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, have placed upon the summits 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 an 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 extrinsick 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, for same
time, upon very uneasy terms with her husband, thought a publick
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 totally 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 cognizable by ecclesiastical judges[48]; 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, was, in a short time, married to colonel Brett.
While the earl of Macclesfield was prosecuting this affair, his wife
was, on the 10th of January, 1697-8, 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[49] 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 to 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[50].
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. Alban's, 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 distinction and rewards, it is not likely 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 ardent 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[51]. 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 deathbed, 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 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[52].
By whose kindness this scheme was counteracted, or by what 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[53].
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 upon 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[54] 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[55].
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[56], 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[57], 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[58]."
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. They 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 rigid ceremony, one of them inquired of sir
Richard, how such an expensive train of domesticks 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 staid.
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 mean time 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[59], which are not
often to be found in the world, and, perhaps, Jess 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 qualities 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 his interposition Mr. Savage once obtained from his mother[60] 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 traffick; 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 what 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[61], because he knew that too great 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, 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 pains
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[62]
to endeavour, once more, at dramatick 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 now 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 nearest 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 critick 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[63], 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 his 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[64], by which he gained no great reputation, the theatre
being a province for which nature seemed 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[65], for which he received ten guineas, there is
nothing remarkable. The preface contains a very liberal encomium on the
blooming excellencies 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[66], 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 publick, 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[67], which had been
sent him in consequence of the compassion excited by Mr. Hill's
pathetick 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 Montague, whom he
flatters without reserve, and, to confess the truth, with very little
art[68]. 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 panegyricks for the perusal only of his patrons, and to have
imagined 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 further views
that he prevailed upon himself to attempt a species of writing, of which
all the topicks 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 Gate-house, 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 publick 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 in bed. 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 that
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 always 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 have appeared 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, and 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 pocket, 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 any thing 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 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 any thing 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[69]."
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 publick, and refused him admission into her
house. One evening walking, as it 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 could enter her 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 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 prosecute
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 should 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 alive[70] 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 least, shortened
by her maternal offices; that, though she could not transport her son to
the plantations, bury him in the shop of a mechanick, or hasten the hand
of the publick executioner, she has yet had the satisfaction of
imbittering 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[71]. The peculiar circumstances of his
life ere made more generally known by a short account[72], 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 had obtained his liberty, he met in the street the
woman that 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 vitious, 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 sooth
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[73].
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[74]. 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 were 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 inconveniencies 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 as ready to snatch
every opportunity of adding to his misfortunes; and that she was 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
publick 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
dramatick poetry, he would, perhaps, not have had many superiours; 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 distinguish 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[75], 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 satirized, 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 satirized 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 panegyrick
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 the
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 panegyrick its value; and he is only considered at
one time as a flatterer, and as 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 errours 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[76] 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 uncontrouled freedom of the
press, and the assertion that the "liberties taken by the writers of
journals with their superiours 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
satirized those that at least thought themselves their superiours, 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 terrour 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 in great familiarity with
Dennis, he wrote an epigram[77] against him.
Mr. Savage, however, set all the malice of all the pygmy 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 panegyrick 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
his 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 inconstancy of
his conduct; for though a readiness to comply with the inclination 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[78] 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 publick care, all venal strife,
To try the still, compar'd with active life;
To prove, by these, the sons of men may owe
The fruits of bliss to bursting clouds of woe;
That e'en calamity, by thought refin'd,
Inspirits and adorns the thinking mind.
And more distinctly in the following passage:
By woe, the soul to daring action swells;
By woe, in plaintless patience it excels:
From patience, prudent clear experience springs,
And traces knowledge through the course of things!
Thence hope is form'd, thence fortitude, success,
Renown--whate'er men covet and caress.
This performance was always considered by himself as his masterpiece;
and Mr. Pope, when he asked his opinion of it, told him, that he read it
once over, and was not displeased with it; that it gave him more
pleasure at the second perusal, and delighted him still more at the
third. It has been generally objected to the Wanderer, that the
disposition of the parts is irregular; that the design is obscure and
the plan perplexed; that the images, however beautiful, succeed each
other without order; and that the whole performance is not so much a
regular fabrick, as a heap of shining materials thrown together by
accident, which strikes rather with the solemn magnificence of a
stupendous ruin, than the elegant grandeur of a finished pile.
This criticism is universal, and, therefore, it is reasonable to believe
it, at least, in a great degree, just; but Mr. Savage was always of a
contrary opinion, and thought his drift could only be missed by
negligence or stupidity, and that the whole plan was regular, and the
parts distinct.
It was never denied to abound with strong representations of nature, and
just observations upon life; and it may easily be observed, that most
of his pictures have an evident tendency to illustrate his first great
position, "that good is the consequence of evil." The sun that burns up
the mountains, fructifies the vales: the deluge that rushes down the
broken rocks, with dreadful impetuosity, is separated into purling
brooks; and the rage of the hurricane purifies the air.
Even in this poem he has not been able to forbear one touch upon the
cruelty of his mother, which, though remarkably delicate and tender, is
a proof how deep an impression it had upon his mind.
This must be at least acknowledged, which ought to be thought equivalent
to many other excellencies, that this poem can promote no other purposes
than those of virtue, and that it is written with a very strong sense of
the efficacy of religion.
But my province is rather to give the history of Mr. Savage's
performances than to display their beauties, or to obviate the
criticisms which they have occasioned; and, therefore, I shall not dwell
upon the particular passages which deserve applause; I shall neither
show the excellence of his descriptions, nor expatiate on the terrifick
portrait of suicide, nor point out the artful touches, by which he has
distinguished the intellectual features of the rebels, who suffer death
in his last canto. It is, however, proper to observe, that Mr. Savage
always declared the characters wholly fictitious, and without the least
allusion to any real persons or actions.
From a poem so diligently laboured, and so successfully finished, it
might be reasonably expected that he should have gained considerable
advantage; nor can it, without some degree of indignation and concern,
be told, that he sold the copy for ten guineas, of which he afterwards
returned two, that the two last sheets of the work might be reprinted,
of which he had, in his absence, intrusted the correction to a friend,
who was too indolent to perform it with accuracy.
A superstitious regard to the correction of his sheets was one of Mr.
Savage's peculiarities: he often altered, revised, recurred to his first
reading or punctuation, and again adopted the alteration; he was dubious
and irresolute without end, as on a question of the last importance, and
at last was seldom satisfied: the intrusion or omission of a comma was
sufficient to discompose him, and he would lament an errour of a single
letter as a heavy calamity. In one of his letters relating to an
impression of some verses, he remarks, that he had, with regard to the
correction of the proof, "a spell upon him;" and indeed the anxiety,
with which he dwelt upon the minutest and most trifling niceties,
deserved no other name than that of fascination.
That he sold so valuable a performance for so small a price, was not to
be imputed either to necessity, by which the learned and ingenious are
often obliged to submit to very hard conditions; or to avarice, by which
the booksellers are frequently incited to oppress that genius by which
they are supported; but to that intemperate desire of pleasure, and
habitual slavery to his passions, which involved him in many
perplexities. He happened, at that time, to be engaged in the pursuit of
some trifling gratification, and, being without money for the present
occasion, sold his poem to the first bidder, and, perhaps, for the first
price that was proposed; and would, probably, have been content with
less, if less had been offered him.
This poem was addressed to the lord Tyrconnel, not only in the first
lines, but in a formal dedication, filled with the highest strains of
panegyrick, and the warmest professions of gratitude, but by no means
remarkable for delicacy of connexion or elegance of style.
These praises, in a short time, he found himself inclined to retract,
being discarded by the man on whom he had bestowed them, and whom he
then immediately discovered not to have deserved them. Of this quarrel,
which every day made more bitter, lord Tyrconnel and Mr. Savage assigned
very different reasons, which might, perhaps, all in reality concur,
though they were not all convenient to be alleged by either party. Lord
Tyrconnel affirmed, that it was the constant practice of Mr. Savage to
enter a tavern with any company that proposed it, drink the most
expensive wines with great profusion, and, when the reckoning was
demanded, to be without money: if, as it often happened, his company
were willing to defray his part, the affair ended without any ill
consequences; but if they were refractory, and expected that the wine
should be paid for by him that drank it, his method of composition was,
to take them with him to his own apartment, assume the government of the
house, and order the butler, in an imperious manner, to set the best
wine in the cellar before his company, who often drank till they forgot
the respect due to the house in which they were entertained, indulged
themselves in the utmost extravagance of merriment, practised the most
licentious frolicks, and committed all the outrages of drunkenness.
Nor was this the only charge which lord Tyrconnel brought against him.
Having given him a collection of valuable books, stamped with his own
arms, he had the mortification to see them, in a short time, exposed to
sale upon the stalls, it being usual with Mr. Savage, when he wanted a
small sum, to take his books to the pawnbroker.
Whoever was acquainted with Mr. Savage easily credited both these
accusations; for having been obliged, from his first entrance into the
world, to subsist upon expedients, affluence was not able to exalt him
above them; and so much was he delighted with wine and conversation, and
so long had he been accustomed to live by chance, that he would, at any
time, go to the tavern without scruple, and trust for the reckoning to
the liberality of his company, and frequently of company to whom he was
very little known. This conduct, indeed, very seldom drew upon him those
inconveniencies that might be feared by any other person; for his
conversation was so entertaining, and his address so pleasing, that few
thought the pleasure which they received from him dearly purchased, by
paying for his wine. It was his peculiar happiness, that he scarcely
ever found a stranger, whom he did not leave a friend; but it must
likewise be added, that he had not often a friend long, without obliging
him to become a stranger.
Mr. Savage, on the other hand, declared, that lord Tyrconnel[79]
quarrelled with him, because he would not subtract from his own luxury
and extravagance what he had promised to allow him, and that his
resentment was only a plea for the violation of his promise. He
asserted, that he had done nothing that ought to exclude him from that
subsistence which he thought not so much a favour, as a debt, since it
was offered him upon conditions which he had never broken; and that his
only fault was, that he could not be supported with nothing.
He acknowledged, that lord Tyrconnel often exhorted him to regulate his
method of life, and not to spend all his nights in taverns, and that he
appeared very desirous that he would pass those hours with him, which he
so freely bestowed upon others. This demand Mr. Savage considered as a
censure of his conduct, which he could never patiently bear, and which,
in the latter and cooler part of his life, was so offensive to him, that
he declared it as his resolution, "to spurn that friend who should
presume to dictate to him;" and it is not likely, that, in his earlier
years, he received admonitions with more calmness.
He was, likewise, inclined to resent such expectations, as tending to
infringe his liberty, of which he was very jealous, when it was
necessary to the gratification of his passions; and declared, that the
request was still more unreasonable, as the company to which he was to
have been confined, was insupportably disagreeable. This assertion
affords another instance of that inconsistency of his writings with his
conversation, which was so often to be observed. He forgot how lavishly
he had, in his dedication to the Wanderer, extolled the delicacy and
penetration, the humanity and generosity, the candour and politeness of
the man, whom, when he no longer loved him, he declared to be a wretch
without understanding, without good-nature, and without justice; of
whose name he thought himself obliged to leave no trace in any future
edition of his writings; and, accordingly, blotted it out of that copy
of the Wanderer which was in his hands.
During his continuance with the lord Tyrconnel, he wrote the Triumph of
Health and Mirth, on the recovery of lady Tyrconnel from a languishing
illness. This performance is remarkable, not only for the gaiety of the
ideas, and the melody of the numbers, but for the agreeable fiction upon
which it is formed. Mirth, overwhelmed with sorrow for the sickness of
her favourite, takes a flight in quest of her sister health, whom she
finds reclined upon the brow of a lofty mountain, amidst the fragrance
of perpetual spring, with the breezes of the morning sporting about her.
Being solicited by her sister mirth, she readily promises her
assistance, flies away in a cloud, and impregnates the waters of Bath
with new virtues, by which the sickness of Belinda is relieved.
As the reputation of his abilities, the particular circumstances of his
birth and life, the splendour of his appearance, and the distinction
which was, for some time, paid him by lord Tyrconnel, entitled him to
familiarity with persons of higher rank than those to whose conversation
he had been before admitted; he did not fail to gratify that curiosity,
which induced him to take a nearer view of those whom their birth, their
employments, or their fortunes, necessarily place at a distance from the
greatest part of mankind, and to examine whether their merit was
magnified or diminished by the medium through which it was contemplated;
whether the splendour with--which they dazzled their admirers was
inherent in themselves, or only reflected on them by the objects that
surrounded them; and whether great men were selected for high stations,
or high stations made great men.
For this purpose he took all opportunities of conversing familiarly
with those who were most conspicuous at that time for their power or
their influence; he watched their looser moments, and examined their
domestick behaviour, with that acuteness which nature had given him, and
which the uncommon variety of his life had contributed to increase, and
that inquisitiveness which must always be produced in a vigorous mind,
by an absolute freedom from all pressing or domestick engagements.
His discernment was quick, and, therefore, he soon found in every
person, and in every affair, something that deserved attention; he was
supported by others, without any care for himself, and was, therefore,
at leisure to pursue his observations.
More circumstances to constitute a critick on human life could not
easily concur; nor indeed could any man, who assumed from accidental
advantages more praise than he could justly claim from his real merit,
admit an acquaintance more dangerous than that of Savage; of whom,
likewise, it must be confessed, that abilities really exalted above the
common level, or virtue refined from passion, or proof against
corruption, could not easily find an abler judge, or a warmer advocate.
What was the result of Mr. Savage's inquiry, though he was not much
accustomed to conceal his discoveries, it may not be entirely safe to
relate, because the persons whose characters he criticised are powerful;
and power and resentment are seldom strangers; nor would it, perhaps, be
wholly just, because what he asserted in conversation might, though true
in general, be heightened by some momentary ardour of imagination, and,
as it can be delivered only from memory, may be imperfectly represented;
so that the picture at first aggravated, and then unskilfully copied,
may be justly suspected to retain no great resemblance of the original.
It may, however, be observed, that he did not appear to have formed very
elevated ideas of those to whom the administration of affairs, or the
conduct of parties, has been entrusted; who have been considered as the
advocates of the crown, or the guardians of the people; and who have
obtained the most implicit confidence, and the loudest applauses. Of one
particular person, who has been at one time so popular as to be
generally esteemed, and, at another, so formidable as to be universally
detested, he observed, that his acquisitions had been small, or that his
capacity was narrow, and that the whole range of his mind was from
obscenity to politicks, and from politicks to obscenity.
But the opportunity of indulging his speculations on great characters
was now at an end. He was banished from the table of lord Tyrconnel, and
turned again adrift upon the world, without prospect of finding quickly
any other harbour. As prudence was not one of the virtues by which he
was distinguished, he had made no provision against a misfortune like
this. And though it is not to be imagined but that the separation must,
for some time, have been preceded by coldness, peevishness, or neglect,
though it was undoubtedly the consequence of accumulated provocations on
both sides; yet every one that knew Savage will readily believe, that to
him it was sudden as a stroke of thunder; that, though he might have
transiently suspected it, he had never suffered any thought so
unpleasing to sink into his mind, but that he had driven it away by
amusements, or dreams of future felicity and affluence, and had never
taken any measures by which he might prevent a precipitation from plenty
to indigence.
This quarrel and separation, and the difficulties to which Mr. Savage
was exposed by them, were soon known both to his friends and enemies;
nor was it long before he perceived, from the behaviour of both, how
much is added to the lustre of genius by the ornaments of wealth.
His condition did not appear to excite much compassion; for he had not
always been careful to use the advantages he enjoyed with that
moderation which ought to have been with more than usual caution
preserved by him, who knew, if he had reflected, that he was only a
dependant on the bounty of another, whom he could expect to support him
no longer than he endeavoured to preserve his favour by complying with
his inclinations, and whom he, nevertheless, set at defiance, and was
continually irritating by negligence or encroachments.
Examples need not be sought at any great distance to prove, that
superiority of fortune has a natural tendency to kindle pride, and that
pride seldom fails to exert itself in contempt and insult; and if this
is often the effect of hereditary wealth, and of honours enjoyed only by
the merit of others, it is some extenuation of any indecent triumphs to
which this unhappy man may have been betrayed, that his prosperity was
heightened by the force of novelty, and made more intoxicating by a
sense of the misery in which he had so long languished, and, perhaps, of
the insults which he had formerly borne, and which he might now think
himself entitled to revenge. It is too common for those who have
unjustly suffered pain, to inflict it, likewise, in their turn, with the
same injustice, and to imagine that they have a right to treat others as
they have themselves been treated.
That Mr. Savage was too much elevated by any good fortune, is generally
known; and some passages of his introduction to the Author to be let,
sufficiently show, that he did not wholly refrain from such satire, as
he afterwards thought very unjust when he was exposed to it himself;
for, when he was afterwards ridiculed in the character of a distressed
poet, he very easily discovered that distress was not a proper subject
for merriment, or topick of invective. He was then able to discern, that
if misery be the effect of virtue, it ought to be reverenced; if of ill
fortune, to be pitied; and if of vice, not to be insulted, because it
is, perhaps, itself a punishment adequate to the crime by which it was
produced. And the humanity of that man can deserve no panegyrick, who is
capable of reproaching a criminal in the hands of the executioner.
But these reflections, though they readily occurred to him in the first
and last parts of his life, were, I am afraid, for a long time
forgotten; at least they were, like many other maxims, treasured up in
his mind rather for show than use, and operated very little upon his
conduct, however elegantly he might sometimes explain, or however
forcibly he might inculcate them.
His degradation, therefore, from the condition which he had enjoyed with
such wanton thoughtlessness, was considered by many as an occasion of
triumph. Those who had before paid their court to him without success,
soon returned the contempt which they had suffered; and they who had
received favours from him, for of such favours as he could bestow he was
very liberal, did not always remember them. So much more certain are the
effects of resentment than of gratitude: it is not only to many more
pleasing to recollect those faults which place others below them, than
those virtues by which they are themselves comparatively depressed; but
it is, likewise, more easy to neglect, than to recompense; and though
there are few who will practise a laborious virtue, there will never be
wanting multitudes that will indulge an easy vice.
Savage, however, was very little disturbed at the marks of contempt
which his ill fortune brought upon him, from those whom he never
esteemed, and with whom he never considered himself as levelled by any
calamities; and though it was not without some uneasiness that he saw
some, whose friendship he valued, change their behaviour; he yet
observed their coldness without much emotion, considered them as the
slaves of fortune and the worshippers of prosperity, and was more
inclined to despise them, than to lament himself.
It does not appear that, after this return of his wants, he found
mankind equally favourable to him, as at his first appearance in the
world. His story, though in reality not less melancholy, was less
affecting, because it was no longer new; it, therefore, procured him no
new friends; and those that had formerly relieved him, thought they
might now consign him to others. He was now, likewise, considered by
many rather as criminal, than as unhappy; for the friends of lord
Tyrconnel, and of his mother, were sufficiently industrious to publish
his weaknesses, which were indeed very numerous; and nothing was
forgotten that might make him either hateful or ridiculous.
It cannot but be imagined, that such representations of his faults must
make great numbers less sensible of his distress; many, who had only an
opportunity to hear one part, made no scruple to propagate the account
which they received; many assisted their circulation from malice or
revenge; and, perhaps, many pretended to credit them, that they might,
with a better grace, withdraw their regard, or withhold their
assistance.
Savage, however, was not one of those who suffered himself to be injured
without resistance, nor was less diligent in exposing the faults of lord
Tyrconnel; over whom he obtained at least this advantage, that he drove
him first to the practice of outrage and violence; for he was so much
provoked by the wit and virulence of Savage, that he came, with a number
of attendants, that did no honour to his courage, to beat him at a
coffee-house. But it happened that he had left the place a few minutes;
and his lordship had, without danger, the pleasure of boasting how he
would have treated him. Mr. Savage went next day to repay his visit at
his own house; but was prevailed on, by his domesticks, to retire
without insisting upon seeing him.
Lord Tyrconnel was accused by Mr. Savage of some actions, which scarcely
any provocations will be thought sufficient to justify; such as seizing
what he had in his lodgings, and other instances of wanton cruelty, by
which he increased the distress of Savage, without any advantage to
himself.
These mutual accusations were retorted on both sides, for many years,
with the utmost degree of virulence and rage; and time seemed rather to
augment than diminish their resentment. That the anger of Mr. Savage
should be kept alive, is not strange, because he felt every day the
consequences of the quarrel; but it might reasonably have been hoped,
that lord Tyrconnel might have relented, and at length have forgot
those provocations, which, however they might have once inflamed him,
had not, in reality, much hurt him.
The spirit of Mr. Savage, indeed, never suffered him to solicit a
reconciliation; he returned reproach for reproach, and insult for
insult; his superiority of wit supplied the disadvantages of his
fortune, and enabled him to form a party, and prejudice great numbers in
his favour.
But, though this might be some gratification of his vanity, it afforded
very little relief to his necessities; and he was very frequently
reduced to uncommon hardships, of which, however, he never made any mean
or importunate complaints, being formed rather to bear misery with
fortitude, than enjoy prosperity with moderation.
He now thought himself again at liberty to expose the cruelty of his
mother; and, therefore, I believe, about this time, published the
Bastard, a poem remarkable for the vivacious sallies of thought in the
beginning, where he makes a pompous enumeration of the imaginary
advantages of base birth; and the pathetick sentiments at the end, where
he recounts the real calamities which he suffered by the crime of his
parents.
The vigour and spirit of the verses, the peculiar circumstances of the
author, the novelty of the subject, and the notoriety of the story to
which the allusions are made, procured this performance a very
favourable reception; great numbers were immediately dispersed, and
editions were multiplied with unusual rapidity.
One circumstance attended the publication, which Savage used to relate
with great satisfaction: his mother, to whom the poem was with "due
reverence" inscribed, happened then to be at Bath, where she could not
conveniently retire from censure, or conceal herself from observation;
and no sooner did the reputation of the poem begin to spread, than she
heard it repeated in all places of concourse; nor could she enter the
assembly-rooms, or cross the walks, without being saluted with some
lines from the Bastard.
This was, perhaps, the first time that she ever discovered a sense of
shame, and on this occasion the power of wit was very conspicuous; the
wretch who had, without scruple, proclaimed herself an adulteress, and
who had first endeavoured to starve her son, then to transport him, and
afterwards to hang him, was not able to bear the representation of her
own conduct; but fled from reproach, though she felt no pain from guilt,
and left Bath with the utmost haste, to shelter herself among the crowds
of London.
Thus Savage had the satisfaction of finding, that, though he could not
reform his mother, he could punish her, and that he did not always
suffer alone.
The pleasure which he received from this increase of his poetical
reputation, was sufficient, for some time, to overbalance the miseries
of want, which this performance did not much alleviate; for it was sold
for a very trivial sum to a bookseller, who, though the success was so
uncommon that five impressions were sold, of which many were,
undoubtedly, very numerous, had not generosity sufficient to admit the
unhappy writer to any part of the profit.
The sale of this poem was always mentioned by Savage with the utmost
elevation of heart, and referred to by him as an incontestable proof of
a general acknowledgment of his abilities. It was, indeed, the only
production of which he could justly boast a general reception.
But though he did not lose the opportunity which success gave him, of
setting a high rate on his abilities, but paid due deference to the
suffrages of mankind when they were given in his favour, he did not
suffer his esteem of himself to depend upon others, nor found any thing
sacred in the voice of the people, when they were inclined to censure
him; he then readily showed the folly of expecting that the publick
should judge right, observed how slowly poetical merit had often forced
its way into the world; he contented himself with the applause of men of
judgment, and was somewhat disposed to exclude all those from the
character of men of judgment who did not applaud him.
But he was at other times more favourable to mankind than to think them
blind to the beauties of his works, and imputed the slowness of their
sale to other causes; either they were published at a time when the town
was empty, or when the attention of the publick was engrossed by some
struggle in the parliament, or some other object of general concern; or
they were, by the neglect of the publisher, not diligently dispersed, or
by his avarice not advertised with sufficient frequency. Address, or
industry, or liberality, was always wanting; and the blame was laid
rather on any person than the author.
By arts like these, arts which every man practises in some degree, and
to which too much of the little tranquillity of life is to be ascribed,
Savage was always able to live at peace with himself. Had he indeed only
made use of these expedients to alleviate the loss or want of fortune or
reputation, or any other advantages which it is not in man's power to
bestow upon himself, they might have been justly mentioned as instances
of a philosophical mind, and very properly proposed to the imitation of
multitudes, who, for want of diverting their imaginations with the same
dexterity, languish under afflictions which might be easily removed.
It were, doubtless, to be wished, that truth and reason were universally
prevalent; that every thing were esteemed according to its real value;
and that men would secure themselves from being disappointed in their
endeavours after happiness, by placing it only in virtue, which is
always to be obtained; but, if adventitious and foreign pleasures must
be pursued, it would be, perhaps, of some benefit, since that pursuit
must frequently be fruitless, if the practice of Savage could be taught,
that folly might be an antidote to folly, and one fallacy be obviated by
another.
But the danger of this pleasing intoxication must not be concealed; nor
indeed can any one, after having observed the life of Savage, need to
be cautioned against it. By imputing none of his miseries to himself, he
continued to act upon the same principles, and to follow the same path;
was never made wiser by his sufferings, nor preserved by one misfortune
from falling into another. He proceeded, throughout his life, to tread
the same steps on the same circle; always applauding his past conduct,
or, at least, forgetting it to amuse himself with phantoms of happiness,
which were dancing before him; and willingly turned his eyes from the
light of reason, when it would have discovered the illusion, and shown
him, what he never wished to see, his real state.
He is even accused, after having lulled his imagination with those ideal
opiates, of having tried the same experiment upon his conscience; and,
having accustomed himself to impute all deviations from the right to
foreign causes, it is certain that he was, upon every occasion, too
easily reconciled to himself, and that he appeared very little to regret
those practices which had impaired his reputation. The reigning errour
of his life was, that he mistook the love for the practice of virtue,
and was, indeed, not so much a good man as the friend of goodness.
This, at least, must be allowed him, that he always preserved a strong
sense of the dignity, the beauty, and the necessity of virtue; and that
he never contributed deliberately to spread corruption amongst mankind.
His actions, which were generally precipitate, were often blameable; but
his writings, being the productions of study, uniformly tended to the
exaltation of the mind, and the propagation of morality and piety.
These writings may improve mankind, when his failings shall be
forgotten; and, therefore, he must be considered, upon the whole, as a
benefactor to the world; nor can his personal example do any hurt, since
whoever hears of his faults will hear of the miseries which they brought
upon him, and which would deserve less pity, had not his condition been
such as made his faults pardonable. He may be considered as a child
exposed to all the temptations of indigence, at an age when resolution
was not yet strengthened by conviction, nor virtue confirmed by habit; a
circumstance which, in his Bastard, he laments in a very affecting
manner:
No mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with pray'r:
No father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
The Bastard, however it might provoke or mortify his mother, could not
be expected to melt her to compassion, so that he was still under the
same want of the necessaries of life; and he, therefore, exerted all the
interest which his wit, or his birth, or his misfortunes, could procure,
to obtain, upon the death of Eusden, the place of poet laureate, and
prosecuted his application with so much diligence, that the king
publickly declared it his intention to bestow it upon him; but such was
the fate of Savage, that even the king, when he intended his advantage,
was disappointed in his schemes; for the lord chamberlain, who has the
disposal of the laurel, as one of the appendages of his office, either
did not know the king's design, or did not approve it, or thought the
nomination of the laureate an encroachment upon his rights, and,
therefore, bestowed the laurel upon Colley Cibber.
Mr. Savage, thus disappointed, took a resolution of applying to the
queen, that, having once given him life, she would enable him to support
it, and, therefore, published a short poem on her birthday, to which he
gave the odd title of Volunteer Laureate. The event of this essay he has
himself related in the following letter, which he prefixed to the poem,
when he afterwards reprinted it in the Gentleman's Magazine, from whence
I have copied it entire, as this was one of the few attempts in which
Mr. Savage succeeded.
"Mr. URBAN,--In your magazine for February you published the
last Volunteer Laureate, written on a very melancholy occasion,
the death of the royal patroness of arts and literature in
general, and of the author of that poem in particular; I now
send you the first that Mr. Savage wrote under that title. This
gentleman, notwithstanding a very considerable interest, being,
on the death of Mr. Eusden, disappointed of the laureate's
place, wrote the before-mentioned poem; which was no sooner
published, but the late queen sent to a bookseller for it. The
author had not at that time a friend either to get him
introduced, or his poem presented at court; yet such was the
unspeakable goodness of that princess, that, notwithstanding
this act of ceremony was wanting, in a few days after
publication, Mr. Savage received a bank bill of fifty pounds,
and a gracious message from her majesty, by the lord North and
Guildford, to this effect: 'That her majesty was highly pleased
with the verses; that she took particularly kind his lines there
relating to the king; that he had permission to write annually
on the same subject; and that he should yearly receive the like
present, till something better (which was her majesty's
intention) could be done for him.' After this, he was permitted
to present one of his annual poems to her majesty, had the
honour of kissing her hand, and met with the most gracious
reception.
"Yours, &c."
Such was the performance[80], and such its reception; a reception,
which, though by no means unkind, was yet not in the highest degree
generous: to chain down the genius of a writer to an annual panegyrick,
showed in the queen too much desire of hearing her own praises, and a
greater regard to herself than to him on whom her bounty was conferred.
It was a kind of avaricious generosity, by which flattery was rather
purchased than genius rewarded.
Mrs. Oldfield had formerly given him the same allowance with much more
heroick intention: she had no other view than to enable him to prosecute
his studies, and to set himself above the want of assistance, and was
contented with doing good without stipulating for encomiums.
Mr. Savage, however, was not at liberty to make exceptions, but was
ravished with the favours which he had received, and probably yet more
with those which he was promised: he considered himself now as a
favourite of the queen, and did not doubt but a few annual poems would
establish him in some profitable employment.
He, therefore, assumed the title-of volunteer laureate, not without some
reprehensions from Cibber, who informed him, that the title of laureate
was a mark of honour conferred by the king, from whom all honour is
derived, and which, therefore, no man has a right to bestow upon
himself; and added, that he might with equal propriety style himself a
volunteer lord or volunteer baronet. It cannot be denied that the remark
was just; but Savage did not think any title, which was conferred upon
Mr. Cibber, so honourable as that the usurpation of it could be imputed
to him as an instance of very exorbitant vanity, and, therefore,
continued to write under the same title, and received every year the
same reward.
He did not appear to consider these encomiums as tests of his abilities,
or as any thing more than annual hints to the queen of her promise, or
acts of ceremony, by the performance of which he was entitled to his
pension, and, therefore, did not labour them with great diligence, or
print more than fifty each year, except that for some of the last years
he regularly inserted them in the Gentleman's Magazine, by which they
were dispersed over the kingdom.
Of some of them he had himself so low an opinion, that he intended to
omit them in the collection of poems, for which he printed proposals,
and solicited subscriptions; nor can it seem strange, that, being
confined to the same subject, he should be at some times indolent, and
at others unsuccessful; that he should sometimes delay a disagreeable
task till it was too late to perform it well; or that he should
sometimes repeat the same sentiment on the same occasion, or at others
be misled by an attempt after novelty to forced conceptions and
far-fetched images.