No More Learning

While he was thus spending the day in contriving a scheme for the
morrow, distress stole upon him by imperceptible degrees. His conduct
had already wearied some of those, who were at first enamoured of his
conversation; but he might, perhaps, still have devolved to others, whom
he might have entertained with equal success, had not the decay of his
clothes made it no longer consistent with their vanity to admit him to
their tables, or to associate with him in publick places. He now began
to find every man from home at whose house he called; and was,
therefore, no longer able to procure the necessaries of life, but
wandered about the town, slighted and neglected, in quest of a dinner,
which he did not always obtain.

To complete his misery, he was pursued by the officers, for small debts
which he had contracted; and was, therefore, obliged to withdraw from
the small number of friends from whom he had still reason to hope for
favours. His custom was to lie in bed the greatest part of the day, and
to go out in the dark with the utmost privacy, and after having paid his
visit, return again before morning to his lodging, which was in the
garret of an obscure inn.

Being thus excluded on one hand, and confined on the other, he suffered
the utmost extremities of poverty, and often fasted so long, that he was
seized with faintness, and had lost his appetite, not being able to bear
the smell of meat, till the action of his stomach was restored by a
cordial.

In this distress, he received a remittance of five pounds from London,
with which he provided himself a decent coat, and determined to go to
London, but unhappily spent his money at a favourite tavern. Thus was he
again confined to Bristol, where he was every day hunted by bailiffs. In
this exigence he once more found a friend, who sheltered him in his
house, though at the usual inconveniencies with which his company was
attended; for he could neither be persuaded to go to bed in the night,
nor to rise in the day.

It is observable, that in these various scenes of misery, he was always
disengaged and cheerful: he at some times pursued his studies, and at
others continued or enlarged his epistolary correspondence; nor was he
ever so far dejected as to endeavour to procure an increase of his
allowance by any other methods than accusations and reproaches.

He had now no longer any hopes of assistance from his friends at
Bristol, who, as merchants, and by consequence sufficiently studious of
profit, cannot be supposed to have looked with much compassion upon
negligence and extravagance, or to think any excellence equivalent to a
fault of such consequence, as neglect of economy. It is natural to
imagine, that many of those, who would have relieved his real wants,
were discouraged from the exertion of their benevolence, by observation
of the use which was made of their favours, and conviction that relief
would only be momentary, and that the same necessity would quickly
return.

At last he quitted the house of his friend, and returned to his lodging
at the inn, still intending to set out in a few days for London; but on
the 10th of January, 1742-3, having been at supper with two of his
friends, he was, at his return to his lodgings, arrested for a debt of
about eight pounds, which he owed at a coffee-house, and conducted to
the house of a sheriff's officer. The account which he gives of this
misfortune, in a letter to one of the gentlemen, with whom he had
supped, is too remarkable to be omitted.

"It was not a little unfortunate for me, that I spent yesterday's
evening with you; because the hour hindered me from entering on my new
lodging; however, I have now got one, but such an one as I believe
nobody would choose.

"I was arrested at the suit of Mrs. Read, just as I was going up stairs
to bed, at Mr. Bowyer's; but taken in so private a manner, that I
believe nobody at the White Lion is apprised of it; though I let the
officers know the strength, or rather weakness, of my pocket, yet they
treated me with the utmost civility; and even when they conducted me to
confinement, it was in such a manner, that I verily believe I could have
escaped, which I would rather be ruined than have done, notwithstanding
the whole amount of my finances was but threepence halfpenny.

"In the first place, I must insist, that you will industriously conceal
this from Mrs. S----s, because I would not have her good-nature suffer
that pain which, I know, she would be apt to feel on this occasion.

"Next, I conjure you, dear sir, by all the ties of friendship, by no
means to have one uneasy thought on my account; but to have the same
pleasantry of countenance, and unruffled serenity of mind, which (God be
praised! ) I have in this, and have had in a much severer calamity.
Furthermore, I charge you, if you value my friendship as truly as I do
yours, not to utter, or even harbour, the least resentment against Mrs.
Read. I believe she has ruined me, but I freely forgive her; and (though
I will never more have any intimacy with her) I would, at a due
distance, rather do her an act of good, than ill will. Lastly, (pardon
the expression,) I absolutely command you not to offer me any pecuniary
assistance, nor to attempt getting me any from any one of your friends.
At another time, or on any other occasion, you may, dear friend, be well
assured, I would rather write to you in the submissive style of a
request, than that of a peremptory command.

"However, that my truly valuable friend may not think I am too proud to
ask a favour, let me intreat you to let me have your boy to attend me
for this day, not only for the sake of saving me the expense of porters,
but for the delivery of some letters to people whose names I would not
have known to strangers.

"The civil treatment I have thus far met from those whose prisoner I am,
makes me thankful to the Almighty, that, though he has thought fit to
visit me (on my birth-night) with affliction, yet (such is his great
goodness! ) my affliction is not without alleviating circumstances. I
murmur not; but am all resignation to the divine will. As to the world,
I hope that I shall be endued by heaven with that presence of mind, that
serene dignity in misfortune, that constitutes the character of a true
nobleman; a dignity far beyond that of coronets; a nobility arising from
the just principles of philosophy, refined and exalted by those of
Christianity. "

He continued five days at the officer's, in hopes that he should be able
to procure bail and avoid the necessity of going to prison. The state in
which he passed his time, and the treatment which he received, are very
justly expressed by him in a letter which he wrote to a friend: "The
whole day," says he, "has been employed in various people's filling my
head with their foolish chimerical systems, which has obliged me coolly
(as far as nature will admit) to digest, and accommodate myself to,
every different person's way of thinking; hurried from one wild system
to another, till it has quite made a chaos of my imagination, and
nothing done--promised--disappointed--ordered to send, every hour, from
one part of the town to the other. "

When his friends, who had hitherto caressed and applauded, found that to
give bail and pay the debt was the same; they all refused to preserve
him from a prison at the expense of eight pounds; and, therefore, after
having been for some time at the officer's house, "at an immense
expense," as he observes in his letter, he was at length removed to
Newgate.

This expense he was enabled to support by the generosity of Mr. Nash, at
Bath, who, upon receiving from him an account of his condition,
immediately sent him five guineas, and promised to promote his
subscription at Bath with all his interest.

By his removal to Newgate, he obtained at least a freedom from suspense,
and rest from the disturbing vicissitudes of hope and disappointment; he
now found that his friends were only companions, who were willing to
share his gaiety, but not to partake of his misfortunes; and, therefore,
he no longer expected any assistance from them.

It must, however, be observed of one gentleman, that he offered to
release him by paying the debt; but that Mr. Savage would not consent, I
suppose, because he thought he had before been too burdensome to him. He
was offered by some of his friends that a collection should be made for
his enlargement; but he "treated the proposal," and declared[85] "he
should again treat it, with disdain". As to writing any mendicant
letters, he had too high a spirit, and determined only to write to some
ministers of state, to try to regain his pension.

He continued to complain[86] of those that had sent him into the
country, and objected to them, that he had "lost the profits of his
play, which had been finished three years:" and in another letter
declares his resolution to publish a pamphlet, that the world might know
how "he had been used. "

This pamphlet was never written; for he, in a very short time,
recovered his usual tranquillity, and cheerfully applied himself to more
inoffensive studies. He, indeed, steadily declared, that he was promised
a yearly allowance of fifty pounds, and never received half the sum; but
he seemed to resign himself to that as well as to other misfortunes, and
lose the remembrance of it in his amusements and employments.

The cheerfulness with which he bore his confinement appears from the
following letter, which he wrote, January the 30th, to one of his
friends in London.

"I now write to you from my confinement in Newgate, where I have been
ever since Monday last was se'nnight, and where I enjoy myself with much
more tranquillity than I have known for upwards of a twelve-month past;
having a room entirely to myself, and pursuing the amusement of my
poetical studies, uninterrupted, and agreeable to my mind. I thank the
Almighty, I am now all collected in myself; and, though my person is in
confinement, my mind can expatiate on ample and useful subjects with all
the freedom imaginable. I am now more conversant with the Nine than
ever, and if, instead of a Newgate-bird, I may be allowed to be a bird
of the muses, I assure you, sir, I sing very freely in my cage;
sometimes, indeed, in the plaintive notes of the nightingale; but at
others in the cheerful strains of the lark. "

In another letter he observes, that he ranges from one subject to
another, without confining himself to any particular task; and that he
was employed one week upon one attempt, and the next upon another.

Surely the fortitude of this man deserves, at least, to be mentioned
with applause; and, whatever faults may be imputed to him, the virtue of
suffering well cannot be denied him. The two powers which, in the
opinion of Epictetus, constituted a wise man, are those of bearing and
forbearing; which cannot indeed be affirmed to have been equally
possessed by Savage; and, indeed, the want of one obliged him very
frequently to practise the other.

He was treated by Mr. Dagge, the keeper of the prison, with great
humanity; was supported by him at his own table, without any certainty
of recompense; had a room to himself, to which he could at any time
retire from all disturbance; was allowed to stand at the door of the
prison, and sometimes taken out into the fields[87]; so that he suffered
fewer hardships in prison than he had been accustomed to undergo in the
greatest part of his life.

The keeper did not confine his benevolence to a gentle execution of his
office, but made some overtures to the creditor for his release, though
without effect; and continued, during the whole time of his
imprisonment, to treat him with the utmost tenderness and civility.

Virtue is undoubtedly most laudable in that state which makes it most
difficult; and, therefore, the humanity of a gaoler certainly deserves
this publick attestation; and the man, whose heart has not been hardened
by such an employment, may be justly proposed as a pattern of
benevolence. If an inscription was once engraved, "to the honest
toll-gatherer," less honours ought not to be paid "to the tender
gaoler. "

Mr. Savage very frequently received visits, and sometimes presents, from
his acquaintances; but they did not amount to a subsistence, for the
greater part of which he was indebted to the generosity of this keeper;
but these favours, however they might endear to him the particular
persons from whom he received them, were very far from impressing upon
his mind any advantageous ideas of the people of Bristol, and,
therefore, he thought he could not more properly employ himself in
prison, than in writing a poem, called London and Bristol
delineated[88].

When he had brought this poem to its present state, which, without
considering the chasm, is not perfect, he wrote to London an account of
his design, and informed his friend[89], that he was determined to print
it with his name; but enjoined him not to communicate his intention to
his Bristol acquaintance. The gentleman, surprised at his resolution,
endeavoured to dissuade him from publishing it, at least from prefixing
his name; and declared, that he could not reconcile the injunction of
secrecy with his resolution to own it at its first appearance. To this
Mr. Savage returned an answer agreeable to his character, in the
following terms:

"I received yours this morning; and not without a little surprise at the
contents. To answer a question with a question, you ask me concerning
London and Bristol, Why will I add _delineated_? Why did Mr. Wollaston
add the same word to his Religion of Nature? I suppose that it was his
will and pleasure to add it in his case; and it is mine to do so in my
own. You are pleased to tell me, that you understand not why secrecy is
enjoined, and yet I intend to set my name to it. My answer is--I have my
private reasons, which I am not obliged to explain to any one. You doubt
my friend Mr. S----[90] would not approve of it--And what is it to me
whether he does or not? Do you imagine that Mr. S---- is to dictate to
me? If any man who calls himself my friend should assume such an air, I
would spurn at his friendship with contempt. You say, I seem to think so
by not letting him know it. --And suppose I do, what then? Perhaps I can
give reasons for that disapprobation, very foreign from what you would
imagine. You go on in saying, suppose I should not put my name to it--My
answer is, that I will not suppose any such thing, being determined to
the contrary: neither, sir, would I have you suppose, that I applied to
you for want of another press: nor would I have you imagine, that I owe
Mr. S---- obligations which I do not. "

Such was his imprudence, and such his obstinate adherence to his own
resolutions, however absurd! A prisoner! supported by charity! and,
whatever insults he might have received during the latter part of his
stay in Bristol, once caressed, esteemed, and presented with a liberal
collection, he could forget, on a sudden, his danger and his
obligations, to gratify the petulance of his wit, or the eagerness of
his resentment, and publish a satire, by which he might reasonably
expect that he should alienate those who then supported him, and provoke
those whom he could neither resist nor escape.

This resolution, from the execution of which it is probable that only
his death could have hindered him, is sufficient to show how much he
disregarded all considerations that opposed his present passions, and
how readily he hazarded all future advantages for any immediate
gratifications. Whatever was his predominant inclination, neither hope
nor fear hindered him from complying with it; nor had opposition any
other effect than to heighten his ardour, and irritate his vehemence.

This performance was, however, laid aside, while he was employed in
soliciting assistance from several great persons; and one interruption
succeeding another hindered him from supplying the chasm, and, perhaps,
from retouching the other parts, which he can hardly be imagined to have
finished in his own opinion: for it is very unequal, and some of the
lines are rather inserted to rhyme to others, than to support or improve
the sense; but the first and last parts are worked up with great spirit
and elegance.

His time was spent in the prison, for the most part, in study, or in
receiving visits; but sometimes he descended to lower amusements, and
diverted himself in the kitchen with the conversation of the criminals:
for it was not pleasing to him to be much without company; and, though
he was very capable of a judicious choice, he was often contented with
the first that offered: for this he was sometimes reproved by his
friends, who found him surrounded with felons; but the reproof was on
that, as on other occasions, thrown away; he continued to gratify
himself, and to set very little value on the opinion of others.

But here, as in every other scene of his life, he made use of such
opportunities as occurred of benefiting those who were more miserable
than himself, and was always ready to perform any office of humanity to
his fellow-prisoners.

He had now ceased from corresponding with any of his subscribers except
one, who yet continued to remit him the twenty pounds a year which he
had promised him, and by whom it was expected that he would have been in
a very short time enlarged, because he had directed the keeper to
inquire after the state of his debts.

However, he took care to enter his name according to the forms of the
court[91], that the creditor might be obliged to make him some
allowance, if he was continued a prisoner, and, when on that occasion he
appeared in the hall, was treated with very unusual respect.

But the resentment of the city was afterwards raised by some accounts
that had been spread of the satire; and he was informed that some of the
merchants intended to pay the allowance which the law required, and to
detain him a prisoner at their own expense. This he treated as an empty
menace; and, perhaps, might have hastened the publication, only to show
how much he was superiour to their insults, had not all his schemes been
suddenly destroyed.

When he had been six months in prison, he received from one of his
friends[92], in whose kindness he had the greatest confidence, and on
whose assistance he chiefly depended, a letter, that contained a charge
of very atrocious ingratitude, drawn up in such terms as sudden
resentment dictated. Henley, in one of his advertisements, had mentioned
"Pope's treatment of Savage. " This was supposed, by Pope, to be the
consequence of a complaint made by Savage to Henley, and was, therefore,
mentioned by him with much resentment. Mr. Savage returned a very solemn
protestation of his innocence, but, however, appeared much disturbed at
the accusation. Some days afterwards he was seized with a pain in his
back and side, which, as it was not violent, was not suspected to be
dangerous; but, growing daily more languid and dejected, on the 25th of
July he confined himself to his room, and a fever seized his spirits.
The symptoms grew every day more formidable, but his condition did not
enable him to procure any assistance. The last time that the keeper saw
him was on July the 31st, 1743; when Savage, seeing him at his bedside,
said, with an uncommon earnestness, "I have something to say to you,
sir;" but, after a pause, moved his hand in a melancholy manner; and,
finding himself unable to recollect what he was going to communicate,
said, "'Tis gone! " The keeper soon after left him; and the next morning
he died. He was buried in the church-yard of St. Peter, at the expense
of the keeper.

Such were the life and death of Richard Savage, a man equally
distinguished by his virtues and vices; and at once remarkable for his
weaknesses and abilities.

He was of a middle stature, of a thin habit of body, a long visage,
coarse features, and melancholy aspect; of a grave and manly deportment,
a solemn dignity of mien, but which, upon a nearer acquaintance,
softened into an engaging easiness of manners. His walk was slow, and
his voice tremulous and mournful. He was easily excited to smiles, but
very seldom provoked to laughter.

His mind was in an uncommon degree vigorous and active. His judgment was
accurate, his apprehension quick, and his memory so tenacious, that he
was frequently observed to know what he had learned from others, in a
short time, better than those by whom he was informed; and could
frequently recollect incidents, with all their combination of
circumstances, which few would have regarded at the present time, but
which the quickness of his apprehension impressed upon him. He had the
peculiar felicity, that his attention never deserted him; he was present
to every object, and regardful of the most trifling occurrences. He had
the art of escaping from his own reflections, and accommodating himself
to every new scene.

To this quality is to be imputed the extent of his knowledge, compared
with the small time which he spent in visible endeavours to acquire it.
He mingled in cursory conversation with the same steadiness of attention
as others apply to a lecture; and, amidst the appearance of thoughtless
gaiety, lost no new idea that was started, nor any hint that could be
improved. He had, therefore, made in coffee-houses the same proficiency
as others in their closets: and it is remarkable, that the writings of a
man of little education and little reading have an air of learning
scarcely to be found in any other performances, but which, perhaps, as
often obscures as embellishes them.

His judgment was eminently exact, both with regard to writings and to
men. The knowledge of life was indeed his chief attainment; and it is
not without some satisfaction that I can produce the suffrage of Savage
in favour of human nature, of which he never appeared to entertain such
odious ideas as some, who, perhaps, had neither his judgment nor
experience, have published, either in ostentation of their sagacity,
vindication of their crimes, or gratification of their malice.

His method of life particularly qualified him for conversation, of which
he knew how to practise all the graces. He was never vehement or loud,
but at once modest and easy, open and respectful; his language was
vivacious and elegant, and equally happy upon grave or humorous
subjects. He was generally censured for not knowing when to retire; but
that was not the defect of his judgment, but of his fortune: when he
left his company, he was frequently to spend the remaining part of the
night in the street, or at least was abandoned to gloomy reflections,
which it is not strange that he delayed as long as he could; and
sometimes forgot that he gave others pain to avoid it himself.

It cannot be said, that he made use of his abilities for the direction
of his own conduct: an irregular and dissipated manner of life had made
him the slave of every passion that happened to be excited by the
presence of its object, and that slavery to his passions reciprocally
produced a life irregular and dissipated. He was not master of his own
motions, nor could promise any thing for the next day.

With regard to his economy, nothing can be added to the relation of his
life. He appeared to think himself born to be supported by others, and
dispensed from all necessity of providing for himself; he therefore
never prosecuted any scheme of advantage, nor endeavoured even to secure
the profits which his writings might have afforded him. His temper was,
in consequence of the dominion of his passions, uncertain and
capricious; he was easily engaged, and easily disgusted; but he is
accused of retaining his hatred more tenaciously than his benevolence.

He was compassionate both by nature and principle, and always ready to
perform offices of humanity; but when he was provoked (and very small
offences were sufficient to provoke him) he would prosecute his revenge
with the utmost acrimony till his passion had subsided.

His friendship was, therefore, of little value; for, though he was
zealous in the support or vindication of those whom he loved, yet it was
always dangerous to trust him, because he considered himself as
discharged, by the first quarrel, from all ties of honour or gratitude;
and would betray those secrets which, in the warmth of confidence, had
been imparted to him. This practice drew upon him an universal
accusation of ingratitude: nor can it be denied that he was very ready
to set himself free from the load of an obligation; for he could not
bear to conceive himself in a state of dependence, his pride being
equally powerful with his other passions, and appearing in the form of
insolence at one time, and of vanity at another. Vanity, the most
innocent species of pride, was most frequently predominant: he could not
easily leave off, when he had once begun to mention himself or his
works; nor ever read his verses without stealing his eyes from the page,
to discover, in the faces of his audience, how they were affected with
any favourite passage.

A kinder name than that of vanity ought to be given to the delicacy
with which he was always careful to separate his own merit from every
other man's, and to reject that praise to which he had no claim. He did
not forget, in mentioning his performances, to mark every line that had
been suggested or amended; and was so accurate, as to relate that he
owed three words in the Wanderer to the advice of his friends.

His veracity was questioned, but with little reason; his accounts,
though not indeed always the same, were generally consistent. When he
loved any man, he suppressed all his faults; and, when he had been
offended by him, concealed all his virtues; but his characters were
generally true, so far as he proceeded; though it cannot be denied, that
his partiality might have sometimes the effect of falsehood.

In cases indifferent, he was zealous for virtue, truth, and justice; he
knew very well the necessity of goodness to the present and future
happiness of mankind; nor is there, perhaps, any writer, who has less
endeavoured to please by flattering the appetites, or perverting the
judgment.

As an author, therefore, and he now ceases to influence mankind in any
other character, if one piece which he had resolved to suppress be
excepted, he has very little to fear from the strictest moral or
religious censure. And though he may not be altogether secure against
the objections of the critick, it must, however, be acknowledged, that
his works are the productions of a genius truly poetical; and, what many
writers who have been more lavishly applauded cannot boast, that they
have an original air, which has no resemblance of any foregoing writer,
that the versification and sentiments have a cast peculiar to
themselves, which no man can imitate with success, because what was
nature in Savage would in another be affectation. It must be confessed
that his descriptions are striking, his images animated, his fictions
justly imagined, and his allegories artfully pursued; that his diction
is elevated, though sometimes forced, and his numbers sonorous and
majestick, though frequently sluggish and encumbered. Of his style, the
general fault is harshness, and its general excellence is dignity: of
his sentiments, the prevailing beauty is simplicity, and uniformity the
prevailing defect.

For his life, or for his writings, none, who candidly consider his
fortune, will think an apology either necessary or difficult. If he was
not always sufficiently instructed in his subject, his knowledge was, at
least, greater than could have been attained by others in the same
state. If his works were sometimes unfinished, accuracy cannot
reasonably be expected from a man oppressed with want, which he has no
hope of relieving but by a speedy publication. The insolence and
resentment of which he is accused were not easily to be avoided by a
great mind, irritated by perpetual hardships, and constrained hourly to
return the spurns of contempt, and repress the insolence of prosperity;
and vanity may surely be readily pardoned in him, to whom life afforded
no other comforts than barren praises, and the consciousness of
deserving them.

Those are no proper judges of his conduct, who have slumbered away their
time on the down of plenty; nor will any wise man presume to say, "Had I
been in Savage's condition, I should have lived or written better than
Savage. "

This relation will not be wholly without its use, if those, who languish
under any part of his sufferings, shall be enabled to fortify their
patience, by reflecting that they feel only those afflictions from which
the abilities of Savage did not exempt him; or if those, who, in
confidence of superiour capacities or attainments, disregard the common
maxims of life, shall be reminded, that nothing will supply the want of
prudence, and that negligence and irregularity, long continued, will
make knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and genius contemptible.

-----

[Footnote 47: The first edition of this interesting narrative, according
to Mr. Boswell, was published in 1744, by Roberts. The second, now
before me, bears date 1748, and was published by Cave. Very few
alterations were made by the author, when he added it to the present
collection. The year before publication, 1743, Dr. Johnson inserted the
following notice of his intention in the Gentleman's Magazine.

"MR. URBAN

"As your collections show how often you have owed the ornaments of your
poetical pages to the correspondence of the unfortunate and ingenious
Mr. Savage, I doubt not but you have so much regard to his memory, as to
encourage any design that may have a tendency to the preservation of it
from insults or calumnies; and, therefore, with some degree of
assurance, intreat you to inform the publick, that his life will
speedily be published by a person who was favoured with his confidence,
and received from himself an account of most of the transactions which
he proposes to mention, to the time of his retirement to Swansea, in
Wales.

"From that period to his death in the prison of Bristol, the account
will be continued from materials still less liable to objection; his own
letters and those of his friends; some of which will be inserted in the
work, and abstracts of others subjoined in the margin.

"It may be reasonably, imagined that others may have the same design,
but as it is not credible that they can obtain the same materials, it
must be expected that they will supply from invention the want of
intelligence, and that under the title of the Life of Savage, they will
publish only a novel, filled with romantick adventures and imaginary
amours. You may, therefore, perhaps, gratify the lovers of truth and
wit, by giving me leave to inform them, in your magazine, that my
account will be published, in octavo, by Mr. Roberts, in Warwick-lane. "]

[Footnote 48: This year was made remarkable by the dissolution of a
marriage solemnized in the face of the church. Salmon's Review.

The following protest is registered in the books of the house of lords:

Dissentient: Because we conceive that this is the first bill of that
nature that hath passed, where there was not a divorce first obtained in
the spiritual court; which we look upon as an ill precedent, and may be
of dangerous consequence in the future. HALIFAX. ROCHESTER. ]

[Footnote 49: See Mr. Boswell's doubts on this head; and the point,
fully discussed by Malone, and Bindley in the notes to Boswell. Edit.
1816. i. 150, 151. ED. ]

[Footnote 50: On this circumstance, Boswell founds one of his strongest
arguments against Savage's being the son of lady Macclesfield. "If there
was such a legacy left," says Boswell, "his not being able to obtain
payment of it, must be imputed to his consciousness that he was not the
real person. The just inference should be, that, by the death of lady
Macclesfield's child before its godmother, the legacy became lapsed;
and, therefore, that Johnson's Savage was an impostor. If he had a title
to the legacy, he could not have found any difficulty in recovering it;
for had the executors resisted his claim, the whole costs, as well as
the legacy, must have been paid by them, if he had been the child to
whom it was given. " With respect for the legal memory of Boswell, we
would venture to urge, that the forma pauperis is not the most available
mode of addressing an English court; and, therefore, Johnson is not
clearly proved wrong by the above argument brought against him. ED. ]

[Footnote 51: He died August 18th, 1712 R. ]

[Footnote 52: Savage's preface to his Miscellany. ]

[Footnote 53: Savage's preface to his Miscellany. ]

[Footnote 54: See the Plain Dealer. ]

[Footnote 55: The title of this poem was the Convocation, or a Battle of
Pamphlets, 1717. J. B. ]

[Footnote 56: Jacob's Lives of the Dramatick Poets. Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 57: This play was printed first in 8vo. ; and afterwards in
12mo. the fifth edition. Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 58: Plain Dealer, Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 59: As it is a loss to mankind when any good action is
forgotten, I shall insert another instance of Mr. Wilks's generosity,
very little known. Mr. Smith, a gentleman educated at Dublin, being
hindered by an impediment in his pronunciation from engaging in orders,
for which his friends designed him, left his own country, and came to
London in quest of employment, but found his solicitations fruitless,
and his necessities every day more pressing. In this distress he wrote a
tragedy, and offered it to the players, by whom it was rejected. Thus
were his last hopes defeated, and he had no other prospect than of the
most deplorable poverty. But Mr. Wilks thought his performance, though
not perfect, at least worthy of some reward, and, therefore, offered him
a benefit. This favour he improved with so much diligence, that the
house afforded him a considerable sum, with which he went to Leyden,
applied himself to the study of physick, and prosecuted his design with
so much diligence and success, that, when Dr.
Boerhaave was desired by
the czarina to recommend proper persons to introduce into Russia the
practice and study of physick, Dr. Smith was one of those whom he
selected. He had a considerable pension settled on him at his arrival,
and was one of the chief physicians at the Russian court. Dr. J.

A letter from Dr. Smith, in Russia, to Mr. Wilks, is printed in
Chetwood's History of the Stage. R. ]

[Footnote 60: "This," says Dr. Johnson, "I write upon the credit of the
author of his life, which was published in 1727;" and was a small
pamphlet, intended to plead his cause with the publick while under
sentence of death "for the murder of Mr. James Sinclair, at Robinson's
coffee-house, at Charing-cross, price 6d. Roberts. " Savage sent a copy
of it to Mrs. Carter, with some corrections and remarks. See his letter
to that lady in Mrs. Carter's life by Mr. Pennington, vol. i. p. 58. ]

[Footnote 61: Chetwood, however, has printed a poem on her death, which
he ascribes to Mr. Savage. See History of the Stage, p. 206]

[Footnote 62: In 1724. ]

[Footnote 63: Printed in the late collection of his poems. ]

[Footnote 64: It was acted only three nights, the first on June 12,1723.
When the house opened for the winter season it was once more performed
for the author's benefit, Oct. 2. R. ]

[Footnote 65: To Herbert Tryst, esq. of Herefoulshire. Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 66: The Plain Dealer was a periodical paper, written by Mr.
Hill and Mr. Bond, whom Savage called the two contending powers of light
and darkness. They wrote, by turns, each six essays; and the character
of the work was observed regularly to rise in Mr. Hill's weeks, and fall
in Mr. Bond's. Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 66: The Plain Dealer was a periodical paper, written by Mr.
Hill and Mr. Bond, whom Savage called the two contending powers of light
and darkness. They wrote, by turns, each six essays; and the character
of the work was observed regularly to rise in Mr. Hill's weeks, and fall
in Mr. Bond's. Dr. J.

[Footnote 67: The names of those who so generously contributed to his
relief having been mentioned in a former account, ought not to be
omitted here. They were the dutchess of Cleveland, lady Cheyney, lady
Castlemain, lady Gower, lady Lechmere, the dutchess dowager and dutchess
of Rutland, lady Strafford, the countess dowager of Warwick, Mrs. Mary
Floyer, Mrs. Sofuel Noel, duke of Rutland, lord Gainsborough, lord
Milsington, Mr. John Savage. Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 68: This the following extract from it will prove:--"Since our
country has been honoured with the glory of your wit, as elevated and
immortal as your soul, it no longer remains a doubt whether your sex
have strength of mind in proportion to their sweetness. There is
something in your verses as distinguished as your air. They are as
strong as truth, as deep as reason, as clear as innocence, and as smooth
as beauty. They contain a nameless and peculiar mixture of force and
grace, which is at once so movingly serene, and so majestically lovely,
that it is too amiable to appear any where but in your eyes and in your
writings. "

"As fortune is not more my enemy than I am the enemy of flattery, I know
not how I can forbear this application to your ladyship, because there
is scarce a possibility that I should say more than I believe, when I am
speaking of your excellence. " Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 69: Mr. Savage's life. ]

[Footnote 70: She died October 11, 1753, at her house in Old Bond
street, aged above fourscore. R. ]

[Footnote 71: It appears that during his confinement he wrote a letter
to his mother, which he sent to Theophilus Cibber, that it might be
transmitted to her through the means of Mr. Wilks. In his letter to
Cibber he says: "As to death, I am easy, and dare meet it like a
man--all that touches me is the concern of my friends, and a
reconcilement with my mother. I cannot express the agony I felt when I
wrote the letter to her: if you can find any decent excuse for showing
it to Mrs. Oldfield, do; for I would have all my friends (and that
admirable lady in particular) be satisfied I have done my duty towards
it. Dr. Young to-day sent me a letter most passionately kind. " R. ]

[Footnote 72: Written by Mr. Beckingham and another gentleman. Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 73: Printed in the late collection. ]

[Footnote 74: In one of his letters he styles it "a fatal quarrel, but
too well known. " Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 75: Printed in his works, vol. ii. p. 231. ]

[Footnote 76: See his works, vol. ii. p. 233. ]

[Footnote 77: This epigram was, I believe, never published:

"Should Dennis publish you had stabb'd your brother,
Lampoon'd your monarch, or debauch'd your mother;
Say, what revenge on Dennis can be had,
Too dull for laughter, for reply too mad?
On one so poor you cannot take the law,
On one so old your sword you scorn to draw,
Uncag'd then, let the harmless monster rage,
Secure in dullness, madness, want, and age. "


Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 78: 1729. ]

[Footnote 79: His expression, in one of his letters, was, "that lord
Tyrconnel had involved his estate, and, therefore, poorly sought an
occasion to quarrel with him," Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 80: This poem is inserted in the late collection. ]

[Footnote 81: Printed in the late collection. ]

[Footnote 82: A short satire was, likewise, published in the same paper,
in which were the following lines:

For cruel murder doom'd to hempen death,
Savage, by royal grace, prolong'd his breath.
Well might you think he spent his future years
In pray'r, and fasting, and repentant tears.
--But, O vain hope! --the truly Savage cries,
"Priests, and their slavish doctrines, I despise.
Shall I----
Who, by free-thinking to free action fir'd.
In midnight brawls a deathless name acquir'd,
Now stoop to learn of ecclesiastic men?
No, arm'd with rhyme, at priests I'll take my aim.
Though prudence bids me murder but their fame. "

Weekly Miscellany.

An answer was published in the Gentleman's Magazine, written by an
unknown hand, from which the following lines are selected:

Transform'd by thoughtless rage, and midnight wine,
From malice free, and push'd without design;
In equal brawl if Savage lung'd a thrust,
And brought the youth a victim to the dust;
So strong the hand of accident appears,
The royal hand from guilt and vengeance clears.
Instead of wasting "all thy future years,
Savage, in pray'r and vain repentant tears,"
Exert thy pen to mend a vitious age,
To curb the priest, and sink his high-church rage;
To show what frauds the holy vestments hide,
The nests of av'rice, lust, and pedant pride:
Then change the scene, let merit brightly shine,
And round the patriot twist the wreath divine;
The heav'nly guide deliver down to fame;
In well-tun'd lays transmit a Foster's name;

Touch ev'ry passion with harmonious art,
Exalt the genius, and correct the heart.
Thus future times shall royal grace extol;
Thus polish'd lines thy present fame enrol.
----But grant----
----Maliciously that Savage plung'd the steel,
And made the youth its shining vengeance feel;
My soul abhors the act, the man detests,
But more the bigotry in priestly breasts.

Gentleman's Magazine, May, 1735. Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 83: By Mr. Pope. Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 84: Reprinted in the late collection. ]

[Footnote 85: In a letter after his confinement. Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 86: Letter, Jan. 15. ]

[Footnote 87: See this confirmed, Gent. Mag. vol. lvii. 1140. N. ]

[Footnote 88: The author preferred this title to that of London and
Bristol compared; which, when he began the piece, he intended to prefix
to it. Dr. J. ]

[Footnote 89: This friend was Mr. Cave, the printer. N. ]

[Footnote 90: Mr. Strong, of the post-office. N. ]

[Footnote 91: See Gent. Mag. vol. lvii. 1040. N. ]

[Footnote 92: Mr. Pope. See some extracts of letters from that gentleman
to and concerning Mr. Savage, in Ruffhead's Life of Pope, p. 502. R. ]




SWIFT.


An account of Dr. Swift has been already collected, with great diligence
and acuteness, by Dr. Hawkesworth, according to a scheme which I laid
before him in the intimacy of our friendship. I cannot, therefore, be
expected to say much of a life, concerning which I had long since
communicated my thoughts to a man capable of dignifying his narrations
with so much elegance of language and force of sentiment.

Jonathan Swift was, according to an account said to be written by
himself[93], the son of Jonathan Swift, an attorney, and was born at
Dublin, on St. Andrew's day, 1667: according to his own report, as
delivered by Pope to Spence, he was born at Leicester, the son of a
clergyman, who was minister of a parish in Herefordshire[94]. During his
life the place of his birth was undetermined. He was contented to be
called an Irishman by the Irish; but would occasionally call himself an
Englishman. The question may, without much regret, be left in the
obscurity in which he delighted to involve it.

Whatever was his birth, his education was Irish. He was sent, at the age
of six, to the school at Kilkenny, and in his fifteenth year, 1682, was
admitted into the university of Dublin.

In his academical studies he was either not diligent or not happy. It
must disappoint every reader's expectation, that, when at the usual time
he claimed the bachelorship of arts, he was found by the examiners too
conspicuously deficient for regular admission, and obtained his degree,
at last, by _special favour_; a term used in that university to denote
want of merit.

Of this disgrace it may easily be supposed that he was much ashamed,
and shame had its proper effect in producing reformation. He resolved,
from that time, to study eight hours a day, and continued his industry
for seven years, with what improvement is sufficiently known. This part
of his story well deserves to be remembered; it may afford useful
admonition and powerful encouragement to men whose abilities have been
made for a time useless by their passions or pleasures, and who, having
lost one part of life in idleness, are tempted to throw away the
remainder in despair.

In this course of daily application he continued three years longer at
Dublin; and in this time, if the observation and memory of an old
companion may be trusted, he drew the first sketch of his Tale of a Tub.

When he was about one-and-twenty, 1688, being, by the death of Godwin
Swift, his uncle, who had supported him, left without subsistence, he
went to consult his mother, who then lived at Leicester, about the
future course of his life; and by her direction solicited the advice and
patronage of sir William Temple, who had married one of Mrs. Swift's
relations, and whose father, sir John Temple, master of the Rolls in
Ireland, had lived in great familiarity of friendship with Godwin Swift,
by whom Jonathan had been to that time maintained.

Temple received with sufficient kindness the nephew of his father's
friend, with whom he was, when they conversed together, so much pleased,
that he detained him two years in his house. Here he became known to
king William, who sometimes visited Temple when he was disabled by the
gout, and, being attended by Swift in the garden, showed him how to cut
asparagus in the Dutch way.

King William's notions were all military; and he expressed his kindness
to Swift by offering to make him a captain of horse.

When Temple removed to Moor-park, he took Swift with him; and when he
was consulted by the earl of Portland about the expedience of complying
with a bill then depending for making parliaments triennial, against
which king William was strongly prejudiced, after having in vain tried
to show the earl that the proposal involved nothing dangerous to royal
power, he sent Swift for the same purpose to the king. Swift, who
probably was proud of his employment, and went with all the confidence
of a young man, found his arguments, and his art of displaying them,
made totally ineffectual by the predetermination of the king; and used
to mention this disappointment as his first antidote against vanity.

Before he left Ireland he contracted a disorder, as he thought, by
eating too much fruit. The original of diseases is commonly obscure.
Almost every boy eats as much fruit as he can get, without any great
inconvenience. The disease of Swift was giddiness with deafness, which
attacked him from time to time, began very early, pursued him through
life, and, at last, sent him to the grave, deprived of reason.

Being much oppressed at Moor-park by this grievous malady, he was
advised to try his native air, and went to Ireland; but, finding no
benefit, returned to sir William, at whose house he continued his
studies, and is known to have read, among other books, Cyprian and
Irenaeus. He thought exercise of great necessity, and used to run half a
mile up and down a hill every two hours.

It is easy to imagine that the mode in which his first degree was
conferred, left him no great fondness for the university of Dublin, and,
therefore, he resolved to become a master of arts at Oxford. In the
testimonial which he produced, the words of disgrace were omitted[94];
and he took his master's degree July 5, 1692, with such reception and
regard as fully contented him.

While he lived with Temple, he used to pay his mother, at Leicester, a
yearly visit. He travelled on foot, unless some violence of weather
drove him into a wagon; and at night he would go to a penny lodging,
where he purchased clean sheets for sixpence. This practice lord Orrery
imputes to his innate love of grossness and vulgarity: some may ascribe
it to his desire of surveying human life through all its varieties; and
others, perhaps, with equal probability, to a passion which seems to
have been deeply fixed in his heart, the love of a shilling.

In time he began to think that his attendance at Moor-park deserved some
other recompense than the pleasure, however mingled with improvement, of
Temple's conversation; and grew so impatient, that, 1694, he went away
in discontent.

Temple, conscious of having given reason for complaint, is said to have
made him deputy-master of the rolls, in Ireland; which, according to his
kinsman's account, was an office which he knew him not able to
discharge. Swift, therefore, resolved to enter into the church, in which
he had at first no higher hopes than of the chaplainship to the factory,
at Lisbon; but being recommended to lord Capel, he obtained the prebend
of Kilroot, in Connor, of about a hundred pounds a year.

But the infirmities of Temple made a companion like Swift so necessary,
that he invited him back, with a promise to procure him English
preferment in exchange for the prebend, which he desired him to
resign[95]. With this request Swift complied, having, perhaps, equally
repented their separation, and they lived on together with mutual
satisfaction; and, in the four years that passed between his return and
Temple's death, it is probable that he wrote the Tale of a Tub, and the
Battle of the Books.

Swift began early to think, or to hope, that he was a poet, and wrote
Pindarick odes to Temple, to the king, and to the Athenian society, a
knot of obscure men[96], who published a periodical pamphlet of answers
to questions, sent, or supposed to be sent, by letters. I have been told
that Dryden, having perused these verses, said, "Cousin Swift, you will
never be a poet;" and that this denunciation was the motive of Swift's
perpetual malevolence to Dryden.

In 1699 Temple died, and left a legacy with his manuscripts to Swift,
for whom he had obtained, from king William, a promise of the first
prebend that should be vacant at Westminster or Canterbury.

That this promise might not be forgotten, Swift dedicated to the king
the posthumous works with which he was intrusted; but neither the
dedication, nor tenderness for the man whom he once had treated with
confidence and fondness, revived in king William the remembrance of his
promise. Swift awhile attended the court; but soon found his
solicitations hopeless.

He was then invited by the earl of Berkeley to accompany him into
Ireland, as his private secretary; but, after having done the business
till their arrival at Dublin, he then found that one Bush had persuaded
the earl that a clergyman was not a proper secretary, and had obtained
the office for himself.