which did not amount to fifty pounds a year, though twenty were paid by
one gentleman. He was, however, 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 oeconomist.
Full of these salutary resolutions, he quitted London in 1739. He was
furnished with fifteen guineas, and was told, that they would be
sufficient, not only for the expence of his journey, but for his support
in Wales for some time; and that there remained but little more of the
first collection. He promised a strict adherence to his maxims of
parsimony, and went away in the stage coach; nor did his friends expect
to hear from him, 'till he informed them of his arrival at Swansea. But,
when they least expected, arrived a letter dated the 14th day after his
departure, in which he sent them word, that he was yet upon the road,
and without money, and that he therefore could not proceed without a
remittance. They then sent him the money that was in their hands, with
which he was enabled to reach Bristol, from whence he was to go to
Swansea by water. At Bristol he found an embargo laid upon the shipping,
so that he could not immediately obtain a passage, and being therefore
obliged to stay there some time, he, with his usual felicity,
ingratiated himself with many of the principal inhabitants, was invited
to their houses, distinguished at their public feasts, and treated with
a regard that gratified his vanity, and therefore easily engaged his
affection.
After some stay at Bristol, he retired to Swansea, the place originally
proposed for his residence, where he lived about a year very much
disatisfied with the diminution of his salary, for the greatest part of
the contributors, irritated by Mr. Savage's letters, which they imagined
treated them contemptuously, withdrew their subscriptions. At this
place, as in every other, he contracted an acquaintance with those who
were most distinguished in that country, among whom, he has celebrated
Mr. Powel, and Mrs. Jones, by some verses inserted in the Gentleman's
Magazine. Here he compleated his tragedy, of which two acts were wanting
when he left London, and was desirous of coming to town to bring it on
the stage. This design was very warmly opposed, and he was advised by
his chief benefactor, who was no other than Mr. Pope, to put it in the
hands of Mr. Thomson and Mr. Mallet, that it might be fitted for the
stage, and to allow his friends to receive the profits, out of which an
annual pension should be paid him. This proposal he rejected with the
utmost contempt. He was by no means convinced that the judgment of those
to whom he was required to submit, was superior to his own. He was now
determined, as he expressed, 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 soon after this quitted Swansea,
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 he never considered 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.
Another part of his misconduct was, the practice of prolonging his
visits to unseasonable hours, and disconcerting all the families into
which he was admitted. This was an error in a place of commerce, which
all the charms of conversion could not compensate; for what trader would
purchase such airy satisfaction, with 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? Distress at last
stole upon him by imperceptible degrees; his conduct had already wearied
some of those who were at first enamoured of his conversation; but he
still might have devolved to others, whom he might have entertained with
equal success, had not the decay of his cloaths made it no longer
consistent with decency to admit him to their tables, or to associate
with him in public places. He now began to find every man from home, at
whose house he called; and was therefore no longer able to procure the
necessaries of life, but wandered about the town, slighted and
neglected, in quest of a dinner, which, he did not always obtain. To
compleat his misery, he was 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 waited 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.
He continued to bear these severe pressures, 'till the landlady of a
coffee-house, to whom he owed about eight pounds, compleated his
wretchedness. He was arrested by order of this woman, and conducted to
the house of a Sheriff's Officer, where he remained some time at a great
expence, in hopes of finding bail. This expence he was enabled to
support by a present from Mr. Nash of Bath, who, upon hearing of his
late mis-fortune, sent him five guineas. No friends would contribute to
release him from prison at the expence of eight pounds, and therefore he
was removed to Newgate. He bore this misfortune with an unshaken
fortitude, and indeed the treatment he met with from Mr. Dagg, the
keeper of the prison, greatly softened the rigours of his confinement.
He was supported by him at his own table, without any certainty of
recompence; had a room to himself, to which he could at any time retire
from all disturbance; was allowed to stand at the door of the prison,
and sometimes taken out into the fields; so that he suffered fewer
hardships in the prison, than he had been accustomed to undergo the
greatest part of his life. Virtue is undoubtedly most laudable in that
state which makes it most difficult; and therefore the humanity of the
gaoler certainly deserves this public attestation.
While Mr. Savage was in prison, he began, and almost finished a satire,
which he entitled London and Bristol Delineated; in order to be revenged
of those who had had no more generosity for a man, to whom they
professed friendship, than to suffer him to languish in a gaol for eight
pounds. He had now ceased from corresponding with any of his
subscribers, except Mr. Pope, who yet continued to remit him twenty
pounds a year, which he had promised, and by whom he expected to be in a
very short time enlarged; because he had directed the keeper to enquire
after the state of his debts.
However he took care to enter his name according to the forms of the
court, that the creditors 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 expence. This he treated as an
empty menace, and had he not been prevented by death, he would have
hastened the publication of the satire, only to shew how much he was
superior to their insults.
When he had been six months in prison, he received from Mr. Pope, 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. 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 the keeper saw him was on July 31, when Savage, seeing him at his
bed-side, said, with 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 expence of
the keeper.
Such were the life and death of this unfortunate poet; 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 a 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 judgment
was eminently exact, both with regard to writings and to men. The
knowledge of life was his chief attainment. He was born rather to bear
misfortunes greatly, than to enjoy prosperity with moderation. He
discovered an amazing firmness of spirit, in spurning those who presumed
to dictate to him in the lowest circumstances of misery; but we never
can reconcile the idea of true greatness of mind, with the perpetual
inclination Savage discovered to live upon the bounty of his friends. To
struggle for independence appears much more laudable, as well as a
higher instance of spirit, than to be the pensioner of another.
As Savage had seen so much of the world, and was capable of so deep a
penetration into nature, it was strange he could not form some scheme of
a livelihood, more honourable than that of a poetical mendicant: his
prosecuting any plan of life with diligence, would have thrown more
lustre on his character, than, all his works, and have raised our ideas
of the greatness of his spirit, much, beyond the conduct we have already
seen. If poverty is so great an evil as to expose a man to commit
actions, at which he afterwards blushes, to avoid this poverty should be
the continual care of every man; and he, who lets slip every opportunity
of doing so, is more entitled to admiration than pity, should he bear
his sufferings nobly.
Mr. Savage's temper, in consequence of the dominion of his passions, was
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 he was
zealous in the support, or vindication of those whom he loved, yet it
was always dangerous to trust him, because he considered himself as
discharged by the first quarrel, from all ties of honour and gratitude.
He would even betray those secrets, which, in the warmth of confidence,
had been imparted to him. His veracity was often questioned, and not
without reason. 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, but his partiality might have sometimes the effect of
falshood.
In the words of the celebrated writer of his life, from whom, as we
observed in the beginning, we have extracted the account here given, we
shall conclude this unfortunate person's Memoirs, which were so various
as to afford large scope for an able biographer, and which, by this
gentleman, have been represented with so great a mastery, and force of
penetration, that the Life of Savage, as written by him, is an excellent
model for this species of writing.
'This relation (says he) will not be wholly without its use, if those,
who languish under any part of his sufferings, should 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
those, who in confidence of superior capacities, or attainments,
disregard the common maxims of life, shall be reminded that nothing can
supply the want of prudence, and that negligence and irregularity long
continued, will make knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and genius
contemptible.'
FOOTNOTES:
[1] However slightly the author of Savage's life passes over the less
amiable characteristics of that unhappy man; yet we cannot but
discover therein, that vanity and ingratitude were the principal
ingredients in poor Savage's composition; nor was his veracity
greatly to be depended on. No wonder therefore, if the good-natur'd
writer suffer'd his better understanding to be misled, in some
accounts relative to the poet we are now speaking of.--Among many,
we shall at present only take notice of the following, which makes
too conspicuous a figure to pass by entirely unnoticed.
In this life of Savage 'tis related, that Mrs. Oldfield was very
fond of Mr. Savage's conversation, and allowed him an annuity,
during her life, of 50 l.--These facts are equally ill-grounded:--
There was no foundation for them. That Savage's misfortunes pleaded
for pity, and had the desired effect on Mrs. Oldfield's compassion,
is certain:--But she so much disliked the man, and disapproved his
conduct, that she never admitted him to her conversation, nor
suffer'd him to enter her house. She, indeed, often relieved him
with such donations, as spoke her generous disposicion.--But this
was on the sollicitation of friends, who frequently set his
calamities before her in the most piteous light; and from a
principle of humanity, she became not a little instrumental in
saving his life.
[2] Lord Tyrconnel delivered a petition to his majesty in Savage's
behalf: And Mrs. Oldfield sollicited Sir Robert Walpole on his
account. This joint-interest procured him his pardon.
* * * * *
Dr. THOMAS SHERIDAN.
was born in the county of Cavan, where his father kept a public house. A
gentleman, who had a regard for his father, and who observed the son
gave early indications of genius above the common standard, sent him to
the college of Dublin, and contributed towards the finishing his
education there. Our poet received very great encouragement upon his
setting out in life, and was esteemed a fortunate man. The agreeable
humour, and the unreserved pleasantry of his temper, introduced him to
the acquaintance, and established him in the esteem, of the wits of that
age. He set up a school in Dublin, which, at one time, was so
considerable as to produce an income of a thousand pounds a year, and
possessed besides some good livings, and bishops leases, which are
extremely lucrative.
Mr. Sheridan married the daughter of Mr. Macpherson, a Scots gentleman,
who served in the wars under King William, and, during the troubles of
Ireland, became possessed of a small estate of about 40 l. per annum,
called Quilca. This little fortune devolved on Mrs. Sheridan, which
enabled her husband to set up a school. Dr. Sheridan, amongst his
virtues, could not number oeconomy; on the contrary, he was remarkable
for profusion and extravagance, which exposed him to such
inconveniences, that he was obliged to mortgage all he had. His school
daily declined, and by an act of indiscretion, he was stript of the best
living he then enjoyed. On the birth-day of his late Majesty, the Dr.
having occasion to preach, chose for his text the following words,
Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.
This procured him the name of a Jacobite, or a disaffected person, a
circumstance sufficient to ruin him in his ecclesiastical capacity. His
friends, who were disposed to think favourably of him, were for softning
the epithet of Jacobite into Tory, imputing his choice of that text,
rather to whim and humour, than any settled prejudice against his
Majesty, or the government; but this unseasonable pleasantry was not so
easily passed over, and the Dr. had frequent occasion to repent the
choice of his text.
Unhappy Sheridan! he lived to want both money and friends. He spent his
money and time merrily among the gay and the great, and was an example,
that there are too many who can relish a man's humour, who have not so
quick a sense of his misfortunes. The following story should not have
been told, were it not true.
In the midst of his misfortunes, when the demands of his creditors
obliged him to retirement, he went to dean Swift, and sollicited a
lodging for a few days, 'till by a proper composition he might be
restored to his freedom. The dean retired early to rest. The Dr.
fatigued, but not inclinable to go so soon to bed, sent the servant to
the dean, desiring the key of the cellar, that he might have a bottle of
wine. The dean, in one of his odd humours, returned for answer, he
promised to find him a lodging, but not in wine; and refused to send the
key. The Dr. being thunderstruck at this unexpected incivility, the
tears burst from his eyes; he quitted the house, and we believe never
after repeated the visit.
Dr. Sheridan died in the year 1738, in the 55th year of his age. The
following epitaph for him was handed about.
Beneath this marble stone here lies
Poor Tom, more merry much than wise;
Who only liv'd for two great ends,
To spend his cash, and lose his friends:
His darling wife of him bereft,
Is only griev'd--there's nothing left.
When the account of his death was inserted in the papers, it was done in
the following particular terms;
'September 10, died the revd. Dr. Thomas Sheridan of Dublin. He was a
great linguist, a most sincere friend, a delightful companion, and the
best Schoolmaster in Europe: He took the greatest care of the morals
of the young gentlemen, who had the happiness of being bred up under
him; and it was remarked, that none of his scholars ever was an
Atheist, or a Free-Thinker.'
We cannot more successfully convey to the reader a true idea of Dr.
Sheridan, than by the two following quotations from Lord Orrery in his
life of Swift, in which he occasionally mentions Swift's friend.
'Swift was naturally fond of seeing his works in print, and he was
encouraged in this fondness by his friend Dr. Sheridan, who had the
Cacoethea Scribendi, to the greatest degree, and was continually
letting off squibs, rockets, and all sorts of little fire-works from
the press; by which means he offended many particular persons, who,
although they stood in awe of Swift, held Sheridan at defiance. The
truth is, the poor doctor by nature the most peacable, inoffensive man
alive, was in a continual state of warfare with the Minor Poets, and
they revenged themselves; or, in the style of Mr. Bays, often gave him
flash for flash, and singed his feathers. The affection between
Theseus and Perithous was not greater than the affection between Swift
and Sheridan: But the friendship that cemented the two ancient heroes
probably commenced upon motives very different from those which united
the two modern divines.'
'Dr. Sheridan was a school-master, and in many instances, perfectly
well adapted for that station. He was deeply vers'd in the Greek and
Roman languages; and in their customs and antiquities. He had that
kind of good nature, which absence of mind, indolence of body, and
carelessness of fortune produce: And although not over-strict in his
own conduct, yet he took care of the morality of his scholars, whom he
sent to the university, remarkably well founded in all kind of
classical learning, and not ill instructed in the social duties of
life. He was slovenly, indigent, and chearful. He knew books much
better than men; And he knew the value of money least of all. In this
situation, and with this disposition, Swift fattened upon him as upon
a prey, with which he intended to regale himself, whenever his
appetite should prompt him. Sheridan was therefore certainly within
his reach; and the only time he was permitted to go beyond the limits
of his chain, was to take possession of a living in the county of
Corke, which had been bestowed upon him, by the then lord lieutenant
of Ireland, the present earl of Granville. Sheridan, in one fatal
moment, or by one fatal text, effected his own ruin. You will find the
story told by Swift himself, in the fourth volume of his works [page
289. in a pamphlet intitled a Vindication of his Excellency John Lord
Carteret, from the charge of favouring none but Tories,
High-Churchmen, and Jacobites.] So that here I need only tell you,
that this ill-starred, good-natur'd, improvident man returned to
Dublin, unhinged from all favour at court, and even banished from the
Castle: But still he remained a punster, a quibbler, a fiddler, and a
wit. Not a day passed without a rebus, an anagram, or a madrigal. His
pen and his fiddle-stick were in continual motion; and yet to little
or no purpose, if we may give credit to the following verses, which
shall serve as the conclusion of his poetical character.'
With music and poetry equally bless'd[1],
A bard thus Apollo most humbly address'd,
Great author of poetry, music, and light,
Instructed by thee, I both fiddle and write:
Yet unheeded I scrape, or I scribble all day,
My tunes are neglected, my verse flung away.
Thy substantive here, Vice Apollo [2] disdains,
To vouch for my numbers, or list to my strains.
Thy manual sign he refuses to put
To the airs I produce from the pen, or the gut:
Be thou then propitious, great Phoebus, and grant
Belief, or reward to my merit, or want,
Tho' the Dean and Delany [3] transcendently shine,
O! brighten one solo, or sonnet of mine,
Make one work immortal, 'tis all I request;
Apollo look'd pleas'd, and resolving to jest,
Replied--Honest friend, I've consider'd your case.
Nor dislike your unmeaning and innocent face.
Your petition I grant, the boon is not great,
Your works shall continue, and here's the receipt;
On Roundo's[4] hereafter, your fiddle-strings spend.
Write verses in circles, they never shall end.
Dr. Sheridan gained some reputation by his Prose-translation of Persius;
to which he added a Collection of the best Notes of the Editors of this
intricate Satyrist, who are in the best esteem; together with many
judicious Notes of his own. This work was printed in 12mo. for A.
Millar, 1739.
One of the volumes of Swift's Miscellanies consists almost entirely of
Letters between the Dean and the Dr.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Not a first rate genius, or extraordinary proficient, in either.
[2] Dr. Swift.
[3] Now Dean of Downe.
[4] A Song, or peculiar kind of Poetry, which returns to the beginning
of the first verse, and continues in a perpetual rotation.
* * * * *
The Revd. Dr. JONATHAN SWIFT.