He wrote, indeed, with a double intention, which supplied him with some

variety; for his business was, to praise the queen for the favours which

he had received, and to complain to her of the delay of those which she

had promised: in some of his pieces, therefore, gratitude is

predominant, and in some discontent; in some, he represents himself as

happy in her patronage; and, in others, as disconsolate to find himself

neglected.

Her promise, like other promises made to this unfortunate man, was never

performed, though he took sufficient care that it should not be

forgotten. The publication of his Volunteer Laureate procured him no

other reward than a regular remittance of fifty pounds.

He was not so depressed by his disappointments as to neglect any

opportunity that was offered of advancing his interest. When the

princess Anne was married, he wrote a poem upon her departure, only, as

he declared, "because it was expected from him," and he was not willing

to bar his own prospects by any appearance of neglect[81].

He never mentioned any advantage gained by this poem, or any regard that

was paid to it; and, therefore, it is likely that it was considered at

court as an act of duty, to which he was obliged by his dependence, and

which it was, therefore, not necessary to reward by any new favour: or,

perhaps, the queen really intended his advancement, and, therefore,

thought it superfluous to lavish presents upon a man whom she intended

to establish for life.

About this time not only his hopes were in danger of being frustrated,

but his pension likewise of being obstructed, by an accidental calumny.

The writer of the Daily Courant, a paper then published under the

direction of the ministry, charged him with a crime, which, though not

very great in itself, would have been remarkably invidious in him, and

might very justly have incensed the queen against him. He was accused by

name of influencing elections against the court, by appearing at the

head of a tory mob; nor did the accuser fail to aggravate his crime, by

representing it as the effect of the most atrocious ingratitude, and a

kind of rebellion against the queen, who had first preserved him from an

infamous death, and afterwards distinguished him by her favour, and

supported him by her charity. The charge, as it was open and confident,

was likewise, by good fortune, very particular. The place of the

transaction was mentioned, and the whole series of the rioter's conduct

related. This exactness made Mr. Savage's vindication easy; for he never

had in his life seen the place which was declared to be the scene of his

wickedness, nor ever had been present in any town when its

representatives were chosen. This answer he, therefore, made haste to

publish, with all the circumstances necessary to make it credible; and

very reasonably demanded, that the accusation should be retracted in the

same paper, that he might no longer suffer the imputation of sedition

and ingratitude. This demand was likewise pressed by him in a private

letter to the author of the paper, who, either trusting to the

protection of those whose defence he had undertaken, or having

entertained some personal malice against Mr. Savage, or fearing lest, by

retracting so confident an assertion, he should impair the credit of his

paper, refused to give him that satisfaction.

Mr. Savage, therefore, thought it necessary, to his own vindication, to

prosecute him in the King's Bench; but as he did not find any ill

effects from the accusation, having sufficiently cleared his innocence,

he thought any further procedure would have the appearance of revenge;

and, therefore, willingly dropped it.

He saw, soon afterwards, a process commenced in the same court against

himself, on an information in which he was accused of writing and

publishing an obscene pamphlet.

It was always Mr. Savage's desire to be distinguished; and, when any

controversy became popular, he never wanted some reason for engaging in

it with great ardour, and appearing at the head of the party which he

had chosen. As he was never celebrated for his prudence, he had no

sooner taken his side, and informed himself of the chief topicks of the

dispute, than he took all opportunities of asserting and propagating his

principles, without much regard to his own interest, or any other

visible design than that of drawing upon himself the attention of

mankind.

The dispute between the bishop of London and the chancellor is well

known to have been, for some time, the chief topick of political

conversation; and, therefore, Mr. Savage, in pursuance of his character,

endeavoured to become conspicuous among the controvertists with which

every coffee-house was filled on that occasion. He was an indefatigable

opposer of all the claims of ecclesiastical power, though he did not

know on what they were founded; and was, therefore, no friend to the

bishop of London. But he had another reason for appearing as a warm

advocate for Dr. Rundle; for he was the friend of Mr. Foster and Mr.

Thomson, who were the friends of Mr. Savage.

Thus remote was his interest in the question, which, however, as he

imagined, concerned him so nearly, that it was not sufficient to

harangue and dispute, but necessary likewise to write upon it.

He, therefore, engaged with great ardour in a new poem, called by him,

the Progress of a Divine; in which he conducts a profligate priest, by

all the gradations of wickedness, from a poor curacy in the country to

the highest preferments of the church; and describes, with that humour

which was natural to him, and that knowledge which was extended to all

the diversities of human life, his behaviour in every station; and

insinuates, that this priest, thus accomplished, found at last a patron

in the bishop of London.

When he was asked by one of his friends, on what pretence he could

charge the bishop with such an action, he had no more to say than that

he had only inverted the accusation; and that he thought it reasonable

to believe, that he who obstructed the rise of a good man without

reason, would, for bad reasons, promote the exaltation of a villain.

The clergy were universally provoked by this satire; and Savage, who, as

was his constant practice, had set his name to his performance, was

censured in the Weekly Miscellany[82] with severity, which he did not

seem inclined to forget.

But a return of invective was not thought a sufficient punishment. The

court of King's Bench was, therefore, moved against him; and he was

obliged to return an answer to a charge of obscenity. It was urged in

his defence, that obscenity was criminal when it was intended to promote

the practice of vice; but that Mr. Savage had only introduced obscene

ideas, with the view of exposing them to detestation, and of amending

the age, by showing the deformity of wickedness. This plea was admitted;

and sir Philip Yorke, who then presided in that court, dismissed the

information with encomiums upon the purity and excellence of Mr.

Savage's writings. The prosecution, however, answered in some measure

the purpose of those by whom it was set on foot; for Mr. Savage was so

far intimidated by it, that, when the edition of his poem was sold, he

did not venture to reprint it; so that it was in a short time forgotten,

or forgotten by all but those whom it offended.

It is said that some endeavours were used to incense the queen against

him: but he found advocates to obviate, at least, part of their effect;

for, though he was never advanced, he still continued to receive his

pension.

This poem drew more infamy upon him than any incident of his life; and,

as his conduct cannot be vindicated, it is proper to secure his memory

from reproach, by informing those whom he made his enemies, that he

never intended to repeat the provocation; and that, though, whenever he

thought he had any reason to complain of the clergy, he used to threaten

them with a new edition of the Progress of a Divine, it was his calm

and settled resolution to suppress it for ever.

He once intended to have made a better reparation for the folly or

injustice with which he might be charged, by writing another poem,

called the Progress of a Freethinker, whom he intended to lead through

all the stages of vice and folly, to convert him from virtue to

wickedness, and from religion to infidelity, by all the modish sophistry

used for that purpose; and, at last, to dismiss him by his own hand into

the other world.

That he did not execute this design is a real loss to mankind; for he

was too well acquainted with all the scenes of debauchery to have failed

in his representations of them, and too zealous for virtue not to have

represented them in such a manner as should expose them either to

ridicule or detestation.

But this plan was, like others, formed and laid aside, till the vigour

of his imagination was spent, and the effervescence of invention had

subsided; but soon gave way to some other design, which pleased by its

novelty for awhile, and then was neglected like the former.

He was still in his usual exigencies, having no certain support but the

pension allowed him by the queen, which, though it might have kept an

exact economist from want, was very far from being sufficient for Mr.

Savage, who had never been accustomed to dismiss any of his appetites

without the gratification which they solicited, and whom nothing but

want of money withheld from partaking of every pleasure that fell within

his view.

His conduct, with regard to his pension, was very particular. No sooner

had he changed the bill, than he vanished from the sight of all his

acquaintances, and lay, for some time, out of the reach of all the

inquiries that friendship or curiosity could make after him. At length

he appeared again penniless as before, but never informed even those

whom he seemed to regard most, where he had been; nor was his retreat

ever discovered.

This was his constant practice during the whole time that he received

the pension from the queen: he regularly disappeared and returned. He,

indeed, affirmed that he retired to study, and that the money supported

him in solitude for many months; but his friends declared, that the

short time in which it was spent sufficiently confuted his own account

of his conduct.

His politeness and his wit still raised him friends, who were desirous

of setting him at length free from that indigence by which he had been

hitherto oppressed; and, therefore, solicited sir Robert Walpole in his

favour with so much earnestness, that they obtained a promise of the

next place that should become vacant, not exceeding two hundred pounds a

year. This promise was made with an uncommon declaration, "that it was

not the promise of a minister to a petitioner, but of a friend to his

friend." Mr. Savage now concluded himself set at ease for ever, and, as

he observes in a poem written on that incident of his life, trusted and

was trusted; but soon found that his confidence was ill-grounded, and

this friendly promise was not inviolable. He spent a long time in

solicitations, and, at last despaired and desisted.

He did not indeed deny, that he had given the minister some reason to

believe that he should not strengthen his own interest by advancing him,

for he had taken care to distinguish himself in coffee-houses as an

advocate for the ministry of the last years of queen Anne, and was

always ready to justify the conduct, and exalt the character of lord

Bolingbroke, whom he mentions with great regard in an Epistle upon

Authors, which he wrote about that time, but was too wise to publish,

and of which only some fragments have appeared, inserted by him in the

magazine after his retirement.

To despair was not, however, the character of Savage; when one patronage

failed, he had recourse to another. The prince was now extremely

popular, and had very liberally rewarded the merit of some writers, whom

Mr. Savage did not think superiour to himself, and, therefore, he

resolved to address a poem to him.

For this purpose he made choice of a subject which could regard only

persons of the highest rank and greatest affluence, and which was,

therefore, proper for a poem intended to procure the patronage of a

prince; and, having retired, for some time, to Richmond, that he might

prosecute his design in full tranquillity, without the temptations of

pleasure, or the solicitations of creditors, by which his meditations

were in equal danger of being disconcerted, he produced a poem on

Publick Spirit, with regard to Publick Works.

The plan of this poem is very extensive, and comprises a multitude of

topicks, each of which might furnish matter sufficient for a long

performance, and of which some have already employed more eminent

writers; but as he was, perhaps, not fully acquainted with the whole

extent of his own design, and was writing to obtain a supply of wants

too pressing to admit of long or accurate inquiries, he passes

negligently over many publick works, which, even in his own opinion,

deserved to be more elaborately treated.

But, though he may sometimes disappoint his reader by transient touches

upon these subjects, which have often been considered, and, therefore,

naturally raise expectations, he must be allowed amply to compensate his

omissions, by expatiating, in the conclusion of his work, upon a kind of

beneficence not yet celebrated by any eminent poet, though it now

appears more susceptible of embellishments, more adapted to exalt the

ideas, and affect the passions, than many of those which have hitherto

been thought most worthy of the ornaments of verse. The settlement of

colonies in uninhabited countries, the establishment of those in

security, whose misfortunes have made their own country no longer

pleasing or safe, the acquisition of property without injury to any, the

appropriation of the waste and luxuriant bounties of nature, and the

enjoyment of those gifts which heaven has scattered upon regions

uncultivated and unoccupied, cannot be considered without giving rise to

a great number of pleasing ideas, and bewildering the imagination in

delightful prospects; and, therefore, whatever speculations they may

produce in those who have confined themselves to political studies,

naturally fixed the attention, and excited the applause, of a poet. The

politician, when he considers men driven into other countries for

shelter, and obliged to retire to forests and deserts, and pass their

lives, and fix their posterity, in the remotest corners of the world, to

avoid those hardships which they suffer or fear in their native place,

may very properly inquire, why the legislature does not provide a remedy

for these miseries, rather than encourage an escape from them. He may

conclude that the flight of every honest man is a loss to the community;

that those who are unhappy without guilt ought to be relieved; and the

life, which is overburdened by accidental calamities, set at ease by the

care of the publick; and that those, who have by misconduct forfeited

their claim to favour, ought rather to be made useful to the society

which they have injured, than driven from it. But the poet is employed

in a more pleasing undertaking than that of proposing laws which,

however just or expedient, will never be made; or endeavouring to reduce

to rational schemes of government societies which were formed by chance,

and are conducted by the private passions of those who preside in them.

He guides the unhappy fugitive, from want and persecution, to plenty,

quiet, and security, and seats him in scenes of peaceful solitude, and

undisturbed repose. Savage has not forgotten, amidst the pleasing

sentiments which this prospect of retirement suggested to him, to

censure those crimes which have been generally committed by the

discoverers of new regions, and to expose the enormous wickedness of

making war upon barbarous nations because they cannot resist, and of

invading countries because they are fruitful; of extending navigation

only to propagate vice, and of visiting distant lands only to lay them

waste. He has asserted the natural equality of mankind, and endeavoured

to suppress that pride which inclines men to imagine that right is the

consequence of power.

His description of the various miseries which force men to seek for

refuge in distant countries, affords another instance of his proficiency

in the important and extensive study of human life; and the tenderness

with which he recounts them, another proof of his humanity and

benevolence.

It is observable, that the close of this poem discovers a change which

experience had made in Mr. Savage's opinions. In a poem written by him

in his youth, and published in his Miscellanies, he declares his

contempt of the contracted views and narrow prospects of the middle

state of life, and declares his resolution either to tower like the

cedar, or be trampled like the shrub; but in this poem, though addressed

to a prince, he mentions this state of life as comprising those who

ought most to attract reward, those who merit most the confidence of

power, and the familiarity of greatness; and, accidentally mentioning

this passage to one of his friends, declared, that, in his opinion, all

the virtue of mankind was comprehended in that state.

In describing villas and gardens, he did not omit to condemn that absurd

custom which prevails among the English, of permitting servants to

receive money from strangers for the entertainment that they receive,

and, therefore, inserted in his poem these lines:

But what the flow'ring pride of gardens rare,

However royal, or however fair,

If gates, which to access should still give way,

Ope but, like Peter's paradise, for pay?

If perquisited varlets frequent stand,

And each new walk must a new tax demand?

What foreign eye but with contempt surveys?

What muse shall from oblivion snatch their praise?

But before the publication of his performance he recollected, that the

queen allowed her garden and cave at Richmond to be shown for money; and

that she so openly countenanced the practice, that she had bestowed the

privilege of showing them as a place of profit on a man, whose merit

she valued herself upon rewarding, though she gave him only the liberty

of disgracing his country.

He, therefore, thought, with more prudence than was often exerted by

him, that the publication of these lines might be officiously

represented as an insult upon the queen, to whom he owed his life and

his subsistence: and that the propriety of his observation would be no

security against the censures which the unseasonableness of it might

draw upon him; he, therefore, suppressed the passage in the first

edition, but after the queen's death thought the same caution no longer

necessary, and restored it to the proper place.

The poem was, therefore, published without any political faults, and

inscribed to the prince: but Mr. Savage, having no friend upon whom he

could prevail to present it to him, had no other method of attracting

his observation than the publication of frequent advertisements, and,

therefore, received no reward from his patron, however generous on other

occasions.

This disappointment he never mentioned without indignation, being, by

some means or other, confident that the prince was not ignorant of his

address to him; and insinuated, that if any advances in popularity could

have been made by distinguishing him, he had not written without notice,

or without reward.

He was once inclined to have presented his poem in person, and sent to

the printer for a copy with that design; but either his opinion changed,

or his resolution deserted him, and he continued to resent neglect

without attempting to force himself into regard.

Nor was the publick much more favourable than his patron; for only

seventy-two were sold, though the performance was much commended by some

whose judgment in that kind of writing is generally allowed. But Savage

easily reconciled himself to mankind, without imputing any defect to his

work, by observing, that his poem was unluckily published two days after

the prorogation of the parliament, and, by consequence, at a time when

all those who could be expected to regard it were in the hurry of

preparing for their departure, or engaged in taking leave of others upon

their dismission from publick affairs.

It must be, however, allowed, in justification of the publick, that this

performance is not the most excellent of Mr. Savage's works; and that,

though it cannot be denied to contain many striking sentiments,

majestick lines, and just observations, it is, in general, not

sufficiently polished in the language, or enlivened in the imagery, or

digested in the plan.

Thus his poem contributed nothing to the alleviation of his poverty,

which was such as very few could have supported with equal patience; but

to which, it must likewise be confessed, that few would have been

exposed, who received punctually fifty pounds a year; a salary which,

though by no means equal to the demands of vanity and luxury, is yet

found sufficient to support families above want, and was, undoubtedly,

more than the necessities of life require.

But no sooner had he received his pension, than he withdrew to his

darling privacy, from which he returned, in a short time, to his former

distress, and, for some part of the year, generally lived by chance,

eating only when he was invited to the tables of his acquaintances, from

which the meanness of his dress often excluded him, when the politeness

and variety of his conversation would have been thought a sufficient

recompense for his entertainment.

He lodged as much by accident as he dined, and passed the night

sometimes in mean houses, which are set open at night to any casual

wanderers, sometimes in cellars, among the riot and filth of the meanest

and most profligate of the rabble; and sometimes, when he had not money

to support even the expenses of these receptacles, walked about the

streets till he was weary, and lay down in the summer upon a bulk, or in

the winter, with his associates in poverty, among the ashes of a

glass-house.

In this manner were passed those days and those nights which nature had

enabled him to have employed in elevated speculations, useful studies,

or pleasing conversation. On a bulk, in a cellar, or in a glass-house,

among thieves and beggars, was to be found the author of the Wanderer;

the man of exalted sentiments, extensive views, and curious

observations; the man whose remarks on life might have assisted the

statesman, whose ideas of virtue might have enlightened the moralist,

whose eloquence might have influenced senates, and whose delicacy might

have polished courts.

It cannot but be imagined that such necessities might sometimes force

him upon disreputable practices; and it is probable that these lines in

the Wanderer were occasioned by his reflections on his own conduct:

Though misery leads to happiness, and truth,

Unequal to the load, this languid youth,

(O, let none censure, if, untried by grief,

If, amidst woe, untempted by relief,)

He stoop'd reluctant to low arts of shame,

Which then, e'en then, he scorn'd and blush'd to name.

Whoever was acquainted with him was certain to be solicited for small

sums, which the frequency of the request made in time considerable; and

he was, therefore, quickly shunned by those who were become familiar

enough to be trusted with his necessities; but his rambling manner of

life, and constant appearance at houses of publick resort, always

procured him a new succession of friends, whose kindness had not been

exhausted by repeated requests; so that he was seldom absolutely without

resources, but had in his utmost exigencies this comfort, that he always

imagined himself sure of speedy relief.

It was observed, that he always asked favours of this kind without the

least submission or apparent consciousness of dependence, and that he

did not seem to look upon a compliance with his requst, as an obligation

that deserved any extraordinary acknowledgments; but a refusal was

resented by him as an affront, or complained of as an injury; nor did he

readily reconcile himself to those who either denied to lend, or gave

him afterwards any intimation that they expected to be repaid.

He was sometimes so far compassionated by those who knew both his merit

and distresses, that they received him into their families; but they

soon discovered him to be a very incommodious inmate; for, being always

accustomed to an irregular manner of life, he could not confine himself

to any stated hours, or pay any regard to the rules of a family, but

would prolong his conversation till midnight, without considering that

business might require his friend's application in the morning; and,

when he had persuaded himself to retire to bed, was not, without equal

difficulty, called up to dinner; it was, therefore, impossible to pay

him any distinction without the entire subversion of all economy, a kind

of establishment which, wherever he went, he always appeared ambitious

to overthrow.

It must, therefore, be acknowledged, in justification of mankind, that

it was not always by the negligence or coldness of his friends that

Savage was distressed, but because it was in reality very difficult to

preserve him long in a state of ease. To supply him with money was a

hopeless attempt; for no sooner did he see himself master of a sum

sufficient to set him free from care for a day, than he became profuse

and luxurious. When once he had entered a tavern, or engaged in a scheme

of pleasure, he never retired till want of money obliged him to some new

expedient. If he was entertained in a family, nothing was any longer to

be regarded there but amusements and jollity; wherever Savage entered,

he immediately expected that order and business should fly before him,

that all should thenceforward be left to hazard, and that no dull

principle of domestick management should be opposed to his inclination,

or intrude upon his gaiety.

His distresses, however afflictive, never dejected him; in his lowest

state he wanted not spirit to assert the natural dignity of wit, and was

always ready to repress that insolence which superiority of fortune

incited, and to trample on that reputation which rose upon any other

basis than that of merit: he never admitted any gross familiarities, or

submitted to be treated otherwise than as an equal. Once, when he was

without lodging, meat, or clothes, one of his friends, a man not indeed

remarkable for moderation in his prosperity, left a message, that he

desired to see him about nine in the morning. Savage knew that his

intention was to assist him; but was very much disgusted that he should

presume to prescribe the hour of his attendance, and, I believe, refused

to visit him, and rejected his kindness.

The same invincible temper, whether firmness or obstinacy, appeared in

his conduct to the lord Tyrconnel, from whom he very frequently

demanded, that the allowance which was once paid him should be restored;

but with whom he never appeared to entertain, for a moment, the thought

of soliciting a reconciliation, and whom he treated, at once, with all

the haughtiness of superiority, and all the bitterness of resentment. He

wrote to him, not in a style of supplication or respect, but of

reproach, menace, and contempt; and appeared determined, if he ever

regained his allowance, to hold it only by the right of conquest.

As many more can discover that a man is richer than that he is wiser

than themselves, superiority of understanding is not so readily

acknowledged as that of fortune; nor is that haughtiness, which the

consciousness of great abilities incites, borne with the same submission

as the tyranny of affluence; and, therefore, Savage, by asserting his

claim to deference and regard, and by treating those with contempt whom

better fortune animated to rebel against him, did not fail to raise a

great number of enemies in the different classes of mankind. Those who

thought themselves raised above him by the advantages of riches, hated

him, because they found no protection from the petulance of his wit.

Those who were esteemed for their writings feared him as a critick, and

maligned him as a rival, and almost all the smaller wits were his

professed enemies.

Among these Mr. Miller so far indulged his resentment as to introduce

him in a farce, and direct him to be personated on the stage, in a

dress like that which he then wore; a mean insult, which only insinuated

that Savage had but one coat, and which was, therefore, despised by him

rather than resented: for, though he wrote a lampoon against Miller, he

never printed it; and as no other person ought to prosecute that revenge

from which the person who was injured desisted, I shall not preserve

what Mr. Savage suppressed; of which the publication would indeed have

been a punishment too severe for so impotent an assault.

The great hardships of poverty were to Savage not the want of lodging or

of food, but the neglect and contempt which it drew upon him. He

complained that, as his affairs grew desperate, he found his reputation

for capacity visibly decline; that his opinion in questions of criticism

was no longer regarded, when his coat was out of fashion; and that those

who, in the interval of his prosperity, were always encouraging him to

great undertakings, by encomiums on his genius and assurances of

success, now received any mention of his designs with coldness, thought

that the subjects on which he proposed to write were very difficult, and

were ready to inform him, that the event of a poem was uncertain, that

an author ought to employ much time in the consideration of his plan,

and not presume to sit down to write in confidence of a few cursory

ideas, and a superficial knowledge; difficulties were started on all

sides, and he was no longer qualified for any performance but the

Volunteer Laureate.

Yet even this kind of contempt never depressed him; for he always

preserved a steady confidence in his own capacity, and believed nothing

above his reach, which he should at any time earnestly endeavour to

attain. He formed schemes of the same kind with regard to knowledge and

to fortune, and flattered himself with advances to be made in science,

as with riches, to be enjoyed in some distant period of his life. For

the acquisition of knowledge he was, indeed, far better qualified than

for that of riches; for he was naturally inquisitive, and desirous of

the conversation of those from whom any information was to be obtained,

but by no means solicitous to improve those opportunities that were

sometimes offered of raising his fortune; and he was remarkably

retentive of his ideas, which, when once he was in possession of them,

rarely forsook him; a quality which could never be communicated to his

money.

While he was thus wearing out his life in expectation that the queen

would some time recollect her promise, he had recourse to the usual

practice of writers, and published proposals for printing his works by

subscription, to which he was encouraged by the success of many who had

not a better right to the favour of the publick; but, whatever was the

reason, he did not find the world equally inclined to favour him; and he

observed, with some discontent, that though he offered his works at

half-a-guinea, he was able to procure but a small number in comparison

with those who subscribed twice as much to Duck.

Nor was it without indignation that he saw his proposals neglected by

the queen, who patronised Mr. Duck's with uncommon ardour, and incited a

competition among those who attended the court, who should most promote

his interest, and who should first offer a subscription. This was a

distinction to which Mr. Savage made no scruple of asserting, that his

birth, his misfortunes, and his genius, gave him a fairer title, than

could be pleaded by him on whom it was conferred.

Savage's applications were, however, not universally unsuccessful; for

some of the nobility countenanced his design, encouraged his proposals,

and subscribed with great liberality. He related of the duke of Chandos

particularly, that, upon receiving his proposals, he sent him ten

guineas.

But the money which his subscriptions afforded him was not less volatile

than that which he received from his other schemes; whenever a

subscription was paid him, he went to a tavern; and, as money so

collected is necessarily received in small sums, he never was able to

send his poems to the press, but, for many years, continued his

solicitation, and squandered whatever he obtained.

The project of printing his works was frequently revived; and, as his

proposals grew obsolete, new ones were printed with fresher dates. To

form schemes for the publication, was one of his favourite amusements;

nor was he ever more at ease than when, with any friend who readily fell

in with his schemes, he was adjusting the print, forming the

advertisements, and regulating the dispersion of his new edition, which

he really intended, some time, to publish; and which, as long experience

had shown him the impossibility of printing the volume together, he, at

last, determined to divide into weekly or monthly numbers, that the

profits of the first might supply the expenses of the next.

Thus he spent his time in mean expedients and tormenting suspense,

living, for the greatest part, in the fear of prosecutions from his

creditors, and, consequently, skulking in obscure parts of the town, of

which he was no stranger to the remotest corners. But, wherever he came,

his address secured him friends, whom his necessities soon alienated; so

that he had, perhaps, a more numerous acquaintance than any man ever

before attained, there being scarcely any person eminent on any account

to whom he was not known, or whose character he was not, in some degree,

able to delineate.

To the acquisition of this extensive acquaintance every circumstance of

his life contributed. He excelled in the arts of conversation, and,

therefore, willingly practised them. He had seldom any home, or even a

lodging, in which he could be private; and, therefore, was driven into

publick-houses for the common conveniences of life and supports of

nature. He was always ready to comply with every invitation, having no

employment to withhold him, and often no money to provide for himself;

and, by dining with one company, he never failed of obtaining an

introduction into another.

Thus dissipated was his life, and thus casual his subsistence; yet did

not the distraction of his views hinder him from reflection, nor the

uncertainty of his condition depress his gaiety. When he had wandered

about without any fortunate adventure by which he was led into a tavern,

he sometimes retired into the fields, and was able to employ his mind in

study, or amuse it with pleasing imaginations; and seldom appeared to be

melancholy, but when some sudden misfortune had just fallen upon him,

and even then, in a few moments, he would disentangle himself from his

perplexity, adopt the subject of conversation, and apply his mind wholly

to the objects that others presented to it.

This life, unhappy as it may be already imagined, was yet imbittered, in

1738, with new calamities. The death of the queen deprived him of all

the prospects of preferment, with which he so long entertained his

imagination; and, as sir Robert Walpole had before given him reason to

believe that he never intended the performance of his promise, he was

now abandoned again to fortune.

He was, however, at that time, supported by a friend; and as it was not

his custom to look out for distant calamities, or to feel any other pain

than that which forced itself upon his senses, he was not much afflicted

at his loss, and, perhaps, comforted himself that his pension would be

now continued without the annual tribute of a panegyrick.

Another expectation contributed likewise to support him: he had taken a

resolution to write a second tragedy upon the story of sir Thomas

Overbury, in which he preserved a few lines of his former play, but made

a total alteration of the plan, added new incidents, and introduced new

characters; so that it was a new tragedy, not a revival of the former.

Many of his friends blamed him for not making choice of another subject;

but, in vindication of himself, he asserted, that it was not easy to

find a better; and that he thought it his interest to extinguish the

memory of the first tragedy, which he could only do by writing one less

defective upon the same story; by which he should entirely defeat the

artifice of the booksellers, who, after the death of any author of

reputation, are always industrious to swell his works, by uniting his

worst productions with his best.

In the execution of this scheme, however, he proceeded but slowly, and

probably only employed himself upon it when he could find no other

amusement; but he pleased himself with counting the profits, and perhaps

imagined, that the theatrical reputation which he was about to acquire

would be equivalent to all that he had lost by the death of his

patroness.

He did not, in confidence of his approaching riches, neglect the

measures proper to secure the continuance of his pension, though some of

his favourers thought him culpable for omitting to write on her death;

but, on her birthday, next year, he gave a proof of the solidity of his

judgment, and the power of his genius. He knew that the track of elegy

had been so long beaten, that it was impossible to travel in it without

treading in the footsteps of those who had gone before him; and that,

therefore, it was necessary, that he might distinguish himself from the

herd of encomiasts, to find out some new walk of funeral panegyrick.

This difficult task he performed in such a manner that his poem may be

justly ranked among the best pieces that the death of princes has

produced. By transferring the mention of her death to her birthday, he

has formed a happy combination of topicks, which any other man would

have thought it very difficult to connect in one view, but which he has

united in such a manner, that the relation between them appears natural;

and it may be justly said, that what no other man would have thought on,

it now appears scarcely possible for any man to miss.

The beauty of this peculiar combination of images is so masterly, that

it is sufficient to set this poem above censure; and, therefore, it is

not necessary to mention many other delicate touches which may be found

in it, and which would deservedly be admired in any other performance.

To these proofs of his genius may be added, from the same poem, an

instance of his prudence, an excellence for which he was not so often

distinguished; he does not forget to remind the king, in the most

delicate and artful manner, of continuing his pension.

With regard to the success of this address, he was, for some time, in

suspense, but was in no great degree solicitous about it; and continued

his labour upon his new tragedy with great tranquillity, till the

friend, who had for a considerable time supported him, removing his

family to another place, took occasion to dismiss him. It then became

necessary to inquire more diligently what was determined in his affair,

having reason to suspect that no great favour was intended him, because

he had not received his pension at the usual time.

It is said, that he did not take those methods of retrieving his

interest, which were most likely to succeed; and some of those who were

employed in the exchequer cautioned him against too much violence in his

proceedings: but Mr. Savage, who seldom regulated his conduct by the

advice of others, gave way to his passion, and demanded of sir Robert

Walpole, at his levee, the reason of the distinction that was made

between him and the other pensioners of the queen, with a degree of

roughness, which, perhaps, determined him to withdraw what had been only

delayed.

Whatever was the crime of which he was accused or suspected, and

whatever influence was employed against him, he received, soon after, an

account that took from him all hopes of regaining his pension; and he

had now no prospect of subsistence but from his play, and he knew no way

of living for the time required to finish it.

So peculiar were the misfortunes of this man, deprived of an estate and

title by a particular law, exposed and abandoned by a mother, defrauded

by a mother of a fortune which his father had allotted him, he entered

the world without a friend; and though his abilities forced themselves

into esteem and reputation, he was never able to obtain any real

advantage, and whatever prospects arose, were always intercepted as he

began to approach them. The king's intentions in his favour were

frustrated; his dedication to the prince, whose generosity on every

other occasion was eminent, procured him no reward; sir Robert Walpole,

who valued himself upon keeping his promise to others, broke it to him

without regret; and the bounty of the queen was, after her death,

withdrawn from him, and from him only.

Such were his misfortunes, which yet he bore, not only with decency, but

with cheerfulness; nor was his gaiety clouded even by his last

disappointments, though he was, in a short time, reduced to the lowest

degree of distress, and often wanted both lodging and food. At this time

he gave another instance of the insurmountable obstinacy of his spirit:

his clothes were worn out; and he received notice, that at a

coffee-house some clothes and linen were left for him: the person who

sent them did not, I believe, inform him to whom he was to be obliged,

that he might spare the perplexity of acknowledging the benefit; but

though the offer was so far generous, it was made with some neglect of

ceremonies, which Mr. Savage so much resented, that he refused the

present, and declined to enter the house till the clothes that had been

designed for him were taken away.

His distress was now publickly known, and his friends, therefore,

thought it proper to concert some measures for his relief; and one of

them wrote a letter to him, in which he expressed his concern "for the

miserable withdrawing of his pension;" and gave him hopes, that, in a

short time, he should find himself supplied with a competence, "without

any dependence on those little creatures which we are pleased to call

the great."

The scheme proposed for this happy and independent subsistence was, that

he should retire into Wales, and receive an allowance of fifty pounds a

year, to be raised by a subscription, on which he was to live privately

in a cheap place, without aspiring any more to affluence, or having any

further care of reputation.

This offer Mr. Savage gladly accepted, though with intentions very

different from those of his friends; for they proposed that he should

continue an exile from London for ever, and spend all the remaining part

of his life at Swansea; but he designed only to take the opportunity,

which their scheme offered him, of retreating for a short time, that he

might prepare his play for the stage, and his other works for the press,

and then to return to London to exhibit his tragedy, and live upon the

profits of his own labour.

With regard to his works, he proposed very great improvements, which

would have required much time, or great application; and, when he had

finished them, he designed to do justice to his subscribers, by

publishing them according to his proposals.

As he was ready to entertain himself with future pleasures, he had

planned out a scheme of life for the country, of which he had no

knowledge but from pastorals and songs. He imagined that he should be

transported to scenes of flowery felicity, like those which one poet has

reflected to another; and had projected a perpetual round of innocent

pleasures, of which he suspected no interruption from pride, or

ignorance, or brutality.

With these expectations he was so enchanted, that when he was once

gently reproached by a friend for submitting to live upon a

subscription, and advised rather by a resolute exertion of his abilities

to support himself, he could not bear to debar himself from the

happiness which was to be found in the calm of a cottage, or lose the

opportunity of listening, without intermission, to the melody of the

nightingale, which he believed was to be heard from every bramble, and

which he did not fail to mention as a very important part of the

happiness of a country life.

While this scheme was ripening, his friends directed him to take a

lodging in the liberties of the Fleet, that he might be secure from his

creditors, and sent him, every Monday, a guinea, which he commonly spent

before the next morning, and trusted, after his usual manner, the

remaining part of the week to the bounty of fortune.

He now began very sensibly to feel the miseries of dependence. Those by

whom he was to be supported began to prescribe to him with an air of

authority, which he knew not how decently to resent, nor patiently to

bear; and he soon discovered, from the conduct of most of his

subscribers, that he was yet in the hands of "little creatures."

Of the insolence that he was obliged to suffer, he gave many instances,

of which none appeared to raise his indignation to a greater height than

the method which was taken of furnishing him with clothes. Instead of

consulting him, and allowing him to send a tailor his orders for what

they thought proper to allow him, they proposed to send for a tailor to

take his measure, and then to consult how they should equip him.

This treatment was not very delicate, nor was it such as Savage's

humanity would have suggested to him on a like occasion; but it had

scarcely deserved mention, had it not, by affecting him in an uncommon

degree, shown the peculiarity of his character. Upon hearing the design

that was formed, he came to the lodging of a friend with the most

violent agonies of rage; and, being asked what it could be that gave him

such disturbance, he replied, with the utmost vehemence of indignation,

"that they had sent for a tailor to measure him."

How the affair ended was never inquired, for fear of renewing his

uneasiness. It is probable that, upon recollection, he submitted with a

good grace to what he could not avoid, and that he discovered no

resentment where he had no power.

He was, however, not humbled to implicit and universal compliance; for

when the gentleman, who had first informed him of the design to support

him by a subscription, attempted to procure a reconciliation with the

lord Tyrconnel, he could by no means be prevailed upon to comply with

the measures that were proposed.

A letter was written for him[83] to sir William Lemon, to prevail upon

him to interpose his good offices with lord Tyrconnel, in which he

solicited sir William's assistance "for a man who really needed it as

much as any man could well do;" and informed him, that he was retiring

"for ever to a place where he should no more trouble his relations,

friends, or enemies;" he confessed, that his passion had betrayed him to

some conduct, with regard to lord Tyrconnel, for which he could not but

heartily ask his pardon; and as he imagined lord Tyrcounel's passion

might be yet so high that he would not "receive a letter from him,"

begged that sir William would endeavour to soften him; and expressed his

hopes that he would comply with his request, and that "so small a

relation would not harden his heart against him."

That any man should presume to dictate a letter to him, was not very

agreeable to Mr. Savage; and, therefore, he was, before he had opened

it, not much inclined to approve it. But when he read it, he found it

contained sentiments entirely opposite to his own, and, as he asserted,

to the truth, and, therefore, instead of copying it, wrote his friend a

letter full of masculine resentment and warm expostulations. He very

justly observed, that the style was too supplicatory, and the

representation too abject, and that he ought, at least, to have made him

complain with "the dignity of a gentleman in distress." He declared that

he would not write the paragraph in which he was to ask lord Tyrconnel's

pardon; for "he despised his pardon, and, therefore, could not heartily,

and would not hypocritically, ask it." He remarked, that his friend made

a very unreasonable distinction between himself and him; for, says he,

when you mention men of high rank "in your own character," they are,

"those little creatures whom we are pleased to call the great;" but when

you address them "in mine," no servility is sufficiently humble. He

then, with great propriety, explained the ill consequences which might

be expected from such a letter, which his relations would print in their

own defence, and which would for ever be produced as a full answer to

all that he should allege against them; for he always intended to

publish a minute account of the treatment which he had received. It is

to be remembered, to the honour of the gentleman by whom this letter was

drawn up, that he yielded to Mr. Savage's reasons, and agreed that it

ought to be suppressed.

After many alterations and delays, a subscription was at length raised,

which did not amount to fifty pounds a year, though twenty were paid by

one gentleman; such was the generosity of mankind, that what had been

done by a player without solicitation, could not now be effected by

application and interest; and Savage had a great number to court and to

obey for a pension less than that which Mrs. Oldfield paid him without

exacting any servilities. Mr. Savage, however, was satisfied, and

willing to retire, and was convinced that the allowance, though scanty,

would be more than sufficient for him, being now determined to commence

a rigid economist, and to live according to the exactest rules of

frugality; for nothing was, in his opinion, more contemptible, than a

man, who, when he knew his income, exceeded it; and yet he confessed

that instances of such folly were too common, and lamented that some men

were not to be trusted with their own money.

Full of these salutary resolutions, he left London in July, 1739, having

taken leave, with great tenderness, of his friends, and parted from the

author of this narrative with tears in his eyes. He was furnished with

fifteen guineas, and informed that they would be sufficient, not only

for the expense of his journey, but for his support in Wales for some

time; and that there remained but little more of the first collection.

He promised a strict adherence to his maxims of parsimony, and went away

in the stagecoach; nor did his friends expect to hear from him till he

informed them of his arrival at Swansea.

But, when they least expected, arrived a letter dated the fourteenth day

after his departure, in which he sent them word, that he was yet upon

the road and without money; and that he, therefore, could not proceed

without a remittance. They then sent him the money that was in their

hands, with which he was enabled to reach Bristol, from whence he was to

go to Swansea by water.

At Bristol he found an embargo laid upon the shipping, so that he could

not immediately obtain a passage; and being, therefore, obliged to stay

there some time, he, with his usual felicity, ingratiated himself with

many of the principal inhabitants, was invited to their houses,

distinguished at their publick feasts, and treated with a regard that

gratified his vanity, and, therefore, easily engaged his affection. He

began, very early after his retirement, to complain of the conduct of

his friends in London, and irritated many of them so much by his

letters, that they withdrew, however honourably, their contributions;

and it is believed, that little more was paid him than the twenty pounds

a year, which were allowed him by the gentleman who proposed the

subscription.

After some stay at Bristol he retired to Swansea, the place originally

proposed for his residence, where he lived about a year, very much

dissatisfied with the diminution of his salary; but contracted, as in

other places, acquaintance with those who were most distinguished in

that country, among whom he has celebrated Mr. Powell and Mrs. Jones, by

some verses which he inserted in the Gentleman's Magazine[84].

Here he completed his tragedy, of which two acts were wanting when he

left London; and was desirous of coming to town, to bring it upon the

stage. This design was very warmly opposed; and he was advised, by his

chief benefactor, to put it into the hands of Mr. Thomson and Mr.

Mallet, that it might be fitted for the stage, and to allow his friends

to receive the profits, out of which an annual pension should be paid

him.

This proposal he rejected with the utmost contempt. He was by no means

convinced that the judgment of those, to whom he was required to

submit, was superiour to his own. He was now determined, as he expressed

it, to be "no longer kept in leading-strings," and had no elevated idea

of "his bounty, who proposed to pension him out of the profits of his

own labours."

He attempted in Wales to promote a subscription for his works, and had

once hopes of success; but, in a short time afterwards, formed a

resolution of leaving that part of the country, to which he thought it

not reasonable to be confined, for the gratification of those who,

having promised him a liberal income, had no sooner banished him to a

remote corner, than they reduced his allowance to a salary scarcely

equal to the necessities of life.

His resentment of this treatment, which, in his own opinion, at least,

he had not deserved, was such, that he broke off all correspondence with

most of his contributors, and appeared to consider them as persecutors

and oppressors; and, in the latter part of his life, declared that their

conduct toward him since his departure from London "had been

perfidiousness improving on perfidiousness, and inhumanity on

inhumanity."

It is not to be supposed, that the necessities of Mr. Savage did not

sometimes incite him to satirical exaggerations of the behaviour of

those by whom he thought himself reduced to them. But it must be

granted, that the diminution of his allowance was a great hardship, and

that those who withdrew their subscriptions from a man, who, upon the

faith of their promise, had gone into a kind of banishment, and

abandoned all those by whom he had been before relieved in his

distresses, will find it no easy task to vindicate their conduct.

It may be alleged, and perhaps justly, that he was petulant and

contemptuous; that he more frequently reproached his subscribers for not

giving him more, than thanked them for what he received; but it is to be

remembered, that his conduct, and this is the worst charge that can be

drawn up against him, did them no real injury, and that it, therefore,

ought rather to have been pitied than resented; at least, the

resentment it might provoke ought to have been generous and manly;

epithets which his conduct will hardly deserve, that starves the man

whom he has persuaded to put himself into his power.

It might have been reasonably demanded by Savage, that they should,

before they had taken away what they promised, have replaced him in his

former state; that they should have taken no advantages from the

situation to which the appearance of their kindness had reduced him, and

that he should have been recalled to London before he was abandoned. He

might justly represent, that he ought to have been considered as a lion

in the toils, and demand to be released before the dogs should be loosed

upon him.

He endeavoured, indeed, to release himself, and, with an intent to

return to London, went to Bristol, where a repetition of the kindness

which he had formerly found invited him to stay. He was not only

caressed and treated, but had a collection made for him of about thirty

pounds, with which it had been happy if he had immediately departed for

London; but his negligence did not suffer him to consider, that such

proofs of kindness were not often to be expected, and that this ardour

of benevolence was, in a great degree, the effect of novelty, and might,

probably, be every day less; and, therefore, he took no care to improve

the happy time, but was encouraged by one favour to hope for another,

till, at length, generosity was exhausted, and officiousness wearied.

Another part of his misconduct was the practice of prolonging his visits

to unseasonable hours, and disconcerting all the families into which he

was admitted. This was an errour in a place of commerce, which all the

charms of his conversation could not compensate; for what trader would

purchase such airy satisfaction by the loss of solid gain, which must be

the consequence of midnight merriment, as those hours which were gained

at night were generally lost in the morning?

Thus Mr. Savage, after the curiosity of the inhabitants was gratified,

found the number of his friends daily decreasing, perhaps, without

suspecting for what reason their conduct was altered; for he still

continued to harass, with his nocturnal intrusions, those that yet

countenanced him, and admitted him to their houses.

But he did not spend all the time of his residence at Bristol, in visits

or at taverns; for he sometimes returned to his studies, and began

several considerable designs. When he felt an inclination to write, he

always retired from the knowledge of his friends, and lay hid in an

obscure part of the suburbs, till he found himself again desirous of

company, to which it is likely that intervals of absence made him more

welcome.

He was always full of his design of returning to London, to bring his

tragedy upon the stage; but, having neglected to depart with the money

that was raised for him, he could not afterwards procure a sum

sufficient to defray the expenses of his journey; nor, perhaps, would a

fresh supply have had any other effect than by putting immediate

pleasures in his power, to have driven the thoughts of his journey out

of his mind.

While he was thus spending the day in contriving a scheme for the

morrow, distress stole upon him by imperceptible degrees. His conduct

had already wearied some of those, who were at first enamoured of his

conversation; but he might, perhaps, still have devolved to others, whom

he might have entertained with equal success, had not the decay of his

clothes made it no longer consistent with their vanity to admit him to

their tables, or to associate with him in publick places. He now began

to find every man from home at whose house he called; and was,

therefore, no longer able to procure the necessaries of life, but

wandered about the town, slighted and neglected, in quest of a dinner,

which he did not always obtain.

To complete his misery, he was pursued by the officers, for small debts

which he had contracted; and was, therefore, obliged to withdraw from

the small number of friends from whom he had still reason to hope for

favours. His custom was to lie in bed the greatest part of the day, and

to go out in the dark with the utmost privacy, and after having paid his

visit, return again before morning to his lodging, which was in the

garret of an obscure inn.

Being thus excluded on one hand, and confined on the other, he suffered

the utmost extremities of poverty, and often fasted so long, that he was

seized with faintness, and had lost his appetite, not being able to bear

the smell of meat, till the action of his stomach was restored by a

cordial.

In this distress, he received a remittance of five pounds from London,

with which he provided himself a decent coat, and determined to go to

London, but unhappily spent his money at a favourite tavern. Thus was he

again confined to Bristol, where he was every day hunted by bailiffs. In

this exigence he once more found a friend, who sheltered him in his

house, though at the usual inconveniencies with which his company was

attended; for he could neither be persuaded to go to bed in the night,

nor to rise in the day.

It is observable, that in these various scenes of misery, he was always

disengaged and cheerful: he at some times pursued his studies, and at

others continued or enlarged his epistolary correspondence; nor was he

ever so far dejected as to endeavour to procure an increase of his

allowance by any other methods than accusations and reproaches.

He had now no longer any hopes of assistance from his friends at

Bristol, who, as merchants, and by consequence sufficiently studious of

profit, cannot be supposed to have looked with much compassion upon

negligence and extravagance, or to think any excellence equivalent to a

fault of such consequence, as neglect of economy. It is natural to

imagine, that many of those, who would have relieved his real wants,

were discouraged from the exertion of their benevolence, by observation

of the use which was made of their favours, and conviction that relief

would only be momentary, and that the same necessity would quickly

return.

At last he quitted the house of his friend, and returned to his lodging

at the inn, still intending to set out in a few days for London; but on

the 10th of January, 1742-3, having been at supper with two of his

friends, he was, at his return to his lodgings, arrested for a debt of

about eight pounds, which he owed at a coffee-house, and conducted to

the house of a sheriff's officer. The account which he gives of this

misfortune, in a letter to one of the gentlemen, with whom he had

supped, is too remarkable to be omitted.

"It was not a little unfortunate for me, that I spent yesterday's

evening with you; because the hour hindered me from entering on my new

lodging; however, I have now got one, but such an one as I believe

nobody would choose.

"I was arrested at the suit of Mrs. Read, just as I was going up stairs

to bed, at Mr. Bowyer's; but taken in so private a manner, that I

believe nobody at the White Lion is apprised of it; though I let the

officers know the strength, or rather weakness, of my pocket, yet they

treated me with the utmost civility; and even when they conducted me to

confinement, it was in such a manner, that I verily believe I could have

escaped, which I would rather be ruined than have done, notwithstanding

the whole amount of my finances was but threepence halfpenny.

"In the first place, I must insist, that you will industriously conceal

this from Mrs. S----s, because I would not have her good-nature suffer

that pain which, I know, she would be apt to feel on this occasion.

"Next, I conjure you, dear sir, by all the ties of friendship, by no

means to have one uneasy thought on my account; but to have the same

pleasantry of countenance, and unruffled serenity of mind, which (God be

praised!) I have in this, and have had in a much severer calamity.

Furthermore, I charge you, if you value my friendship as truly as I do

yours, not to utter, or even harbour, the least resentment against Mrs.

Read. I believe she has ruined me, but I freely forgive her; and (though

I will never more have any intimacy with her) I would, at a due

distance, rather do her an act of good, than ill will. Lastly, (pardon

the expression,) I absolutely command you not to offer me any pecuniary

assistance, nor to attempt getting me any from any one of your friends.

At another time, or on any other occasion, you may, dear friend, be well

assured, I would rather write to you in the submissive style of a

request, than that of a peremptory command.

"However, that my truly valuable friend may not think I am too proud to

ask a favour, let me intreat you to let me have your boy to attend me

for this day, not only for the sake of saving me the expense of porters,

but for the delivery of some letters to people whose names I would not

have known to strangers.

"The civil treatment I have thus far met from those whose prisoner I am,

makes me thankful to the Almighty, that, though he has thought fit to

visit me (on my birth-night) with affliction, yet (such is his great

goodness!) my affliction is not without alleviating circumstances. I

murmur not; but am all resignation to the divine will. As to the world,

I hope that I shall be endued by heaven with that presence of mind, that

serene dignity in misfortune, that constitutes the character of a true

nobleman; a dignity far beyond that of coronets; a nobility arising from

the just principles of philosophy, refined and exalted by those of

Christianity."

He continued five days at the officer's, in hopes that he should be able

to procure bail and avoid the necessity of going to prison. The state in

which he passed his time, and the treatment which he received, are very

justly expressed by him in a letter which he wrote to a friend: "The

whole day," says he, "has been employed in various people's filling my

head with their foolish chimerical systems, which has obliged me coolly

(as far as nature will admit) to digest, and accommodate myself to,

every different person's way of thinking; hurried from one wild system

to another, till it has quite made a chaos of my imagination, and

nothing done--promised--disappointed--ordered to send, every hour, from

one part of the town to the other."

When his friends, who had hitherto caressed and applauded, found that to

give bail and pay the debt was the same; they all refused to preserve

him from a prison at the expense of eight pounds; and, therefore, after

having been for some time at the officer's house, "at an immense

expense," as he observes in his letter, he was at length removed to

Newgate.

This expense he was enabled to support by the generosity of Mr. Nash, at

Bath, who, upon receiving from him an account of his condition,

immediately sent him five guineas, and promised to promote his

subscription at Bath with all his interest.

By his removal to Newgate, he obtained at least a freedom from suspense,

and rest from the disturbing vicissitudes of hope and disappointment; he

now found that his friends were only companions, who were willing to

share his gaiety, but not to partake of his misfortunes; and, therefore,

he no longer expected any assistance from them.

It must, however, be observed of one gentleman, that he offered to

release him by paying the debt; but that Mr. Savage would not consent, I

suppose, because he thought he had before been too burdensome to him. He

was offered by some of his friends that a collection should be made for

his enlargement; but he "treated the proposal," and declared[85] "he

should again treat it, with disdain". As to writing any mendicant

letters, he had too high a spirit, and determined only to write to some

ministers of state, to try to regain his pension.

He continued to complain[86] of those that had sent him into the

country, and objected to them, that he had "lost the profits of his

play, which had been finished three years:" and in another letter

declares his resolution to publish a pamphlet, that the world might know

how "he had been used."

This pamphlet was never written; for he, in a very short time,

recovered his usual tranquillity, and cheerfully applied himself to more

inoffensive studies. He, indeed, steadily declared, that he was promised

a yearly allowance of fifty pounds, and never received half the sum; but

he seemed to resign himself to that as well as to other misfortunes, and

lose the remembrance of it in his amusements and employments.

The cheerfulness with which he bore his confinement appears from the

following letter, which he wrote, January the 30th, to one of his

friends in London.

"I now write to you from my confinement in Newgate, where I have been

ever since Monday last was se'nnight, and where I enjoy myself with much

more tranquillity than I have known for upwards of a twelve-month past;

having a room entirely to myself, and pursuing the amusement of my

poetical studies, uninterrupted, and agreeable to my mind. I thank the

Almighty, I am now all collected in myself; and, though my person is in

confinement, my mind can expatiate on ample and useful subjects with all

the freedom imaginable. I am now more conversant with the Nine than

ever, and if, instead of a Newgate-bird, I may be allowed to be a bird

of the muses, I assure you, sir, I sing very freely in my cage;

sometimes, indeed, in the plaintive notes of the nightingale; but at

others in the cheerful strains of the lark."

In another letter he observes, that he ranges from one subject to

another, without confining himself to any particular task; and that he

was employed one week upon one attempt, and the next upon another.

Surely the fortitude of this man deserves, at least, to be mentioned

with applause; and, whatever faults may be imputed to him, the virtue of

suffering well cannot be denied him. The two powers which, in the

opinion of Epictetus, constituted a wise man, are those of bearing and

forbearing; which cannot indeed be affirmed to have been equally

possessed by Savage; and, indeed, the want of one obliged him very

frequently to practise the other.

He was treated by Mr. Dagge, the keeper of the prison, with great

humanity; was supported by him at his own table, without any certainty

of recompense; had a room to himself, to which he could at any time

retire from all disturbance; was allowed to stand at the door of the

prison, and sometimes taken out into the fields[87]; so that he suffered

fewer hardships in prison than he had been accustomed to undergo in the

greatest part of his life.

The keeper did not confine his benevolence to a gentle execution of his

office, but made some overtures to the creditor for his release, though

without effect; and continued, during the whole time of his

imprisonment, to treat him with the utmost tenderness and civility.

Virtue is undoubtedly most laudable in that state which makes it most

difficult; and, therefore, the humanity of a gaoler certainly deserves

this publick attestation; and the man, whose heart has not been hardened

by such an employment, may be justly proposed as a pattern of

benevolence. If an inscription was once engraved, "to the honest

toll-gatherer," less honours ought not to be paid "to the tender

gaoler."

Mr. Savage very frequently received visits, and sometimes presents, from

his acquaintances; but they did not amount to a subsistence, for the

greater part of which he was indebted to the generosity of this keeper;

but these favours, however they might endear to him the particular

persons from whom he received them, were very far from impressing upon

his mind any advantageous ideas of the people of Bristol, and,

therefore, he thought he could not more properly employ himself in

prison, than in writing a poem, called London and Bristol

delineated[88].

When he had brought this poem to its present state, which, without

considering the chasm, is not perfect, he wrote to London an account of

his design, and informed his friend[89], that he was determined to print

it with his name; but enjoined him not to communicate his intention to

his Bristol acquaintance. The gentleman, surprised at his resolution,

endeavoured to dissuade him from publishing it, at least from prefixing

his name; and declared, that he could not reconcile the injunction of

secrecy with his resolution to own it at its first appearance. To this

Mr. Savage returned an answer agreeable to his character, in the

following terms:

"I received yours this morning; and not without a little surprise at the

contents. To answer a question with a question, you ask me concerning

London and Bristol, Why will I add _delineated_? Why did Mr. Wollaston

add the same word to his Religion of Nature? I suppose that it was his

will and pleasure to add it in his case; and it is mine to do so in my

own. You are pleased to tell me, that you understand not why secrecy is

enjoined, and yet I intend to set my name to it. My answer is--I have my

private reasons, which I am not obliged to explain to any one. You doubt

my friend Mr. S----[90] would not approve of it--And what is it to me

whether he does or not? Do you imagine that Mr. S---- is to dictate to

me? If any man who calls himself my friend should assume such an air, I

would spurn at his friendship with contempt. You say, I seem to think so

by not letting him know it.--And suppose I do, what then? Perhaps I can

give reasons for that disapprobation, very foreign from what you would

imagine. You go on in saying, suppose I should not put my name to it--My

answer is, that I will not suppose any such thing, being determined to

the contrary: neither, sir, would I have you suppose, that I applied to

you for want of another press: nor would I have you imagine, that I owe

Mr. S---- obligations which I do not."

Such was his imprudence, and such his obstinate adherence to his own

resolutions, however absurd! A prisoner! supported by charity! and,

whatever insults he might have received during the latter part of his

stay in Bristol, once caressed, esteemed, and presented with a liberal

collection, he could forget, on a sudden, his danger and his

obligations, to gratify the petulance of his wit, or the eagerness of

his resentment, and publish a satire, by which he might reasonably

expect that he should alienate those who then supported him, and provoke

those whom he could neither resist nor escape.

This resolution, from the execution of which it is probable that only

his death could have hindered him, is sufficient to show how much he

disregarded all considerations that opposed his present passions, and

how readily he hazarded all future advantages for any immediate

gratifications. Whatever was his predominant inclination, neither hope

nor fear hindered him from complying with it; nor had opposition any

other effect than to heighten his ardour, and irritate his vehemence.

This performance was, however, laid aside, while he was employed in

soliciting assistance from several great persons; and one interruption

succeeding another hindered him from supplying the chasm, and, perhaps,

from retouching the other parts, which he can hardly be imagined to have

finished in his own opinion: for it is very unequal, and some of the

lines are rather inserted to rhyme to others, than to support or improve

the sense; but the first and last parts are worked up with great spirit

and elegance.

His time was spent in the prison, for the most part, in study, or in

receiving visits; but sometimes he descended to lower amusements, and

diverted himself in the kitchen with the conversation of the criminals:

for it was not pleasing to him to be much without company; and, though

he was very capable of a judicious choice, he was often contented with

the first that offered: for this he was sometimes reproved by his

friends, who found him surrounded with felons; but the reproof was on

that, as on other occasions, thrown away; he continued to gratify

himself, and to set very little value on the opinion of others.

But here, as in every other scene of his life, he made use of such

opportunities as occurred of benefiting those who were more miserable

than himself, and was always ready to perform any office of humanity to

his fellow-prisoners.

He had now ceased from corresponding with any of his subscribers except

one, who yet continued to remit him the twenty pounds a year which he

had promised him, and by whom it was expected that he would have been in

a very short time enlarged, because he had directed the keeper to

inquire after the state of his debts.

However, he took care to enter his name according to the forms of the

court[91], that the creditor might be obliged to make him some

allowance, if he was continued a prisoner, and, when on that occasion he

appeared in the hall, was treated with very unusual respect.

But the resentment of the city was afterwards raised by some accounts

that had been spread of the satire; and he was informed that some of the

merchants intended to pay the allowance which the law required, and to

detain him a prisoner at their own expense. This he treated as an empty

menace; and, perhaps, might have hastened the publication, only to show

how much he was superiour to their insults, had not all his schemes been

suddenly destroyed.

When he had been six months in prison, he received from one of his

friends[92], in whose kindness he had the greatest confidence, and on

whose assistance he chiefly depended, a letter, that contained a charge

of very atrocious ingratitude, drawn up in such terms as sudden

resentment dictated. Henley, in one of his advertisements, had mentioned

"Pope's treatment of Savage." This was supposed, by Pope, to be the

consequence of a complaint made by Savage to Henley, and was, therefore,

mentioned by him with much resentment. Mr. Savage returned a very solemn

protestation of his innocence, but, however, appeared much disturbed at

the accusation. Some days afterwards he was seized with a pain in his

back and side, which, as it was not violent, was not suspected to be

dangerous; but, growing daily more languid and dejected, on the 25th of

July he confined himself to his room, and a fever seized his spirits.

The symptoms grew every day more formidable, but his condition did not

enable him to procure any assistance. The last time that the keeper saw

him was on July the 31st, 1743; when Savage, seeing him at his bedside,

said, with an uncommon earnestness, "I have something to say to you,

sir;" but, after a pause, moved his hand in a melancholy manner; and,

finding himself unable to recollect what he was going to communicate,

said, "'Tis gone!" The keeper soon after left him; and the next morning

he died. He was buried in the church-yard of St. Peter, at the expense

of the keeper.

Such were the life and death of Richard Savage, a man equally

distinguished by his virtues and vices; and at once remarkable for his

weaknesses and abilities.

He was of a middle stature, of a thin habit of body, a long visage,

coarse features, and melancholy aspect; of a grave and manly deportment,

a solemn dignity of mien, but which, upon a nearer acquaintance,

softened into an engaging easiness of manners. His walk was slow, and

his voice tremulous and mournful. He was easily excited to smiles, but

very seldom provoked to laughter.

His mind was in an uncommon degree vigorous and active. His judgment was

accurate, his apprehension quick, and his memory so tenacious, that he

was frequently observed to know what he had learned from others, in a

short time, better than those by whom he was informed; and could

frequently recollect incidents, with all their combination of

circumstances, which few would have regarded at the present time, but

which the quickness of his apprehension impressed upon him. He had the

peculiar felicity, that his attention never deserted him; he was present

to every object, and regardful of the most trifling occurrences. He had

the art of escaping from his own reflections, and accommodating himself

to every new scene.

To this quality is to be imputed the extent of his knowledge, compared

with the small time which he spent in visible endeavours to acquire it.

He mingled in cursory conversation with the same steadiness of attention

as others apply to a lecture; and, amidst the appearance of thoughtless

gaiety, lost no new idea that was started, nor any hint that could be

improved. He had, therefore, made in coffee-houses the same proficiency

as others in their closets: and it is remarkable, that the writings of a

man of little education and little reading have an air of learning

scarcely to be found in any other performances, but which, perhaps, as

often obscures as embellishes them.

His judgment was eminently exact, both with regard to writings and to

men. The knowledge of life was indeed his chief attainment; and it is

not without some satisfaction that I can produce the suffrage of Savage

in favour of human nature, of which he never appeared to entertain such

odious ideas as some, who, perhaps, had neither his judgment nor

experience, have published, either in ostentation of their sagacity,

vindication of their crimes, or gratification of their malice.

His method of life particularly qualified him for conversation, of which

he knew how to practise all the graces. He was never vehement or loud,

but at once modest and easy, open and respectful; his language was

vivacious and elegant, and equally happy upon grave or humorous

subjects. He was generally censured for not knowing when to retire; but

that was not the defect of his judgment, but of his fortune: when he

left his company, he was frequently to spend the remaining part of the

night in the street, or at least was abandoned to gloomy reflections,

which it is not strange that he delayed as long as he could; and

sometimes forgot that he gave others pain to avoid it himself.

It cannot be said, that he made use of his abilities for the direction

of his own conduct: an irregular and dissipated manner of life had made

him the slave of every passion that happened to be excited by the

presence of its object, and that slavery to his passions reciprocally

produced a life irregular and dissipated. He was not master of his own

motions, nor could promise any thing for the next day.

With regard to his economy, nothing can be added to the relation of his

life. He appeared to think himself born to be supported by others, and

dispensed from all necessity of providing for himself; he therefore

never prosecuted any scheme of advantage, nor endeavoured even to secure

the profits which his writings might have afforded him. His temper was,

in consequence of the dominion of his passions, uncertain and

capricious; he was easily engaged, and easily disgusted; but he is

accused of retaining his hatred more tenaciously than his benevolence.

He was compassionate both by nature and principle, and always ready to

perform offices of humanity; but when he was provoked (and very small

offences were sufficient to provoke him) he would prosecute his revenge

with the utmost acrimony till his passion had subsided.

His friendship was, therefore, of little value; for, though he was

zealous in the support or vindication of those whom he loved, yet it was

always dangerous to trust him, because he considered himself as

discharged, by the first quarrel, from all ties of honour or gratitude;

and would betray those secrets which, in the warmth of confidence, had

been imparted to him. This practice drew upon him an universal

accusation of ingratitude: nor can it be denied that he was very ready

to set himself free from the load of an obligation; for he could not

bear to conceive himself in a state of dependence, his pride being

equally powerful with his other passions, and appearing in the form of

insolence at one time, and of vanity at another. Vanity, the most

innocent species of pride, was most frequently predominant: he could not

easily leave off, when he had once begun to mention himself or his

works; nor ever read his verses without stealing his eyes from the page,

to discover, in the faces of his audience, how they were affected with

any favourite passage.

A kinder name than that of vanity ought to be given to the delicacy

with which he was always careful to separate his own merit from every

other man's, and to reject that praise to which he had no claim. He did

not forget, in mentioning his performances, to mark every line that had

been suggested or amended; and was so accurate, as to relate that he

owed three words in the Wanderer to the advice of his friends.

His veracity was questioned, but with little reason; his accounts,

though not indeed always the same, were generally consistent. When he

loved any man, he suppressed all his faults; and, when he had been

offended by him, concealed all his virtues; but his characters were

generally true, so far as he proceeded; though it cannot be denied, that

his partiality might have sometimes the effect of falsehood.

In cases indifferent, he was zealous for virtue, truth, and justice; he

knew very well the necessity of goodness to the present and future

happiness of mankind; nor is there, perhaps, any writer, who has less

endeavoured to please by flattering the appetites, or perverting the

judgment.

As an author, therefore, and he now ceases to influence mankind in any

other character, if one piece which he had resolved to suppress be

excepted, he has very little to fear from the strictest moral or

religious censure. And though he may not be altogether secure against

the objections of the critick, it must, however, be acknowledged, that

his works are the productions of a genius truly poetical; and, what many

writers who have been more lavishly applauded cannot boast, that they

have an original air, which has no resemblance of any foregoing writer,

that the versification and sentiments have a cast peculiar to

themselves, which no man can imitate with success, because what was

nature in Savage would in another be affectation. It must be confessed

that his descriptions are striking, his images animated, his fictions

justly imagined, and his allegories artfully pursued; that his diction

is elevated, though sometimes forced, and his numbers sonorous and

majestick, though frequently sluggish and encumbered. Of his style, the

general fault is harshness, and its general excellence is dignity: of

his sentiments, the prevailing beauty is simplicity, and uniformity the

prevailing defect.

For his life, or for his writings, none, who candidly consider his

fortune, will think an apology either necessary or difficult. If he was

not always sufficiently instructed in his subject, his knowledge was, at

least, greater than could have been attained by others in the same

state. If his works were sometimes unfinished, accuracy cannot

reasonably be expected from a man oppressed with want, which he has no

hope of relieving but by a speedy publication. The insolence and

resentment of which he is accused were not easily to be avoided by a

great mind, irritated by perpetual hardships, and constrained hourly to

return the spurns of contempt, and repress the insolence of prosperity;

and vanity may surely be readily pardoned in him, to whom life afforded

no other comforts than barren praises, and the consciousness of

deserving them.

Those are no proper judges of his conduct, who have slumbered away their

time on the down of plenty; nor will any wise man presume to say, "Had I

been in Savage's condition, I should have lived or written better than

Savage."

This relation will not be wholly without its use, if those, who languish

under any part of his sufferings, shall be enabled to fortify their

patience, by reflecting that they feel only those afflictions from which

the abilities of Savage did not exempt him; or if those, who, in

confidence of superiour capacities or attainments, disregard the common

maxims of life, shall be reminded, that nothing will supply the want of

prudence, and that negligence and irregularity, long continued, will

make knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and genius contemptible.

-----

[Footnote 47: The first edition of this interesting narrative, according

to Mr. Boswell, was published in 1744, by Roberts. The second, now

before me, bears date 1748, and was published by Cave. Very few

alterations were made by the author, when he added it to the present

collection. The year before publication, 1743, Dr. Johnson inserted the

following notice of his intention in the Gentleman's Magazine.

"MR. URBAN

"As your collections show how often you have owed the ornaments of your

poetical pages to the correspondence of the unfortunate and ingenious

Mr. Savage, I doubt not but you have so much regard to his memory, as to

encourage any design that may have a tendency to the preservation of it

from insults or calumnies; and, therefore, with some degree of

assurance, intreat you to inform the publick, that his life will

speedily be published by a person who was favoured with his confidence,

and received from himself an account of most of the transactions which

he proposes to mention, to the time of his retirement to Swansea, in

Wales.

"From that period to his death in the prison of Bristol, the account

will be continued from materials still less liable to objection; his own

letters and those of his friends; some of which will be inserted in the

work, and abstracts of others subjoined in the margin.

"It may be reasonably, imagined that others may have the same design,

but as it is not credible that they can obtain the same materials, it

must be expected that they will supply from invention the want of

intelligence, and that under the title of the Life of Savage, they will

publish only a novel, filled with romantick adventures and imaginary

amours. You may, therefore, perhaps, gratify the lovers of truth and

wit, by giving me leave to inform them, in your magazine, that my

account will be published, in octavo, by Mr. Roberts, in Warwick-lane."]

[Footnote 48: This year was made remarkable by the dissolution of a

marriage solemnized in the face of the church. Salmon's Review.

The following protest is registered in the books of the house of lords:

Dissentient: Because we conceive that this is the first bill of that

nature that hath passed, where there was not a divorce first obtained in

the spiritual court; which we look upon as an ill precedent, and may be

of dangerous consequence in the future. HALIFAX. ROCHESTER.]

[Footnote 49: See Mr. Boswell's doubts on this head; and the point,

fully discussed by Malone, and Bindley in the notes to Boswell. Edit.

1816. i. 150, 151. ED.]

[Footnote 50: On this circumstance, Boswell founds one of his strongest

arguments against Savage's being the son of lady Macclesfield. "If there

was such a legacy left," says Boswell, "his not being able to obtain

payment of it, must be imputed to his consciousness that he was not the

real person. The just inference should be, that, by the death of lady

Macclesfield's child before its godmother, the legacy became lapsed;

and, therefore, that Johnson's Savage was an impostor. If he had a title

to the legacy, he could not have found any difficulty in recovering it;

for had the executors resisted his claim, the whole costs, as well as

the legacy, must have been paid by them, if he had been the child to

whom it was given." With respect for the legal memory of Boswell, we

would venture to urge, that the forma pauperis is not the most available

mode of addressing an English court; and, therefore, Johnson is not

clearly proved wrong by the above argument brought against him. ED.]

[Footnote 51: He died August 18th, 1712 R.]

[Footnote 52: Savage's preface to his Miscellany.]

[Footnote 53: Savage's preface to his Miscellany.]

[Footnote 54: See the Plain Dealer.]

[Footnote 55: The title of this poem was the Convocation, or a Battle of

Pamphlets, 1717. J. B.]

[Footnote 56: Jacob's Lives of the Dramatick Poets. Dr. J.]

[Footnote 57: This play was printed first in 8vo.; and afterwards in

12mo. the fifth edition. Dr. J.]

[Footnote 58: Plain Dealer, Dr. J.]

[Footnote 59: As it is a loss to mankind when any good action is

forgotten, I shall insert another instance of Mr. Wilks's generosity,

very little known. Mr. Smith, a gentleman educated at Dublin, being

hindered by an impediment in his pronunciation from engaging in orders,

for which his friends designed him, left his own country, and came to

London in quest of employment, but found his solicitations fruitless,

and his necessities every day more pressing. In this distress he wrote a

tragedy, and offered it to the players, by whom it was rejected. Thus

were his last hopes defeated, and he had no other prospect than of the

most deplorable poverty. But Mr. Wilks thought his performance, though

not perfect, at least worthy of some reward, and, therefore, offered him

a benefit. This favour he improved with so much diligence, that the

house afforded him a considerable sum, with which he went to Leyden,

applied himself to the study of physick, and prosecuted his design with

so much diligence and success, that, when Dr. Boerhaave was desired by

the czarina to recommend proper persons to introduce into Russia the

practice and study of physick, Dr. Smith was one of those whom he

selected. He had a considerable pension settled on him at his arrival,

and was one of the chief physicians at the Russian court. Dr. J.

A letter from Dr. Smith, in Russia, to Mr. Wilks, is printed in

Chetwood's History of the Stage. R.]

[Footnote 60: "This," says Dr. Johnson, "I write upon the credit of the

author of his life, which was published in 1727;" and was a small

pamphlet, intended to plead his cause with the publick while under

sentence of death "for the murder of Mr. James Sinclair, at Robinson's

coffee-house, at Charing-cross, price 6d. Roberts." Savage sent a copy

of it to Mrs. Carter, with some corrections and remarks. See his letter

to that lady in Mrs. Carter's life by Mr. Pennington, vol. i. p. 58.]

[Footnote 61: Chetwood, however, has printed a poem on her death, which

he ascribes to Mr. Savage. See History of the Stage, p. 206]

[Footnote 62: In 1724.]

[Footnote 63: Printed in the late collection of his poems.]

[Footnote 64: It was acted only three nights, the first on June 12,1723.

When the house opened for the winter season it was once more performed

for the author's benefit, Oct. 2. R.]

[Footnote 65: To Herbert Tryst, esq. of Herefoulshire. Dr. J.]

[Footnote 66: The Plain Dealer was a periodical paper, written by Mr.

Hill and Mr. Bond, whom Savage called the two contending powers of light

and darkness. They wrote, by turns, each six essays; and the character

of the work was observed regularly to rise in Mr. Hill's weeks, and fall

in Mr. Bond's. Dr. J.]

[Footnote 66: The Plain Dealer was a periodical paper, written by Mr.

Hill and Mr. Bond, whom Savage called the two contending powers of light

and darkness. They wrote, by turns, each six essays; and the character

of the work was observed regularly to rise in Mr. Hill's weeks, and fall

in Mr. Bond's. Dr. J.

[Footnote 67: The names of those who so generously contributed to his

relief having been mentioned in a former account, ought not to be

omitted here. They were the dutchess of Cleveland, lady Cheyney, lady

Castlemain, lady Gower, lady Lechmere, the dutchess dowager and dutchess

of Rutland, lady Strafford, the countess dowager of Warwick, Mrs. Mary

Floyer, Mrs. Sofuel Noel, duke of Rutland, lord Gainsborough, lord

Milsington, Mr. John Savage. Dr. J.]

[Footnote 68: This the following extract from it will prove:--"Since our

country has been honoured with the glory of your wit, as elevated and

immortal as your soul, it no longer remains a doubt whether your sex

have strength of mind in proportion to their sweetness. There is

something in your verses as distinguished as your air. They are as

strong as truth, as deep as reason, as clear as innocence, and as smooth

as beauty. They contain a nameless and peculiar mixture of force and

grace, which is at once so movingly serene, and so majestically lovely,

that it is too amiable to appear any where but in your eyes and in your

writings."

"As fortune is not more my enemy than I am the enemy of flattery, I know

not how I can forbear this application to your ladyship, because there

is scarce a possibility that I should say more than I believe, when I am

speaking of your excellence." Dr. J.]

[Footnote 69: Mr. Savage's life.]

[Footnote 70: She died October 11, 1753, at her house in Old Bond

street, aged above fourscore. R.]

[Footnote 71: It appears that during his confinement he wrote a letter

to his mother, which he sent to Theophilus Cibber, that it might be

transmitted to her through the means of Mr. Wilks. In his letter to

Cibber he says: "As to death, I am easy, and dare meet it like a

man--all that touches me is the concern of my friends, and a

reconcilement with my mother. I cannot express the agony I felt when I

wrote the letter to her: if you can find any decent excuse for showing

it to Mrs. Oldfield, do; for I would have all my friends (and that

admirable lady in particular) be satisfied I have done my duty towards

it. Dr. Young to-day sent me a letter most passionately kind." R.]

[Footnote 72: Written by Mr. Beckingham and another gentleman. Dr. J.]

[Footnote 73: Printed in the late collection.]

[Footnote 74: In one of his letters he styles it "a fatal quarrel, but

too well known." Dr. J.]

[Footnote 75: Printed in his works, vol. ii. p. 231.]

[Footnote 76: See his works, vol. ii. p. 233.]

[Footnote 77: This epigram was, I believe, never published:

"Should Dennis publish you had stabb'd your brother,

Lampoon'd your monarch, or debauch'd your mother;

Say, what revenge on Dennis can be had,

Too dull for laughter, for reply too mad?

On one so poor you cannot take the law,

On one so old your sword you scorn to draw,

Uncag'd then, let the harmless monster rage,

Secure in dullness, madness, want, and age."