Swift, Mr. Parnel, Dr. Delany, Mr. Brown, Mr. Ward, and Mr. Stirling. In
this collection there is a poem by Mr. Concanen, called A Match at
Football, in three Cantos; written, 'tis said, in imitation of The Rape
of the Lock. This performance is far from being despicable; the
verification is generally smooth; the design is not ill conceived, and
the characters not unnatural. It perhaps would be read with more
applause, if The Rape of the Lock did not occur to the mind, and, by
forcing a comparison, destroy all the satisfaction in perusing it; as
the disproportion is so very considerable. We shall quote a few lines
from the beginning of the third canto, by which it will appear that
Concanen was not a bad rhimer.
In days of yore a lovely country maid
Rang'd o'er these lands, and thro' these forests stray'd;
Modest her pleasures, matchless was her frame,
Peerless her face, and Sally was her name.
By no frail vows her young desires were bound,
No shepherd yet the way to please her found.
Thoughtless of love the beauteous nymph appear'd,
Nor hop'd its transports, nor its torments fear'd.
But careful fed her flocks, and grac'd the plain,
She lack'd no pleasure, and she felt no pain.
She view'd our motions when we toss'd the ball,
And smil'd to see us take, or ward, a fall;
'Till once our leader chanc'd the nymph to spy,
And drank in poison from her lovely eye.
Now pensive grown, he shunn'd the long-lov'd plains,
His darling pleasures, and his favour'd swains,
Sigh'd in her absence, sigh'd when she was near,
Now big with hope, and now dismay'd with fear;
At length with falt'ring tongue he press'd the dame,
For some returns to his unpity'd flame;
But she disdain'd his suit, despis'd his care,
His form unhandsome, and his bristled hair;
Forward she sprung, and with an eager pace
The god pursu'd, nor fainted in the race;
Swift as the frighted hind the virgin flies,
When the woods ecchoe to the hunters cries:
Swift as the fleetest hound her flight she trac'd,
When o'er the lawns the frighted hind is chac'd;
The winds which sported with her flowing vest
Display'd new charms, and heightened all the rest:
Those charms display'd, increas'd the gods desire,
What cool'd her bosom, set his breast on fire:
With equal speed, for diff'rent ends they move,
Fear lent the virgin wings, the shepherd love:
Panting at length, thus in her fright she pray'd,
Be quick ye pow'rs, and save a wretched maid.
[Protect] my honour, shelter me from shame,
[Beauty] and life with pleasure I disclaim.
[Transcriber's note: print unclear for words in square brackets,
therefore words are assumed.]
Mr. Concanen was also concerned with the late Mr. Roome [Transcriber's
note: print unclear, "m" assumed], and a certain eminent senator, in
making The Jovial Crew, an old Comedy, into a Ballad Opera; which was
performed about the year 1730; and the profits were given entirely to
Mr. Concanen. Soon after he was preferred to be attorney-general in
Jamaica, a post of considerable eminence, and attended with a very large
income. In this island he spent the remaining part of his days, and, we
are informed made a tolerable accession of fortune, by marrying a
planter's daughter, who surviving him was left in the possession of
several hundred pounds a year. She came over to England after his death,
and married the honourable Mr. Hamilton.
* * * * *
RICHARD SAVAGE, Esq;
This unhappy gentleman, who led a course of life imbittered with the
most severe calamities, was not yet destitute of a friend to close his
eyes. It has been remarked of Cowley, who likewise experienced many of
the vicissitudes of fortune, that he was happy in the acquaintance of
the bishop of Rochester, who performed the last offices which can be
paid to a poet, in the elegant Memorial he made of his Life. Though Mr.
Savage was as much inferior to Cowley in genius, as in the rectitude of
his life, yet, in some respect, he bears a resemblance to that great
man. None of the poets have been more honoured in the commemoration of
their history, than this gentleman. The life of Mr. Savage was written
some years after his death by a gentleman, who knew him intimately,
capable to distinguish between his follies, and those good qualities
which were often concealed from the bulk of mankind by the abjectness of
his condition. From this account[1] we have compiled that which we now
present to the reader.
In the year 1697 Anne countess of Macclesfield, having lived for some
time on very uneasy terms with her husband, thought a public confession
of adultery the most expeditious method of obtaining her liberty, and
therefore declared the child with which she then was big was begotten by
the earl of Rivers. This circumstance soon produced a separation, which,
while the earl of Macclesfield was prosecuting, the countess, on the
10th of January 1697-8, was delivered of our author; and the earl of
Rivers, by appearing to consider him as his own, left no room to doubt
of her declaration. However strange it may appear, the countess looked
upon her son, from his birth, with a kind of resentment and abhorrence.
No sooner was her son born, than she discovered a resolution of
disowning him, in a short time removed him from her sight, and committed
him to the care of a poor woman, whom she directed to educate him as her
own, and enjoined her never to inform him of his true parents. Instead
of defending his tender years, she took delight to see him struggling
with misery, and continued her persecution, from the first hour of his
life to the last, with an implacable and restless cruelty. His mother,
indeed, could not affect others with the same barbarity, and though she,
whose tender sollicitudes should have supported him, had launched him
into the ocean of life, yet was he not wholly abandoned. The lady Mason,
mother to the countess, undertook to transact with the nurse, and
superintend the education of the child. She placed him at a grammar
school near St. Albans, where he was called by the name of his nurse,
without the least intimation that he had a claim to any other. While he
was at this school, his father, the earl of Rivers, was seized with a
distemper which in a short time put an end to his life. While the earl
lay on his death-bed, he thought it his duty to provide for him, amongst
his other natural children, and therefore demanded a positive account of
him. His mother, who could no longer refuse an answer, determined, at
least, to give such, as should deprive him for ever of that happiness
which competency affords, and declared him dead; which is, perhaps, the
first instance of a falshood invented by a mother, to deprive her son of
a provision which was designed him by another. The earl did not imagine
that there could exist in nature, a mother that would ruin her son,
without enriching herself, and therefore bestowed upon another son six
thousand pounds, which he had before in his will bequeathed to Savage.
The same cruelty which incited her to intercept this provision intended
him, suggested another project, worthy of such a disposition. She
endeavoured to rid herself from the danger of being at any time made
known to him, by sending him secretly to the American Plantations; but
in this contrivance her malice was defeated.
Being still restless in the persecution of her son, she formed another
scheme of burying him in poverty and obscurity; and that the state of
his life, if not the place of his residence, might keep him for ever at
a distance from her, she ordered him to be placed with a Shoemaker in
Holbourn, that after the usual time of trial he might become his
apprentice. It is generally reported, that this project was, for some
time, successful, and that Savage was employed at the awl longer than he
was willing to confess; but an unexpected discovery determined him to
quit his occupation.
About this time his nurse, who had always treated him as her own son,
died; and it was natural for him to take care of those effects, which by
her death were, as he imagined, become his own. He therefore went to her
house, opened her boxes, examined her papers, and found some letters
written to her by the lady Mason, which informed him of his birth, and
the reasons for which it was concealed.
He was now no longer satisfied with the employment which had been
allotted him, but thought he had a right to share the affluence of his
mother, and therefore, without scruple, applied to her as her son, and
made use of every art to awake her tenderness, and attract her regard.
It was to no purpose that he frequently sollicited her to admit him to
see her, she avoided him with the utmost precaution, and ordered him to
be excluded from her house, by whomsoever he might be introduced, and
what reason soever he might give for entering it.
Savage was at this time so touched with the discovery of his real
mother, that it was his frequent practice to walk in the dark evenings
for several hours before her door, in hopes of seeing her by accident.
But all his assiduity was without effect, for he could neither soften
her heart, nor open her hand, and while he was endeavouring to rouse the
affections of a mother, he was reduced to the miseries of want. In this
situation he was obliged to find other means of support, and became by
necessity an author.
His first attempt in that province was, a poem against the bishop of
Bangor, whose controversy, at that time, engaged the attention of the
nation, and furnished the curious with a topic of dispute. Of this
performance Mr. Savage was afterwards ashamed, as it was the crude
effort of a yet uncultivated genius. He then attempted another kind of
writing, and, while but yet eighteen, offered a comedy to the stage,
built upon a Spanish plot; which was refused by the players. Upon this
he gave it to Mr. Bullock, who, at that time rented the Theatre in
Lincoln's-Inn-Fields of Mr. Rich, and with messieurs Keene, Pack, and
others undertook the direction thereof. Mr. Bullock made some slight
alterations, and brought it upon the stage, under the title of Woman's a
Riddle, but allowed the real author no part of the profit. This
occasioned a quarrel between Savage and Bullock; but it ended without
bloodshed, though not without high words: Bullock insisted he had a
translation of the Spanish play, from whence the plot was taken, given
him by the same lady who had bestowed it on Savage.--Which was not
improbable, as that whimsical lady had given a copy to several others.
Not discouraged, however, at this repulse, he wrote, two years after,
Love in a Veil, another Comedy borrowed likewise from the Spanish, but
with little better success than before; for though it was received and
acted, yet it appeared so late in the year, that Savage obtained no
other advantage from it, than the acquaintance of Sir Richard Steele,
and Mr. Wilks, by whom, says the author of his Life, he was pitied,
caressed, and relieved. Sir Richard Steele declared in his favour, with
that genuine benevolence which constituted his character, promoted his
interest with the utmost zeal, and taking all opportunities of
recommending him; he asserted, 'that the inhumanity of his mother had
given him a right to find every good man his father.' Nor was Mr. Savage
admitted into his acquaintance only, but to his confidence and esteem.
Sir Richard intended to have established him in some settled scheme of
life, and to have contracted a kind of alliance with him, by marrying
him to a natural daughter, on whom he intended to bestow a thousand
pounds. But Sir Richard conducted his affairs with so little oeconomy,
that he was seldom able to raise the sum, which he had offered, and the
marriage was consequently delayed. In the mean time he was officiously
informed that Mr. Savage had ridiculed him; by which he was so much
exasperated that he withdrew the allowance he had paid him, and never
afterwards admitted him to his house.
He was now again abandoned to fortune, without any other friend but Mr.
Wilks, a man to whom calamity seldom complained without relief. He
naturally took an unfortunate wit into his protection, and not only
assisted him in any casual distresses, but continued an equal and steady
kindness to the time of his death. By Mr. Wilks's interposition Mr.
Savage once obtained of his mother fifty pounds, and a promise of one
hundred and fifty more, but it was the fate of this unhappy man, that
few promises of any advantage to him were ever performed.
Being thus obliged to depend [Transcriber's note: 'depended' in
original] upon Mr. Wilks, he was an assiduous frequenter of the
theatres, and, in a short time, the amusements of the stage took such a
possession of his mind, that he was never absent from a play in several
years.
In the year 1723 Mr. Savage brought another piece on the stage. He made
choice of the subject of Sir Thomas Overbury: If the circumstances in
which he wrote it be considered, it will afford at once an uncommon
proof of strength of genius, and an evenness of mind not to be ruffled.
During a considerable part of the time in which he was employed upon
this performance, he was without lodging, and often without food; nor
had he any other conveniencies for study than the fields, or the street;
in which he used to walk, and form his speeches, and afterwards step
into a shop, beg for a few moments the use of pen and ink, and write
down what he had composed, upon paper which he had picked up by
accident.
Mr. Savage had been for some time distinguished by Aaron Hill, Esq; with
very particular kindness; and on this occasion it was natural to apply
to him, as an author of established reputation. He therefore sent this
Tragedy to him, with a few verses, in which he desired his correction.
Mr. Hill who was a man of unbounded humanity, and most accomplished
politeness, readily complied with his request; and wrote the prologue
and epilogue, in which he touches the circumstances [Transcriber's note:
'cirumstances' in original] of the author with great tenderness.
Mr. Savage at last brought his play upon the stage, but not till the
chief actors had quitted it, and it was represented by what was then
called the summer-company. In this Tragedy Mr. Savage himself performed
the part of Sir Thomas Overbury, with so little success, that he always
blotted out his name from the list of players, when a copy of his
Tragedy was to be shewn to any of his friends. This play however
procured him the notice and esteem of many persons of distinction, for
some rays of genius glimmered thro' all the mists which poverty and
oppression had spread over it. The whole profits of this performance,
acted, printed, and dedicated, amounted to about 200 l. But the
generosity of Mr. Hill did not end here; he promoted the subscription to
his Miscellanies, by a very pathetic representation of the author's
sufferings, printed in the Plain-Dealer, a periodical paper written by
Mr. Hill. This generous effort in his favour soon produced him
seventy-guineas, which were left for him at Button's, by some who
commiserated his misfortunes.
Mr. Hill not only promoted the subscription to the Miscellany, but
furnished likewise the greatest part of the poems of which it is
composed, and particularly the Happy Man, which he published as a
specimen. To this Miscellany he wrote a preface, in which he gives an
account of his mother's cruelty, in a very uncommon strain of humour,
which the success of his subscriptions probably inspired.
Savage was now advancing in reputation, and though frequently involved
in very perplexing necessities, appeared however to be gaining on
mankind; when both his fame and his life were endangered, by an event of
which it is not yet determined, whether it ought to be mentioned as a
crime or a calamity. As this is by far the most interesting circumstance
in the life of this unfortunate man, we shall relate the particulars
minutely.
On the 20th of November 1727 Mr. Savage came from Richmond, where he had
retired, that he might pursue his studies with less interruption, with
an intent to discharge a lodging which he had in Westminster; and
accidentally meeting two gentlemen of his acquaintance, whose names were
Marchant and Gregory, he went in with them to a neighbouring
Coffee-House, and sat drinking till it was late. He would willingly have
gone to bed in the same house, but there was not room for the whole
company, and therefore they agreed to ramble about the streets, and
divert themselves with such amusements as should occur till morning. In
their walk they happened unluckily to discover light in Robinson's
Coffee-House, near Charing-Cross, and went in. Marchant with some
rudeness demanded a room, and was told that there was a good fire in the
next parlour, which the company were about to leave, being then paying
their reckoning. Marchant not satisfied with this answer, rushed into
the room, and was followed by his companions. He then petulantly placed
himself between the company and the fire; and soon afterwards kicked
down the table. This produced a quarrel, swords were drawn on both
sides; and one Mr. James Sinclair was killed. Savage having wounded
likewise a maid that held him, forced his way with Gregory out of the
house; but being intimidated, and confus'd, without resolution, whether
to fly, or stay, they were taken in a back court by one of the company,
and some soldiers, whom he had called to his assistance.
When the day of the trial came on, the court was crowded in a very
unusual manner, and the public appeared to interest itself as in a cause
of general concern. The witnesses against Mr. Savage and his friends,
were the woman who kept the house, which was a house of ill-fame, and
her maid, the men who were in the room with Mr. Sinclair, and a woman of
the town, who had been drinking with them, and with whom one of them had
been seen in bed.
They swore in general, that Marchant gave the provocation, which Savage
and Gregory drew their swords to justify; that Savage drew first, that
he stabb'd Sinclair, when he was not in a posture of defence, or while
Gregory commanded his sword; that after he had given the thrust he
turned pale, and would have retired, but that the maid clung round him,
and one of the company endeavoured to detain him, from whom he broke, by
cutting the maid on the head.
Sinclair had declared several times before his death, for he survived
that night, that he received his wound from Savage; nor did Savage at
his trial deny the fact, but endeavoured partly to extenuate it, by
urging the suddenness of the whole action, and the impossibility of any
ill design, or premeditated malice, and partly to justify it by the
necessity of self-defence, and the hazard of his own life, if he had
lost that opportunity of giving the thrust. He observed that neither
reason nor law obliged a man to wait for the blow which was threatened,
and which if he should suffer, he might never be able to return; that it
was always allowable to prevent an assault, and to preserve life, by
taking away that of the adversary, by whom it was endangered.
With regard to the violence with which he endeavoured his escape, he
declared it was not his design to fly from justice, or decline a trial,
but to avoid the expences and severities of a prison, and that he
intended to appear at the bar, without compulsion. This defence which
took up more than an hour, was heard by the multitude that thronged the
court, with the most attentive and respectful silence. Those who thought
he ought not to be acquitted, owned that applause could not be refused
him; and those who before pitied his misfortunes, now reverenced his
abilities.
The witnesses who appeared against him were proved to be persons of such
characters as did not entitle them to much credit; a common strumpet, a
woman by whom such wretches were entertained, and a man by whom they
were supported. The character of Savage was by several persons of
distinction asserted to be that of a modest inoffensive man, not
inclined to broils, or to insolence, and who had to that time been only
known by his misfortunes and his wit.
Had his audience been his judges, he had undoubtedly been acquitted; but
Mr. Page, who was then upon the bench, treated him with the most brutal
severity, and in summing up the evidence endeavoured to exasperate the
jury against him, and misrepresent his defence. This was a provocation,
and an insult, which the prisoner could not bear, and therefore Mr.
Savage resolutely asserted, that his cause was not candidly explained,
and began to recapitulate what he had before said; but the judge having
ordered him to be silent, which Savage treated with contempt, he
commanded that he should be taken by force from the bar. The jury then
heard the opinion of the judge, that good characters were of no weight
against positive evidence, though they might turn the scale, where it
was doubtful; and that though two men attack each other, the death of
either is only manslaughter; but where one is the aggressor, as in the
case before them, and in pursuance of his first attack kills the other,
the law supposes the action, however sudden, to be malicious. The jury
determined, that Mr. Savage and Mr. Gregory were guilty of murder, and
Mr. Marchant who had no sword, only manslaughter.
Mr. Savage and Mr. Gregory were conducted back to prison, where they
were more closely confined, and loaded with irons of fifty pound weight.
Savage had now no hopes of life but from the king's mercy, and can it be
believed, that mercy his own mother endeavoured to intercept.
When Savage (as we have already observed) was first made acquainted with
the story of his birth, he was so touched with tenderness for his
mother, that he earnestly sought an opportunity to see her.
To prejudice the queen against him, she made use of an incident, which
was omitted in the order of time, that it might be mentioned together
with the purpose it was made to serve.
One evening while he was walking, as was his custom, in the street she
inhabited, he saw the door of her house by accident open; he entered it,
and finding no persons in the passage to prevent him, went up stairs to
salute her. She discovered him before he could enter her chamber,
alarmed the family with the most distressful out-cries, and when she had
by her screams gathered them about her, ordered them to drive out of the
house that villain, who had forced himself in upon her, and endeavoured
to murder her.
This abominable falsehood his mother represented to the queen, or
communicated it to some who were base enough to relate it, and so
strongly prepossessed her majesty against this unhappy man, that for a
long while she rejected all petitions that were offered in his favour.
Thus had Savage perished by the evidence of a bawd, of a strumpet, and
of his mother; had not justice and compassion procured him an advocate,
of a rank too great to be rejected unheard, and of virtue too eminent to
be heard without being believed. The story of his sufferings reached the
ear of the countess of Hertford, who engaged in his support with the
tenderness and humanity peculiar to that amiable lady. She demanded an
audience of the queen, and laid before her the whole series of his
mother's cruelty, exposed the improbability of her accusation of murder,
and pointed out all the circumstances of her unequall'd barbarity.
The interposition of this lady was so successful, that he was soon after
admitted to bail, and on the 9th of March 1728, pleaded the king's
pardon.[2]
Mr. Savage during his imprisonment, his trial, and the time in which he
lay under sentence of death, behaved with great fortitude, and confirmed
by his unshaken equality of mind, the esteem of those who before admired
him for his abilities. Upon weighing all the circumstances relating to
this unfortunate event, it plainly appears that the greatest guilt could
not be imputed to Savage. His killing Sinclair, was rather rash than
totally dishonourable, for though Marchant had been the aggressor, who
would not procure his friend from being over-powered by numbers?
Some time after he had obtained his liberty, he met in the street the
woman of the town that had swore against him: She informed him that she
was in distress, and with unparalleled assurance desired him to relieve
her. He, instead of insulting her misery, and taking pleasure in the
calamity of one who had brought his life into danger, reproved her
gently for her perjury, and changing the only guinea he had, divided it
equally between her and himself.