is by no means necessary to aggravate the enormity of this woman’s
conduct by placing it in opposition to that of the Countess of Hertford.
No one can fail to observe how much more amiable it is to relieve than to
oppress, and to rescue innocence from destruction than to destroy without
an injury.
Mr. Savage, during his imprisonment, his trial, and the time in which he
lay under sentence of death, behaved with great firmness and equality of
mind, and confirmed by his fortitude the esteem of those who before
admired him for his abilities. The peculiar circumstances of his life
were made more generally known by a short account which was then
published, and of which several thousands were in a few weeks dispersed
over the nation; and the compassion of mankind operated so powerfully in
his favour, that he was enabled, by frequent presents, not only to
support himself, but to assist Mr. Gregory in prison; and when he was
pardoned and released, he found the number of his friends not lessened.
The nature of the act for which he had been tried was in itself doubtful;
of the evidences which appeared against him, the character of the man was
not unexceptionable, that of the woman notoriously infamous; she whose
testimony chiefly influenced the jury to condemn him afterwards retracted
her assertions. He always himself denied that he was drunk, as had been
generally reported. Mr. Gregory, who is now (1744) collector of Antigua,
is said to declare him far less criminal than he was imagined, even by
some who favoured him; and Page himself afterwards confessed that he had
treated him with uncommon rigour. When all these particulars are rated
together, perhaps the memory of Savage may not be much sullied by his
trial. Some time after he obtained his liberty, he met in the street the
woman who had sworn with so much malignity against him. She informed him
that she was in distress, and, with a degree of confidence not easily
attainable, desired him to relieve her. He, instead of insulting her
misery, and taking pleasure in the calamities of one who had brought his
life into danger, reproved her gently for her perjury, and, changing the
only guinea that he had, divided it equally between her and himself. This
is an action which in some ages would have made a saint, and perhaps in
others a hero, and which, without any hyperbolical encomiums, must be
allowed to be an instance of uncommon generosity, an act of complicated
virtue, by which he at once relieved the poor, corrected the vicious, and
forgave an enemy; by which he at once remitted the strongest
provocations, and exercised the most ardent charity. Compassion was
indeed the distinguishing quality of Savage: he never appeared inclined
to take advantage of weakness, to attack the defenceless, or to press
upon the falling. Whoever was distressed was certain at least of his good
wishes; and when he could give no assistance to extricate them from
misfortunes, he endeavoured to soothe them by sympathy and tenderness.
But when his heart was not softened by the sight of misery, he was
sometimes obstinate in his resentment, and did not quickly lose the
remembrance of an injury. He always continued to speak with anger of the
insolence and partiality of Page, and a short time before his death
revenged it by a satire.
It is natural to inquire in what terms Mr. Savage spoke of this fatal
action when the danger was over, and he was under no necessity of using
any art to set his conduct in the fairest light. He was not willing to
dwell upon it; and, if he transiently mentioned it, appeared neither to
consider himself as a murderer, nor as a man wholly free from the guilt
of blood. How much and how long he regretted it appeared in a poem which
he published many years afterwards. On occasion of a copy of verses, in
which the failings of good men are recounted, and in which the author had
endeavoured to illustrate his position, that “the best may sometimes
deviate from virtue,” by an instance of murder committed by Savage in the
heat of wine, Savage remarked that it was no very just representation of
a good man, to suppose him liable to drunkenness, and disposed in his
riots to cut throats.
He was now indeed at liberty, but was, as before, without any other
support than accidental favours and uncertain patronage afforded him;
sources by which he was sometimes very liberally supplied, and which at
other times were suddenly stopped; so that he spent his life between want
and plenty, or, what was yet worse, between beggary and extravagance,
for, as whatever he received was the gift of chance, which might as well
favour him at one time as another, he was tempted to squander what he had
because he always hoped to be immediately supplied. Another cause of his
profusion was the absurd kindness of his friends, who at once rewarded
and enjoyed his abilities by treating him at taverns, and habituating him
to pleasures which he could not afford to enjoy, and which he was not
able to deny himself, though he purchased the luxury of a single night by
the anguish of cold and hunger for a week.
The experience of these inconveniences determined him to endeavour after
some settled income, which, having long found submission and entreaties
fruitless, he attempted to extort from his mother by rougher methods. He
had now, as he acknowledged, lost that tenderness for her which the whole
series of her cruelty had not been able wholly to repress, till he found,
by the efforts which she made for his destruction, that she was not
content with refusing to assist him, and being neutral in his struggles
with poverty, but was ready to snatch every opportunity of adding to his
misfortunes; and that she was now to be considered as an enemy implacably
malicious, whom nothing but his blood could satisfy. He therefore
threatened to harass her with lampoons, and to publish a copious
narrative of her conduct, unless she consented to purchase an exemption
from infamy by allowing him a pension.
This expedient proved successful. Whether shame still survived, though
virtue was extinct, or whether her relations had more delicacy than
herself, and imagined that some of the darts which satire might point at
her would glance upon them, Lord Tyrconnel, whatever were his motives,
upon his promise to lay aside his design of exposing the cruelty of his
mother, received him into his family, treated him as his equal, and
engaged to allow him a pension of two hundred pounds a year. This was the
golden part of Mr. Savage’s life; and for some time he had no reason to
complain of fortune. His appearance was splendid, his expenses large, and
his acquaintance extensive. He was courted by all who endeavoured to be
thought men of genius, and caressed by all who valued themselves upon a
refined taste. To admire Mr. Savage was a proof of discernment; and to be
acquainted with him was a title to poetical reputation. His presence was
sufficient to make any place of public entertainment popular, and his
approbation and example constituted the fashion. So powerful is genius,
when it is invested with the glitter of affluence! Men willingly pay to
fortune that regard which they owe to merit, and are pleased when they
have an opportunity at once of gratifying their vanity and practising
their duty.
This interval of prosperity furnished him with opportunities of enlarging
his knowledge of human nature, by contemplating life from its highest
gradations to its lowest; and, had he afterwards applied to dramatic
poetry, he would perhaps not have had many superiors, for, as he never
suffered any scene to pass before his eyes without notice, he had
treasured in his mind all the different combinations of passions, and the
innumerable mixtures of vice and virtue, which distinguished one
character from another; and, as his conception was strong, his
expressions were clear, he easily received impressions from objects, and
very forcibly transmitted them to others. Of his exact observations on
human life he has left a proof, which would do honour to the greatest
names, in a small pamphlet, called “The Author to be Let,” where he
introduces Iscariot Hackney, a prostitute scribbler, giving an account of
his birth, his education, his disposition and morals, habits of life, and
maxims of conduct. In the introduction are related many secret histories
of the petty writers of that time, but sometimes mixed with ungenerous
reflections on their birth, their circumstances, or those of their
relations; nor can it be denied that some passages are such as Iscariot
Hackney might himself have produced. He was accused likewise of living in
an appearance of friendship with some whom he satirised, and of making
use of the confidence which he gained by a seeming kindness, to discover
failings and expose them. It must be confessed that Mr. Savage’s esteem
was no very certain possession, and that he would lampoon at one time
those whom he had praised at another.
It may be alleged that the same man may change his principles, and that
he who was once deservedly commended may be afterwards satirised with
equal justice, or that the poet was dazzled with the appearance of
virtue, and found the man whom he had celebrated, when he had an
opportunity of examining him more narrowly, unworthy of the panegyric
which he had too hastily bestowed; and that, as a false satire ought to
be recanted, for the sake of him whose reputation may be injured, false
praise ought likewise to be obviated, lest the distinction between vice
and virtue should be lost, lest a bad man should be trusted upon the
credit of his encomiast, or lest others should endeavour to obtain like
praises by the same means. But though these excuses may be often
plausible, and sometimes just, they are very seldom satisfactory to
mankind; and the writer who is not constant to his subject, quickly sinks
into contempt, his satire loses its force, and his panegyric its value;
and he is only considered at one time as a flatterer, and a calumniator
at another. To avoid these imputations, it is only necessary to follow
the rules of virtue, and to preserve an unvaried regard to truth. For
though it is undoubtedly possible that a man, however cautious, may be
sometimes deceived by an artful appearance of virtue, or by false
evidences of guilt, such errors will not be frequent; and it will be
allowed that the name of an author would never have been made
contemptible had no man ever said what he did not think, or misled others
but when he was himself deceived.
“The Author to be Let” was first published in a single pamphlet, and
afterwards inserted in a collection of pieces relating to the “Dunciad,”
which were addressed by Mr. Savage to the Earl of Middlesex, in a
dedication which he was prevailed upon to sign, though he did not write
it, and in which there are some positions that the true author would
perhaps not have published under his own name, and on which Mr. Savage
afterwards reflected with no great satisfaction. The enumeration of the
bad effects of the uncontrolled freedom of the press, and the assertion
that the “liberties taken by the writers of journals with their superiors
were exorbitant and unjustifiable,” very ill became men who have
themselves not always shown the exactest regard to the laws of
subordination in their writings, and who have often satirised those that
at least thought themselves their superiors, as they were eminent for
their hereditary rank, and employed in the highest offices of the
kingdom. But this is only an instance of that partiality which almost
every man indulges with regard to himself: the liberty of the press is a
blessing when we are inclined to write against others, and a calamity
when we find ourselves overborne by the multitude of our assailants; as
the power of the Crown is always thought too great by those who suffer by
its influence, and too little by those in whose favour it is exerted; and
a standing army is generally accounted necessary by those who command,
and dangerous and oppressive by those who support it.
Mr. Savage was likewise very far from believing that the letters annexed
to each species of bad poets in the Bathos were, as he was directed to
assert, “set down at random;” for when he was charged by one of his
friends with putting his name to such an improbability, he had no other
answer to make than that “he did not think of it;” and his friend had too
much tenderness to reply, that next to the crime of writing contrary to
what he thought was that of writing without thinking.
After having remarked what is false in this dedication, it is proper that
I observe the impartiality which I recommend, by declaring what Savage
asserted—that the account of the circumstances which attended the
publication of the “Dunciad,” however strange and improbable, was exactly
true.
The publication of this piece at this time raised Mr. Savage a great
number of enemies among those that were attacked by Mr. Pope, with whom
he was considered as a kind of confederate, and whom he was suspected of
supplying with private intelligence and secret incidents; so that the
ignominy of an informer was added to the terror of a satirist. That he
was not altogether free from literary hypocrisy, and that he sometimes
spoke one thing and wrote another, cannot be denied, because he himself
confessed that, when he lived with great familiarity with Dennis, he
wrote an epigram against him.
Mr. Savage, however, set all the malice of all the pigmy writers at
defiance, and thought the friendship of Mr. Pope cheaply purchased by
being exposed to their censure and their hatred; nor had he any reason to
repent of the preference, for he found Mr. Pope a steady and unalienable
friend almost to the end of his life.
About this time, notwithstanding his avowed neutrality with regard to
party, he published a panegyric on Sir Robert Walpole, for which he was
rewarded by him with twenty guineas, a sum not very large, if either the
excellence of the performance or the affluence of the patron be
considered; but greater than he afterwards obtained from a person of yet
higher rank, and more desirous in appearance of being distinguished as a
patron of literature.
As he was very far from approving the conduct of Sir Robert Walpole, and
in conversation mentioned him sometimes with acrimony, and generally with
contempt, as he was one of those who were always zealous in their
assertions of the justice of the late opposition, jealous of the rights
of the people, and alarmed by the long-continued triumph of the Court, it
was natural to ask him what could induce him to employ his poetry in
praise of that man who was, in his opinion, an enemy to liberty, and an
oppressor of his country? He alleged that he was then dependent upon the
Lord Tyrconnel, who was an implicit follower of the ministry: and that,
being enjoined by him, not without menaces, to write in praise of the
leader, he had not resolution sufficient to sacrifice the pleasure of
affluence to that of integrity.
On this, and on many other occasions, he was ready to lament the misery
of living at the tables of other men, which was his fate from the
beginning to the end of his life; for I know not whether he ever had, for
three months together, a settled habitation, in which he could claim a
right of residence.
To this unhappy state it is just to impute much of the inconsistency of
his conduct, for though a readiness to comply with the inclinations of
others was no part of his natural character, yet he was sometimes obliged
to relax his obstinacy, and submit his own judgment, and even his virtue,
to the government of those by whom he was supported. So that if his
miseries were sometimes the consequences of his faults, he ought not yet
to be wholly excluded from compassion, because his faults were very often
the effects of his misfortunes.
In this gay period of his life, while he was surrounded by affluence and
pleasure, he published “The Wanderer,” a moral poem, of which the design
is comprised in these lines:—
“I fly all public care, all venal strife,
To try the still, compared with active, life;
To prove, by these, the sons of men may owe
The fruits of bliss to bursting clouds of woe;
That ev’n calamity, by thought refined,
Inspirits and adorns the thinking mind.”