sums, which the frequency of the request made in time considerable; and
he was therefore quickly shunned by those who were become familiar enough
to be trusted with his necessities; but his rambling manner of life, and
constant appearance at houses of public resort, always procured him a new
succession of friends whose kindness had not been exhausted by repeated
requests; so that he was seldom absolutely without resources, but had in
his utmost exigencies this comfort, that he always imagined himself sure
of speedy relief. It was observed that he always asked favours of this
kind without the least submission or apparent consciousness of
dependence, and that he did not seem to look upon a compliance with his
request as an obligation that deserved any extraordinary acknowledgments;
but a refusal was resented by him as an affront, or complained of as an
injury; nor did he readily reconcile himself to those who either denied
to lend, or gave him afterwards any intimation that they expected to be
repaid. He was sometimes so far compassionated by those who knew both his
merit and distresses that they received him into their families, but they
soon discovered him to be a very incommodious inmate; for, being always
accustomed to an irregular manner of life, he could not confine himself
to any stated hours, or pay any regard to the rules of a family, but
would prolong his conversation till midnight, without considering that
business might require his friend’s application in the morning; and, when
he had persuaded himself to retire to bed, was not, without equal
difficulty, called up to dinner: it was therefore impossible to pay him
any distinction without the entire subversion of all economy, a kind of
establishment which, wherever he went, he always appeared ambitious to
overthrow. It must therefore be acknowledged, in justification of
mankind, that it was not always by the negligence or coldness of his
friends that Savage was distressed, but because it was in reality very
difficult to preserve him long in a state of ease. To supply him with
money was a hopeless attempt; for no sooner did he see himself master of
a sum sufficient to set him free from care for a day than he became
profuse and luxurious. When once he had entered a tavern, or engaged in a
scheme of pleasure, he never retired till want of money obliged him to
some new expedient. If he was entertained in a family, nothing was any
longer to be regarded there but amusement and jollity; wherever Savage
entered, he immediately expected that order and business should fly
before him, that all should thenceforward be left to hazard, and that no
dull principle of domestic management should be opposed to his
inclination or intrude upon his gaiety. His distresses, however
afflictive, never dejected him; in his lowest state he wanted not spirit
to assert the natural dignity of wit, and was always ready to repress
that insolence which the superiority of fortune incited, and to trample
on that reputation which rose upon any other basis than that of merit: he
never admitted any gross familiarities, or submitted to be treated
otherwise than as an equal. Once when he was without lodging, meat, or
clothes, one of his friends, a man indeed not remarkable for moderation
in his prosperity, left a message that he desired to see him about nine
in the morning. Savage knew that his intention was to assist him, but was
very much disgusted that he should presume to prescribe the hour of his
attendance, and, I believe, refused to visit him, and rejected his
kindness.
The same invincible temper, whether firmness or obstinacy, appeared in
his conduct to the Lord Tyrconnel, from whom he very frequently demanded
that the allowance which was once paid him should be restored; but with
whom he never appeared to entertain for a moment the thought of
soliciting a reconciliation, and whom he treated at once with all the
haughtiness of superiority and all the bitterness of resentment. He wrote
to him, not in a style of supplication or respect, but of reproach,
menace, and contempt; and appeared determined, if he ever regained his
allowance, to hold it only by the right of conquest.
As many more can discover that a man is richer than that he is wiser than
themselves, superiority of understanding is not so readily acknowledged
as that of fortune; nor is that haughtiness which the consciousness of
great abilities incites, borne with the same submission as the tyranny of
affluence; and therefore Savage, by asserting his claim to deference and
regard, and by treating those with contempt whom better fortune animated
to rebel against him, did not fail to raise a great number of enemies in
the different classes of mankind. Those who thought themselves raised
above him by the advantages of riches hated him because they found no
protection from the petulance of his wit. Those who were esteemed for
their writings feared him as a critic, and maligned him as a rival; and
almost all the smaller wits were his professed enemies.
Among these Mr. Miller so far indulged his resentment as to introduce him
in a farce, and direct him to be personated on the stage in a dress like
that which he then wore; a mean insult, which only insinuated that Savage
had but one coat, and which was therefore despised by him rather than
resented; for, though he wrote a lampoon against Miller, he never printed
it: and as no other person ought to prosecute that revenge from which the
person who was injured desisted, I shall not preserve what Mr. Savage
suppressed; of which the publication would indeed have been a punishment
too severe for so impotent an assault.
The great hardships of poverty were to Savage not the want of lodging or
food, but the neglect and contempt which it drew upon him. He complained
that, as his affairs grew desperate, he found his reputation for capacity
visibly decline; that his opinion in questions of criticism was no longer
regarded when his coat was out of fashion; and that those who, in the
interval of his prosperity, were always encouraging him to great
undertakings by encomiums on his genius and assurances of success, now
received any mention of his designs with coldness, thought that the
subjects on which he proposed to write were very difficult, and were
ready to inform him that the event of a poem was uncertain, that an
author ought to employ much time in the consideration of his plan, and
not presume to sit down to write in consequence of a few cursory ideas
and a superficial knowledge; difficulties were started on all sides, and
he was no longer qualified for any performance but “The Volunteer
Laureate.”
Yet even this kind of contempt never depressed him: for he always
preserved a steady confidence in his own capacity, and believed nothing
above his reach which he should at any time earnestly endeavour to
attain. He formed schemes of the same kind with regard to knowledge and
to fortune, and flattered himself with advances to be made in science, as
with riches, to be enjoyed in some distant period of his life. For the
acquisition of knowledge he was indeed much better qualified than for
that of riches; for he was naturally inquisitive, and desirous of the
conversation of those from whom any information was to be obtained, but
by no means solicitous to improve those opportunities that were sometimes
offered of raising his fortune; and he was remarkably retentive of his
ideas, which, when once he was in possession of them, rarely forsook him;
a quality which could never be communicated to his money.
While he was thus wearing out his life in expectation that the queen
would some time recollect her promise, he had recourse to the usual
practice of writers, and published proposals for printing his works by
subscription, to which he was encouraged by the success of many who had
not a better right to the favour of the public; but, whatever was the
reason, he did not find the world equally inclined to favour him; and he
observed with some discontent, that though he offered his works at half a
guinea, he was able to procure but a small number in comparison with
those who subscribed twice as much to Duck. Nor was it without
indignation that he saw his proposals neglected by the queen, who
patronised Mr. Duck’s with uncommon ardour, and incited a competition
among those who attended the court who should most promote his interest,
and who should first offer a subscription. This was a distinction to
which Mr. Savage made no scruple of asserting that his birth, his
misfortunes, and his genius, gave a fairer title than could be pleaded by
him on whom it was conferred.
Savage’s applications were, however, not universally unsuccessful; for
some of the nobility countenanced his design, encouraged his proposals,
and subscribed with great liberality. He related of the Duke of Chandos
particularly, that upon receiving his proposals he sent him ten guineas.
But the money which his subscriptions afforded him was not less volatile
than that which he received from his other schemes; whenever a
subscription was paid him, he went to a tavern; and as money so collected
is necessarily received in small sums, he never was able to send his
poems to the press, but for many years continued his solicitation, and
squandered whatever he obtained.
The project of printing his works was frequently revived; and as his
proposals grew obsolete, new ones were printed with fresher dates. To
form schemes for the publication was one of his favourite amusements; nor
was he ever more at ease than when, with any friend who readily fell in
with his schemes, he was adjusting the print, forming the advertisements,
and regulating the dispersion of his new edition, which he really
intended some time to publish, and which, as long as experience had shown
him the impossibility of printing the volume together, he at last
determined to divide into weekly or monthly numbers, that the profits of
the first might supply the expenses of the next.
Thus he spent his time in mean expedients and tormenting suspense, living
for the greatest part in fear of prosecutions from his creditors, and
consequently skulking in obscure parts of the town, of which he was no
stranger to the remotest corners. But wherever he came, his address
secured him friends, whom his necessities soon alienated; so that he had
perhaps a more numerous acquaintance than any man ever before attained,
there being scarcely any person eminent on any account to whom he was not
known, or whose character he was not in some degree able to delineate. To
the acquisition of this extensive acquaintance every circumstance of his
life contributed. He excelled in the arts of conversation, and therefore
willingly practised them. He had seldom any home, or even a lodging, in
which he could be private, and therefore was driven into public-houses
for the common conveniences of life and supports of nature. He was always
ready to comply with every invitation, having no employment to withhold
him, and often no money to provide for himself; and by dining with one
company he never failed of obtaining an introduction into another.
Thus dissipated was his life, and thus casual his subsistence; yet did
not the distraction of his views hinder him from reflection, nor the
uncertainty of his condition depress his gaiety. When he had wandered
about without any fortunate adventure by which he was led into a tavern,
he sometimes retired into the fields, and was able to employ his mind in
study, to amuse it with pleasing imaginations; and seldom appeared to be
melancholy but when some sudden misfortune had just fallen upon him; and
even then in a few moments he would disentangle himself from his
perplexity, adopt the subject of conversation, and apply his mind wholly
to the objects that others presented to it. This life, unhappy as it may
be already imagined, was yet embittered in 1738 with new calamities. The
death of the queen deprived him of all the prospects of preferment with
which he so long entertained his imagination; and as Sir Robert Walpole
had before given him reason to believe that he never intended the
performance of his promise, he was now abandoned again to fortune. He
was, however, at that time supported by a friend; and as it was not his
custom to look out for distant calamities, or to feel any other pain than
that which forced itself upon his senses, he was not much afflicted at
his loss, and perhaps comforted himself that his pension would be now
continued without the annual tribute of a panegyric. Another expectation
contributed likewise to support him; he had taken a resolution to write a
second tragedy upon the story of Sir Thomas Overbury, in which he
preserved a few lines of his former play, but made a total alteration of
the plan, added new incidents, and introduced new characters; so that it
was a new tragedy, not a revival of the former.
Many of his friends blamed him for not making choice of another subject;
but in vindication of himself he asserted that it was not easy to find a
better; and that he thought it his interest to extinguish the memory of
the first tragedy, which he could only do by writing one less defective
upon the same story; by which he should entirely defeat the artifice of
the booksellers, who, after the death of any author of reputation, are
always industrious to swell his works by uniting his worst productions
with his best. In the execution of this scheme, however, he proceeded but
slowly, and probably only employed himself upon it when he could find no
other amusement; but he pleased himself with counting the profits, and
perhaps imagined that the theatrical reputation which he was about to
acquire would be equivalent to all that he had lost by the death of his
patroness. He did not, in confidence of his approaching riches, neglect
the measures proper to secure the continuance of his pension, though some
of his favourers thought him culpable for omitting to write on her death;
but on her birthday next year he gave a proof of the solidity of his
judgment and the power of his genius. He knew that the track of elegy had
been so long beaten that it was impossible to travel in it without
treading in the footsteps of those who had gone before him; and that
therefore it was necessary, that he might distinguish himself from the
herd of encomiasts, to find out some new walk of funeral panegyric. This
difficult task he performed in such a manner that his poem may be justly
ranked among the best pieces that the death of princes has produced. By
transferring the mention of her death to her birthday, he has formed a
happy combination of topics which any other man would have thought it
very difficult to connect in one view, but which he has united in such a
manner that the relation between them appears natural; and it may be
justly said that what no other man would have thought on, it now appears
scarcely possible for any man to miss.
The beauty of this peculiar combination of images is so masterly that it
is sufficient to set this poem above censure; and therefore it is not
necessary to mention many other delicate touches which may be found in
it, and which would deservedly be admired in any other performance. To
these proofs of his genius may be added, from the same poem, an instance
of his prudence, an excellence for which he was not so often
distinguished; he does not forget to remind the king, in the most
delicate and artful manner, of continuing his pension.
With regard to the success of his address he was for some time in
suspense, but was in no great degree solicitous about it; and continued
his labour upon his new tragedy with great tranquillity, till the friend
who had for a considerable time supported him, removing his family to
another place, took occasion to dismiss him. It then became necessary to
inquire more diligently what was determined in his affair, having reason
to suspect that no great favour was intended him, because he had not
received his pension at the usual time.
It is said that he did not take those methods of retrieving his interest
which were most likely to succeed; and some of those who were employed in
the Exchequer cautioned him against too much violence in his proceedings;
but Mr. Savage, who seldom regulated his conduct by the advice of others,
gave way to his passion, and demanded of Sir Robert Walpole, at his
levée, the reason of the distinction that was made between him and the
other pensioners of the queen, with a degree of roughness which perhaps
determined him to withdraw what had been only delayed.
Whatever was the crime of which he was accused or suspected, and whatever
influence was employed against him, he received soon after an account
that took from him all hopes of regaining his pension; and he had now no
prospect of subsistence but from his play, and he knew no way of living
for the time required to finish it.
So peculiar were the misfortunes of this man, deprived of an estate and
title by a particular law, exposed and abandoned by a mother, defrauded
by a mother of a fortune which his father had allotted him, he entered
the world without a friend; and though his abilities forced themselves
into esteem and reputation, he was never able to obtain any real
advantage; and whatever prospects arose, were always intercepted as he
began to approach them. The king’s intentions in his favour were
frustrated; his dedication to the prince, whose generosity on every other
occasion was eminent, procured him no reward; Sir Robert Walpole, who
valued himself upon keeping his promise to others, broke it to him
without regret; and the bounty of the queen was, after her death,
withdrawn from him, and from him only.
Such were his misfortunes, which yet he bore, not only with decency, but
with cheerfulness; nor was his gaiety clouded even by his last
disappointments, though he was in a short time reduced to the lowest
degree of distress, and often wanted both lodging and food. At this time
he gave another instance of the insurmountable obstinacy of his spirit:
his clothes were worn out, and he received notice that at a coffee-house
some clothes and linen were left for him: the person who sent them did
not, I believe, inform him to whom he was to be obliged, that he might
spare the perplexity of acknowledging the benefit; but though the offer
was so far generous, it was made with some neglect of ceremonies, which
Mr. Savage so much resented that he refused the present, and declined to
enter the house till the clothes that had been designed for him were
taken away.
His distress was now publicly known, and his friends therefore thought it
proper to concert some measures for his relief; and one of them [Pope]
wrote a letter to him, in which he expressed his concern “for the
miserable withdrawing of this pension;” and gave him hopes that in a
short time he should find himself supplied with a competence, “without
any dependence on those little creatures which we are pleased to call the
Great.” The scheme proposed for this happy and independent subsistence
was, that he should retire into Wales, and receive an allowance of fifty
pounds a year, to be raised by a subscription, on which he was to live
privately in a cheap place, without aspiring any more to affluence, or
having any further care of reputation. This offer Mr. Savage gladly
accepted, though with intentions very different from those of his
friends; for they proposed that he should continue an exile from London
for ever, and spend all the remaining part of his life at Swansea; but he
designed only to take the opportunity which their scheme offered him of
retreating for a short time, that he might prepare his play for the
stage, and his other works for the press, and then to return to London to
exhibit his tragedy, and live upon the profits of his own labour. With
regard to his works he proposed very great improvements, which would have
required much time or great application; and, when he had finished them,
he designed to do justice to his subscribers by publishing them according
to his proposals. As he was ready to entertain himself with future
pleasures, he had planned out a scheme of life for the country, of which
he had no knowledge but from pastorals and songs. He imagined that he
should be transported to scenes of flowery felicity, like those which one
poet has reflected to another; and had projected a perpetual round of
innocent pleasures, of which he suspected no interruption from pride, or
ignorance, or brutality. With these expectations he was so enchanted that
when he was once gently reproached by a friend for submitting to live
upon a subscription, and advised rather by a resolute exertion of his
abilities to support himself, he could not bear to debar himself from the
happiness which was to be found in the calm of a cottage, or lose the
opportunity of listening, without intermission, to the melody of the
nightingale, which he believed was to be heard from every bramble, and
which he did not fail to mention as a very important part of the
happiness of a country life.
While this scheme was ripening, his friends directed him to take a
lodging in the liberties of the Fleet, that he might be secure from his
creditors, and sent him every Monday a guinea, which he commonly spent
before the next morning, and trusted, after his usual manner, the
remaining part of the week to the bounty of fortune.
He now began very sensibly to feel the miseries of dependence. Those by
whom he was to be supported began to prescribe to him with an air of
authority, which he knew not how decently to resent, nor patiently to
bear; and he soon discovered from the conduct of most of his subscribers,
that he was yet in the hands of “little creatures.” Of the insolence
that he was obliged to suffer he gave many instances, of which none
appeared to raise his indignation to a greater height than the method
which was taken of furnishing him with clothes. Instead of consulting
him, and allowing him to send a tailor his orders for what they thought
proper to allow him, they proposed to send for a tailor to take his
measure, and then to consult how they should equip him. This treatment
was not very delicate, nor was it such as Savage’s humanity would have
suggested to him on a like occasion; but it had scarcely deserved
mention, had it not, by affecting him in an uncommon degree, shown the
peculiarity of his character. Upon hearing the design that was formed, he
came to the lodging of a friend with the most violent agonies of rage;
and, being asked what it could be that gave him such disturbance, he
replied with the utmost vehemence of indignation, “That they had sent for
a tailor to measure him.”
How the affair ended was never inquired, for fear of renewing his
uneasiness. It is probable that, upon recollection, he submitted with a
good grace to what he could not avoid, and that he discovered no
resentment where he had no power. He was, however, not humbled to
implicit and universal compliance; for when the gentleman who had first
informed him of the design to support him by a subscription attempted to
procure a reconciliation with the Lord Tyrconnel, he could by no means be
prevailed upon to comply with the measures that were proposed.
A letter was written for him to Sir William Lemon, to prevail upon him to
interpose his good offices with Lord Tyrconnel, in which he solicited Sir
William’s assistance “for a man who really needed it as much as any man
could well do;” and informed him that he was retiring “for ever to a
place where he should no more trouble his relations, friends, or
enemies;” he confessed that his passion had betrayed him to some conduct,
with regard to Lord Tyrconnel, for which he could not but heartily ask
his pardon; and as he imagined Lord Tyrconnel’s passion might be yet so
high, that he would not “receive a letter from him,” begged that Sir
William would endeavour to soften him; and expressed his hopes that he
would comply with this request, and that “so small a relation would not
harden his heart against him.”
That any man should presume to dictate a letter to him was not very
agreeable to Mr. Savage; and therefore he was, before he had opened it,
not much inclined to approve it. But when he read it he found it
contained sentiments entirely opposite to his own, and, as he asserted,
to the truth; and therefore, instead of copying it, wrote his friend a
letter full of masculine resentment and warm expostulations. He very
justly observed, that the style was too supplicatory, and the
representation too abject, and that he ought at least to have made him
complain with “the dignity of a gentleman in distress.” He declared that
he would not write the paragraph in which he was to ask Lord Tyrconnel’s
pardon; for, “he despised his pardon, and therefore could not heartily,
and would not hypocritically, ask it.” He remarked that his friend made
a very unreasonable distinction between himself and him; for, says he,
“when you mention men of high rank in your own character,” they are
“those little creatures whom we are pleased to call the Great;” but when
you address them “in mine,” no servility is sufficiently humble. He then
with propriety explained the ill consequences which might be expected
from such a letter, which his relations would print in their own defence,
and which would for ever be produced as a full answer to all that he
should allege against them; for he always intended to publish a minute
account of the treatment which he had received. It is to be remembered,
to the honour of the gentleman by whom this letter was drawn up, that he
yielded to Mr. Savage’s reasons, and agreed that it ought to be
suppressed.
After many alterations and delays, a subscription was at length raised,
which did not amount to fifty pounds a year, though twenty were paid by
one gentleman; such was the generosity of mankind, that what had been
done by a player without solicitation, could not now be effected by
application and interest; and Savage had a great number to court and to
obey for a pension less than that which Mrs. Oldfield paid him without
exacting any servilities. Mr. Savage, however, was satisfied, and willing
to retire, and was convinced that the allowance, though scanty, would be
more than sufficient for him, being now determined to commence a rigid
economist, and to live according to the exact rules of frugality; for
nothing was in his opinion more contemptible than a man who, when he knew
his income, exceeded it; and yet he confessed that instances of such
folly were too common, and lamented that some men were not trusted with
their own money.
Full of these salutary resolutions, he left London in July, 1739, having
taken leave with great tenderness of his friends, and parted from the
author of this narrative with tears in his eyes. He was furnished with
fifteen guineas, and informed that they would be sufficient, not only for
the expense of his journey, but for his support in Wales for some time;
and that there remained but little more of the first collection. He
promised a strict adherence to his maxims of parsimony, and went away in
the stage-coach; nor did his friends expect to hear from him till he
informed them of his arrival at Swansea. But when they least expected,
arrived a letter dated the fourteenth day after his departure, in which
he sent them word that he was yet upon the road, and without money; and
that he therefore could not proceed without a remittance. They then sent
him the money that was in their hands, with which he was enabled to reach
Bristol, from whence he was to go to Swansea by water.
At Bristol he found an embargo laid upon the shipping, so that he could
not immediately obtain a passage; and being therefore obliged to stay
there some time, he with his usual felicity ingratiated himself with many
of the principal inhabitants, was invited to their houses, distinguished
at their public feasts, and treated with a regard that gratified his
vanity, and therefore easily engaged his affection.
He began very early after his retirement to complain of the conduct of
his friends in London, and irritated many of them so much by his letters,
that they withdrew, however honourably, their contributions; and it is
believed that little more was paid him than the twenty pounds a year,
which were allowed him by the gentleman who proposed the subscription.
After some stay at Bristol he retired to Swansea, the place originally
proposed for his residence, where he lived about a year, very much
dissatisfied with the diminution of his salary; but contracted, as in
other places, acquaintance with those who were most distinguished in that
country, among whom he has celebrated Mr. Powel and Mrs. Jones, by some
verses which he inserted in _The Gentleman’s Magazine_. Here he completed
his tragedy, of which two acts were wanting when he left London; and was
desirous of coming to town, to bring it upon the stage. This design was
very warmly opposed; and he was advised, by his chief benefactor, to put
it into the hands of Mr. Thomson and Mr. Mallet, that it might be fitted
for the stage, and to allow his friends to receive the profits, out of
which an annual pension should be paid him.
This proposal he rejected with the utmost contempt. He was by no means
convinced that the judgment of those to whom he was required to submit
was superior to his own. He was now determined, as he expressed it, to be
“no longer kept in leading-strings,” and had no elevated idea of “his
bounty, who proposed to pension him out of the profits of his own
labours.”
He attempted in Wales to promote a subscription for his works, and had
once hopes of success; but in a short time afterwards formed a resolution
of leaving that part of the country, to which he thought it not
reasonable to be confined for the gratification of those who, having
promised him a liberal income, had no sooner banished him to a remote
corner than they reduced his allowance to a salary scarcely equal to the
necessities of life. His resentment of this treatment, which, in his own
opinion at least, he had not deserved, was such, that he broke off all
correspondence with most of his contributors, and appeared to consider
them as persecutors and oppressors; and in the latter part of his life
declared that their conduct towards him since his departure from London
“had been perfidiousness improving on perfidiousness, and inhumanity on
inhumanity.”
It is not to be supposed that the necessities of Mr. Savage did not
sometimes incite him to satirical exaggerations of the behaviour of those
by whom he thought himself reduced to them. But it must be granted that
the diminution of his allowance was a great hardship, and that those who
withdrew their subscription from a man who, upon the faith of their
promise, had gone into a kind of banishment, and abandoned all those by
whom he had been before relieved in his distresses, will find it no easy
task to vindicate their conduct. It may be alleged, and perhaps justly,
that he was petulant and contemptuous; that he more frequently reproached
his subscribers for not giving him more, than thanked them for what he
received; but it is to be remembered that his conduct, and this is the
worst charge that can be drawn up against him, did them no real injury,
and that it therefore ought rather to have been pitied than resented; at
least the resentment it might provoke ought to have been generous and
manly; epithets which his conduct will hardly deserve that starves the
man whom he has persuaded to put himself into his power.
It might have been reasonably demanded by Savage, that they should,
before they had taken away what they promised, have replaced him in his
former state, that they should have taken no advantages from the
situation to which the appearance of their kindness had reduced him, and
that he should have been recalled to London before he was abandoned. He
might justly represent, that he ought to have been considered as a lion
in the toils, and demand to be released before the dogs should be loosed
upon him. He endeavoured, indeed, to release himself, and, with an intent
to return to London, went to Bristol, where a repetition of the kindness
which he had formerly found, invited him to stay. He was not only
caressed and treated, but had a collection made for him of about thirty
pounds, with which it had been happy if he had immediately departed for
London; but his negligence did not suffer him to consider that such
proofs of kindness were not often to be expected, and that this ardour of
benevolence was in a great degree the effect of novelty, and might,
probably, be every day less; and therefore he took no care to improve the
happy time, but was encouraged by one favour to hope for another, till at
length generosity was exhausted, and officiousness wearied.
Another part of his misconduct was the practice of prolonging his visits
to unseasonable hours, and disconcerting all the families into which he
was admitted. This was an error in a place of commerce which all the
charms of his conversation could not compensate; for what trader would
purchase such airy satisfaction by the loss of solid gain, which must be
the consequence of midnight merriment, as those hours which were gained
at night were generally lost in the morning? Thus Mr. Savage, after the
curiosity of the inhabitants was gratified, found the number of his
friends daily decreasing, perhaps without suspecting for what reason
their conduct was altered; for he still continued to harass, with his
nocturnal intrusions, those that yet countenanced him, and admitted him
to their houses.
But he did not spend all the time of his residence at Bristol in visits
or at taverns, for he sometimes returned to his studies, and began
several considerable designs. When he felt an inclination to write, he
always retired from the knowledge of his friends, and lay hid in an
obscure part of the suburbs, till he found himself again desirous of
company, to which it is likely that intervals of absence made him more
welcome. He was always full of his design of returning to London, to
bring his tragedy upon the stage; but, having neglected to depart with
the money that was raised for him, he could not afterwards procure a sum
sufficient to defray the expenses of his journey; nor perhaps would a
fresh supply have had any other effect than, by putting immediate
pleasures into his power, to have driven the thoughts of his journey out
of his mind. While he was thus spending the day in contriving a scheme
for the morrow, distress stole upon him by imperceptible degrees. His
conduct had already wearied some of those who were at first enamoured of
his conversation; but he might, perhaps, still have devolved to others,
whom he might have entertained with equal success, had not the decay of
his clothes made it no longer consistent with their vanity to admit him
to their tables, or to associate with him in public places. He now began
to find every man from home at whose house he called; and was therefore
no longer able to procure the necessaries of life, but wandered about the
town, slighted and neglected, in quest of a dinner, which he did not
always obtain.
To complete his misery, he was pursued by the officers for small debts
which he had contracted; and was therefore obliged to withdraw from the
small number of friends from whom he had still reason to hope for
favours. His custom was to lie in bed the greatest part of the day, and
to get out in the dark with the utmost privacy, and, after having paid
his visit, return again before morning to his lodging, which was in the
garret of an obscure inn. Being thus excluded on one hand, and confined
on the other, he suffered the utmost extremities of poverty, and often
fasted so long that he was seized with faintness, and had lost his
appetite, not being able to bear the smell of meat till the action of his
stomach was restored by a cordial. In this distress, he received a
remittance of five pounds from London, with which he provided himself a
decent coat, and determined to go to London, but unhappily spent his
money at a favourite tavern. Thus was he again confined to Bristol, where
he was every day hunted by bailiffs. In this exigence he once more found
a friend, who sheltered him in his house, though at the usual
inconveniences with which his company was attended; for he could neither
be persuaded to go to bed in the night nor to rise in the day.
It is observable, that in these various scenes of misery he was always
disengaged and cheerful: he at some times pursued his studies, and at
others continued or enlarged his epistolary correspondence; nor was he
ever so far dejected as to endeavour to procure an increase of his
allowance by any other methods than accusations and reproaches.
He had now no longer any hopes of assistance from his friends at Bristol,
who as merchants, and by consequence sufficiently studious of profit,
cannot be supposed to have looked with much compassion upon negligence
and extravagance, or to think any excellence equivalent to a fault of
such consequence as neglect of economy. It is natural to imagine, that
many of those who would have relieved his real wants, were discouraged
from the exertion of their benevolence by observation of the use which
was made of their favours, and conviction that relief would be only
momentary, and that the same necessity would quickly return.
At last he quitted the house of his friend, and returned to his lodgings
at the inn, still intending to set out in a few days for London, but on
the 10th of January, 1742–3, having been at supper with two of his
friends, he was at his return to his lodgings arrested for a debt of
about eight pounds, which he owed at a coffee-house, and conducted to the
house of a sheriff’s officer. The account which he gives of this
misfortune, in a letter to one of the gentlemen with whom he had supped,
is too remarkable to be omitted.
“It was not a little unfortunate for me, that I spent yesterday’s evening
with you; because the hour hindered me from entering on my new lodging;
however, I have now got one, but such an one as I believe nobody would
choose.
“I was arrested at the suit of Mrs. Read, just as I was going upstairs to
bed, at Mr. Bowyer’s; but taken in so private a manner, that I believe
nobody at the White Lion is apprised of it; though I let the officers
know the strength, or rather weakness, of my pocket, yet they treated me
with the utmost civility; and even when they conducted me to confinement,
it was in such a manner, that I verily believe I could have escaped,
which I would rather be ruined than have done, notwithstanding the whole
amount of my finances was but threepence halfpenny.
“In the first place, I must insist that you will industriously conceal
this from Mrs. S—s, because I would not have her good nature suffer that
pain which I know she would be apt to feel on this occasion.
“Next, I conjure you, dear sir, by all the ties of friendship, by no
means to have one uneasy thought on my account; but to have the same
pleasantry of countenance, and unruffled serenity of mind, which (God be
praised!) I have in this, and have had in a much severer calamity.
Furthermore, I charge you, if you value my friendship as truly as I do
yours, not to utter, or even harbour, the least resentment against Mrs.
Read. I believe she has ruined me, but I freely forgive her; and (though
I will never more have any intimacy with her) I would, at a due distance,
rather do her an act of good than ill-will. Lastly (pardon the
expression), I absolutely command you not to offer me any pecuniary
assistance nor to attempt getting me any from any one of your friends. At
another time, or on any other occasion, you may, dear friend, be well
assured I would rather write to you in the submissive style of a request
than that of a peremptory command.
“However, that my truly valuable friend may not think I am too proud to
ask a favour, let me entreat you to let me have your boy to attend me for
this day, not only for the sake of saving me the expense of porters, but
for the delivery of some letters to people whose names I would not have
known to strangers.
“The civil treatment I have thus far met from those whose prisoner I am,
makes me thankful to the Almighty, that though He has thought fit to
visit me (on my birth-night) with affliction, yet (such is His great
goodness!) my affliction is not without alleviating circumstances. I
murmur not; but am all resignation to the divine will. As to the world, I
hope that I shall be endued by Heaven with that presence of mind, that
serene dignity in misfortune, that constitutes the character of a true
nobleman; a dignity far beyond that of coronets; a nobility arising from
the just principles of philosophy, refined and exalted by those of
Christianity.”
He continued five days at the officer’s, in hopes that he should be able
to procure bail, and avoid the necessity of going to prison. The state in
which he passed his time, and the treatment which he received, are very
justly expressed by him in a letter which he wrote to a friend: “The
whole day,” says he, “has been employed in various people’s filling my
head with their foolish chimerical systems, which has obliged me coolly
(as far as nature will admit) to digest, and accommodate myself to every
different person’s way of thinking; hurried from one wild system to
another, till it has quite made a chaos of my imagination, and nothing
done—promised—disappointed—ordered to send, every hour, from one part of
the town to the other.”
When his friends, who had hitherto caressed and applauded, found that to
give bail and pay the debt was the same, they all refused to preserve him
from a prison at the expense of eight pounds: and therefore, after having
been for some time at the officer’s house “at an immense expense,” as he
observes in his letter, he was at length removed to Newgate. This expense
he was enabled to support by the generosity of Mr. Nash at Bath, who,
upon receiving from him an account of his condition, immediately sent him
five guineas, and promised to promote his subscription at Bath with all
his interest.
By his removal to Newgate he obtained at least a freedom from suspense,
and rest from the disturbing vicissitudes of hope and disappointment: he
now found that his friends were only companions who were willing to share
his gaiety, but not to partake of his misfortunes; and therefore he no
longer expected any assistance from them. It must, however, be observed
of one gentleman, that he offered to release him by paying the debt, but
that Mr. Savage would not consent, I suppose because he thought he had
before been too burthensome to him. He was offered by some of his friends
that a collection should be made for his enlargement; but he “treated the
proposal,” and declared “he should again treat it, with disdain. As to
writing any mendicant letters, he had too high a spirit, and determined
only to write to some ministers of state, to try to regain his pension.”
He continued to complain of those that had sent him into the country, and
objected to them, that he had “lost the profits of his play, which had
been finished three years;” and in another letter declares his resolution
to publish a pamphlet, that the world might know how “he had been used.”
This pamphlet was never written; for he in a very short time recovered
his usual tranquillity, and cheerfully applied himself to more
inoffensive studies. He, indeed, steadily declared that he was promised a
yearly allowance of fifty pounds, and never received half the sum; but he
seemed to resign himself to that as well as to other misfortunes, and
lose the remembrance of it in his amusements and employments. The
cheerfulness with which he bore his confinement appears from the
following letter, which he wrote January the 30th, to one of his friends
in London:
“I now write to you from my confinement in Newgate, where I have been
ever since Monday last was se’nnight, and where I enjoy myself with much
more tranquillity than I have known for upwards of a twelvemonth past;
having a room entirely to myself, and pursuing the amusement of my
poetical studies, uninterrupted, and agreeable to my mind. I thank the
Almighty, I am now all collected in myself; and, though my person is in
confinement, my mind can expatiate on ample and useful subjects with all
the freedom imaginable. I am now more conversant with the Nine than ever,
and if, instead of a Newgate bird, I may be allowed to be a bird of the
Muses, I assure you, sir, I sing very freely in my cage; sometimes,
indeed, in the plaintive notes of the nightingale; but at others, in the
cheerful strains of the lark.”
In another letter he observes, that he ranges from one subject to
another, without confining himself to any particular task; and that he
was employed one week upon one attempt, and the next upon another.
Surely the fortitude of this man deserves, at least, to be mentioned with
applause; and, whatever faults may be imputed to him, the virtue of
suffering well cannot be denied him. The two powers which, in the opinion
of Epictetus, constituted a wise man, are those of bearing and
forbearing, which it cannot indeed be affirmed to have been equally
possessed by Savage; and indeed the want of one obliged him very
frequently to practise the other. He was treated by Mr. Dagge, the keeper
of the prison, with great humanity; was supported by him at his own
table, without any certainty of a recompense; had a room to himself, to
which he could at any time retire from all disturbance; was allowed to
stand at the door of the prison, and sometimes taken out into the fields;
so that he suffered fewer hardships in prison than he had been accustomed
to undergo in the greatest part of his life.
The keeper did not confine his benevolence to a gentle execution of his
office, but made some overtures to the creditor for his release, though
without effect; and continued, during the whole time of his imprisonment,
to treat him with the utmost tenderness and civility.
Virtue is undoubtedly most laudable in that state which makes it most
difficult; and therefore the humanity of a gaoler certainly deserves this
public attestation; and the man whose heart has not been hardened by such
an employment may be justly proposed as a pattern of benevolence. If an
inscription was once engraved “to the honest toll-gatherer,” less honours
ought not to be paid “to the tender gaoler.”
Mr. Savage very frequently received visits, and sometimes presents, from
his acquaintances: but they did not amount to a subsistence, for the
greater part of which he was indebted to the generosity of this keeper;
but these favours, however they might endear to him the particular
persons from whom he received them, were very far from impressing upon
his mind any advantageous ideas of the people of Bristol, and therefore
he thought he could not more properly employ himself in prison than in
writing a poem called “London and Bristol Delineated.”
When he had brought this poem to its present state, which, without
considering the chasm, is not perfect, he wrote to London an account of
his design, and informed his friend that he was determined to print it
with his name; but enjoined him not to communicate his intention to his
Bristol acquaintance. The gentleman, surprised at his resolution,
endeavoured to persuade him from publishing it, at least from prefixing
his name; and declared that he could not reconcile the injunction of
secrecy with his resolution to own it at its first appearance. To this
Mr. Savage returned an answer agreeable to his character, in the
following terms:—
“I received yours this morning; and not without a little surprise at
the contents. To answer a question with a question, you ask me
concerning London and Bristol, why will I add _delineated_? Why did
Mr. Woolaston add the same word to his Religion of Nature? I suppose
that it was his will and pleasure to add it in his case: and it is
mine to do so in my own. You are pleased to tell me that you
understand not why secrecy is enjoined, and yet I intend to set my
name to it. My answer is,—I have my private reasons, which I am not
obliged to explain to any one. You doubt my friend Mr. S— would not
approve of it. And what is it to me whether he does or not? Do you
imagine that Mr. S— is to dictate to me? If any man who calls
himself my friend should assume such an air, I would spurn at his
friendship with contempt. You say, I seem to think so by not letting
him know it. And suppose I do, what then? Perhaps I can give reasons
for that disapprobation, very foreign from what you would imagine.
You go on in saying, Suppose I should not put my name to it. My
answer is, that I will not suppose any such thing, being determined
to the contrary: neither, sir, would I have you suppose that I
applied to you for want of another press: nor would I have you
imagine that I owe Mr. S— obligations which I do not.”
Such was his imprudence, and such his obstinate adherence to his own
resolutions, however absurd! A prisoner! supported by charity! and,
whatever insults he might have received during the latter part of his
stay at Bristol, once caressed, esteemed, and presented with a liberal
collection, he could forget on a sudden his danger and his obligations,
to gratify the petulance of his wit or the eagerness of his resentment,
and publish a satire by which he might reasonably expect that he should
alienate those who then supported him, and provoke those whom he could
neither resist nor escape.
This resolution, from the execution of which it is probable that only his
death could have hindered him, is sufficient to show how much he
disregarded all considerations that opposed his present passions, and how
readily he hazarded all future advantages for any immediate
gratifications. Whatever was his predominant inclination, neither hope
nor fear hindered him from complying with it; nor had opposition any
other effect than to heighten his ardour and irritate his vehemence.
This performance was, however, laid aside while he was employed in
soliciting assistance from several great persons; and one interruption
succeeding another, hindered him from supplying the chasm, and perhaps
from retouching the other parts, which he can hardly be imagined to have
finished in his own opinion; for it is very unequal, and some of the
lines are rather inserted to rhyme to others, than to support or improve
the sense; but the first and last parts are worked up with great spirit
and elegance.
His time was spent in the prison for the most part in study, or in
receiving visits; but sometimes he descended to lower amusements, and
diverted himself in the kitchen with the conversation of the criminals;
for it was not pleasing to him to be much without company; and though he
was very capable of a judicious choice, he was often contented with the
first that offered. For this he was sometimes reproved by his friends,
who found him surrounded with felons; but the reproof was on that, as on
other occasions, thrown away; he continued to gratify himself, and to set
very little value on the opinion of others. But here, as in every other
scene of his life, he made use of such opportunities as occurred of
benefiting those who were more miserable than himself, and was always
ready to perform any office of humanity to his fellow-prisoners.
He had now ceased from corresponding with any of his subscribers except
one, who yet continued to remit him the twenty pounds a year which he had
promised him, and by whom it was expected that he would have been in a
very short time enlarged, because he had directed the keeper to inquire
after the state of his debts. However, he took care to enter his name
according to the forms of the court, that the creditor might be obliged
to make him some allowance, if he was continued a prisoner, and when on
that occasion he appeared in the hall, was treated with very unusual
respect. But the resentment of the city was afterwards raised by some
accounts that had been spread of the satire; and he was informed that
some of the merchants intended to pay the allowance which the law
required, and to detain him a prisoner at their own expense. This he
treated as an empty menace; and perhaps might have hastened the
publication, only to show how much he was superior to their insults, had
not all his schemes been suddenly destroyed.
When he had been six months in prison, he received from one of his
friends, in whose kindness he had the greatest confidence, and on whose
assistance he chiefly depended, a letter that contained a charge of very
atrocious ingratitude, drawn up in such terms as sudden resentment
dictated. Henley, in one of his advertisements, had mentioned “Pope’s
treatment of Savage.” This was supposed by Pope to be the consequence of
a complaint made by Savage to Henley, and was therefore mentioned by him
with much resentment. Mr. Savage returned a very solemn protestation of
his innocence, but, however, appeared much disturbed at the accusation.
Some days afterwards he was seized with a pain in his back and side,
which, as it was not violent, was not suspected to be dangerous; but
growing daily more languid and dejected, on the 25th of July he confined
himself to his room, and a fever seized his spirits. The symptoms grew
every day more formidable, but his condition did not enable him to
procure any assistance. The last time that the keeper saw him was on July
the 31st, 1743; when Savage, seeing him at his bedside, said, with an
uncommon earnestness, “I have something to say to you, sir;” but, after a
pause, moved his hand in a melancholy manner; and, finding himself unable
to recollect what he was going to communicate, said, “’Tis gone!” The
keeper soon after left him; and the next morning he died. He was buried
in the churchyard of St. Peter, at the expense of the keeper.
Such were the life and death of Richard Savage, a man equally
distinguished by his virtues and vices; and at once remarkable for his
weaknesses and abilities. He was of a middle stature, of a thin habit of
body, a long visage, coarse features, and melancholy aspect; of a grave
and manly deportment, a solemn dignity of mien, but which, upon a nearer
acquaintance, softened into an engaging easiness of manners. His walk was
slow, and his voice tremulous and mournful. He was easily excited to
smiles, but very seldom provoked to laughter. His mind was in an uncommon
degree vigorous and active. His judgment was accurate, his apprehension
quick, and his memory so tenacious, that he was frequently observed to
know what he had learned from others, in a short time, better that those
by whom he was informed; and could frequently recollect incidents with
all their combination of circumstances, which few would have regarded at
the present time, but which the quickness of his apprehension impressed
upon him. He had the art of escaping from his own reflections, and
accommodating himself to every new scene.
To this quality is to be imputed the extent of his knowledge, compared
with the small time which he spent in visible endeavours to acquire it.
He mingled in cursory conversation with the same steadiness of attention
as others apply to a lecture; and amidst the appearance of thoughtless
gaiety lost no new idea that was started, nor any hint that could be
improved. He had therefore made in coffee-houses the same proficiency as
others in their closets; and it is remarkable that the writings of a man
of little education and little reading have an air of learning scarcely
to be found in any other performances, but which perhaps as often
obscures as embellishes them.
His judgment was eminently exact both with regard to writings and to men.
The knowledge of life was indeed his chief attainment; and it is not
without some satisfaction that I can produce the suffrage of Savage in
favour of human nature, of which he never appeared to entertain such
odious ideas as some who perhaps had neither his judgment nor experience,
have published, either in ostentation of their sagacity, vindication of
their crimes, or gratification of their malice.
His method of life particularly qualified him for conversation, of which
he knew how to practise all the graces. He was never vehement or loud,
but at once modest and easy, open and respectful; his language was
vivacious or elegant, and equally happy upon grave and humorous subjects.
He was generally censured for not knowing when to retire; but that was
not the defect of his judgment, but of his fortune: when he left his
company he used frequently to spend the remaining part of the night in
the street, or at least was abandoned to gloomy reflections, which it is
not strange that he delayed as long as he could; and sometimes forgot
that he gave others pain to avoid it himself.
It cannot be said that he made use of his abilities for the direction of
his own conduct; an irregular and dissipated manner of life had made him
the slave of every passion that happened to be excited by the presence of
its object, and that slavery to his passions reciprocally produced a life
irregular and dissipated. He was not master of his own motions, nor could
promise anything for the next day.
With regard to his economy, nothing can be added to the relation of his
life. He appeared to think himself born to be supported by others, and
dispensed from all necessity of providing for himself; he therefore never
prosecuted any scheme of advantage, nor endeavoured even to secure the
profits which his writings might have afforded him. His temper was, in
consequence of the dominion of his passions, uncertain and capricious; he
was easily engaged, and easily disgusted; but he is accused of retaining
his hatred more tenaciously than his benevolence. He was compassionate
both by nature and principle, and always ready to perform offices of
humanity; but when he was provoked (and very small offences were
sufficient to provoke him), he would prosecute his revenge with the
utmost acrimony till his passion had subsided.
His friendship was therefore of little value; for though he was zealous
in the support or vindication of those whom he loved, yet it was always
dangerous to trust him, because he considered himself as discharged by
the first quarrel from all ties of honour and gratitude; and would betray
those secrets which in the warmth of confidence had been imparted to him.
This practice drew upon him an universal accusation of ingratitude; nor
can it be denied that he was very ready to set himself free from the load
of an obligation; for he could not bear to conceive himself in a state of
dependence, his pride being equally powerful with his other passions, and
appearing in the form of insolence at one time, and of vanity at another.
Vanity, the most innocent species of pride, was most frequently
predominant: he could not easily leave off, when he had once begun to
mention himself or his works; nor ever read his verses without stealing
his eyes from the page, to discover in the faces of his audience how they
were affected with any favourite passage.
A kinder name than that of vanity ought to be given to the delicacy with
which he was always careful to separate his own merit from every other
man’s, and to reject that praise to which he had no claim. He did not
forget, in mentioning his performances, to mark every line that had been
suggested or amended; and was so accurate as to relate that he owed
_three words_ in “The Wanderer” to the advice of his friends. His
veracity was questioned, but with little reason; his accounts, though not
indeed always the same, were generally consistent. When he loved any man,
he suppressed all his faults; and when he had been offended by him,
concealed all his virtues; but his characters were generally true, so far
as he proceeded; though it cannot be denied that his partiality might
have sometimes the effect of falsehood.
In cases indifferent he was zealous for virtue, truth, and justice: he
knew very well the necessity of goodness to the present and future
happiness of mankind; nor is there perhaps any writer who has less
endeavoured to please by flattering the appetites, or perverting the
judgment.
As an author, therefore, and he now ceases to influence mankind in any
other character, if one piece which he had resolved to suppress be
excepted, he has very little to fear from the strictest moral or
religious censure. And though he may not be altogether secure against the
objections of the critic, it must however be acknowledged that his works
are the productions of a genius truly poetical; and, what many writers
who have been more lavishly applauded cannot boast, that they have an
original air, which has no resemblance of any foregoing writer, that the
versification and sentiments have a cast peculiar to themselves, which no
man can imitate with success, because what was nature in Savage would in
another be affectation. It must be confessed that his descriptions are
striking, his images animated, his fictions justly imagined, and his
allegories artfully pursued; that his diction is elevated, though
sometimes forced, and his numbers sonorous and majestic, though
frequently sluggish and encumbered. Of his style the general fault is
harshness, and its general excellence is dignity; of his sentiments, the
prevailing beauty is simplicity, and uniformity the prevailing defect.
For his life, or for his writings, none who candidly consider his fortune
will think an apology either necessary or difficult. If he was not always
sufficiently instructed in his subject, his knowledge was at least
greater than could have been attained by others in the same state. If his
works were sometimes unfinished, accuracy cannot reasonably be expected
from a man oppressed with want, which he has no hope of relieving but by
a speedy publication. The insolence and resentment of which he is accused
were not easily to be avoided by a great mind irritated by perpetual
hardships and constrained hourly to return the spurns of contempt, and
repress the insolence of prosperity; and vanity surely may be readily
pardoned in him, to whom life afforded no other comforts than barren
praises, and the consciousness of deserving them.
Those are no proper judges of his conduct who have slumbered away their
time on the down of plenty; nor will any wise man easily presume to say,
“Had I been in Savage’s condition, I should have lived or written better
than Savage.”
This relation will not be wholly without its use, if those who languish
under any part of his sufferings shall be enabled to fortify their
patience by reflecting that they feel only these afflictions from which
the abilities of Savage did not exempt him; or those who, in confidence
of superior capacities or attainments, disregard the common maxims of
life, shall be reminded that nothing will supply the want of prudence;
and that negligence and irregularity, long continued, will make knowledge
useless, wit ridiculous, and genius contemptible.