No More Learning

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.