No More Learning

I will
not transcribe it. The seven first stanzas are good; but the third,
fourth, and seventh, are the best: the eighth seems to involve a
contradiction; the tenth is exquisitely beautiful; the thirteenth,
fourteenth, and fifteenth, are partly mythological, and partly
religious, and, therefore, not suitable to each other: he might better
have made the whole merely philosophical.

There are two stanzas in this poem where Yalden may be suspected, though
hardly convicted, of having consulted the Hymnus ad Umbram of Wowerus,
in the sixth stanza, which answers, in some sort, to these lines:

Illa suo præest nocturnis numine sacris--
Perque vias errare novis dat spectra figuris,
Manesque excitos medios ululare per agros
Sub noctem, et questu notos complere penatcs.

And again, at the conclusion:

Illa suo senium secludit corpore toto
Haud numerans jugi fugientia secula lapsu.
Ergo ubi postremum mundi compage soluta
Hanc rerum molem suprema absumpserit hora
Ipsa leves cineres nube amplectetur opaca,
Et prisco imperio rursus dominabitur UMBRA.

His Hymn to Light is not equal to the other. He seems to think that
there is an East absolute and positive, where the morning rises.

In the last stanza, having mentioned the sudden eruption of new-created
light, he says,

Awhile th' Almighty wond'ring stood.

He ought to have remembered that infinite knowledge can never wonder.
All wonder is the effect of novelty upon ignorance.

Of his other poems it is sufficient to say, that they deserve perusal,
though they are not always exactly polished, though the rhymes are
sometimes very ill sorted, and though his faults seem rather the
omissions of idleness than the negligences of enthusiasm.

-----

[Footnote 38: We need not remark to any of our readers, but to those who
are not Oxford men, that Pullen's name is now remembered in the
university, not as a tutor, but by the venerable elm tree which was the
term of his morning walks. "I have the honour to be well known to Mr.
Josiah Pullen, of our hall above-mentioned, (Magdalen hall,) and
attribute the florid old age I now enjoy to my constant morning walks up
Headington lull, in his cheerful company. " Guardian, No. 2. ED. ]

[Footnote 39: The vicarage of Willoughby, which he resigned in 1708. N. ]

[Footnote 40: This preferment was given him by the duke of Beaufort. N. ]

[Footnote 41: Not long after. ]

[Footnote 42: Dr. Atterbury retained the office of preacher at Bridewell
till his promotion to the bishoprick of Rochester. Dr. Yalden succeeded
him as preacher, in June, 1713. N. ]




TICKELL.


Thomas Tickell, the son of the reverend Richard Tickell, was born, in
1686, at Bridekirk, in Cumberland; and in April, 1701, became a member
of Queen's college, in Oxford; in 1708 he was made master of arts; and,
two years afterwards, was chosen fellow; for which, as he did not comply
with the statutes by taking orders, he obtained a dispensation from the
crown. He held his fellowship till 1726, and then vacated it, by
marrying, in that year, at Dublin.

Tickell was not one of those scholars who wear away their lives in
closets; he entered early into the world, and was long busy in publick
affairs; in which he was initiated under the patronage of Addison, whose
notice he is said to have gained by his verses in praise of Rosamond.

To those verses it would not have been just to deny regard; for they
contain some of the most elegant encomiastick strains; and, among the
innumerable poems of the same kind, it will be hard to find one with
which they need to fear a comparison. It may deserve observation, that
when Pope wrote, long afterwards, in praise of Addison, he has copied,
at least has resembled, Tickell.

Let joy salute fair Rosamonda's shade,
And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid.
While now perhaps with Dido's ghost she roves,
And hears and tells the story of their loves,
Alike they mourn, alike they bless their fate,
Since love, which made them wretched, made them great.
Nor longer that relentless doom bemoan,
Which gain'd a Virgil and an Addison. TICKELL.

Then future ages with delight shall see
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's, looks agree;
Or in fair series laurell'd bards be shown,
A Virgil there, and here an Addison. POPE.

He produced another piece of the same kind at the appearance of Cato,
with equal skill, but not equal happiness.

When the ministers of queen Anne were negotiating with France, Tickell
published the Prospect of Peace, a poem, of which the tendency was to
reclaim the nation from the pride of conquest to the pleasures of
tranquillity. How far Tickell, whom Swift afterwards mentioned as
_whiggissimus_, had then connected himself with any party, I know not;
this poem certainly did not flatter the practices, or promote the
opinions, of the men by whom he was afterwards befriended.

Mr. Addison, however he hated the men then in power, suffered his
friendship to prevail over his publick spirit, and gave, in the
Spectator, such praises of Tickell's poem, that when, after having long
wished to peruse it, I laid hold on it at last, I thought it unequal to
the honours which it had received, and found it a piece to be approved
rather than admired. But the hope excited by a work of genius, being
general and indefinite, is rarely gratified. It was read at that time
with so much favour, that six editions were sold.

At the arrival of king George he sang the Royal Progress; which, being
inserted in the Spectator, is well known; and of which it is just to
say, that it is neither high nor low.

The poetical incident of most importance in Tickell's life was his
publication of the first book of the Iliad, as translated by himself, an
apparent opposition to Pope's Homer, of which the first part made its
entrance into the world at the same time.

Addison declared that the rival versions were both good; but that
Tickell's was the best that ever was made; and with Addison, the wits,
his adherents and followers, were certain to concur. Pope does not
appear to have been much dismayed; "for," says he, "I have the town,
that is, the mob, on my side. " But he remarks, "that it is common for
the smaller party to make up in diligence what they want in numbers; he
appeals to the people as his proper judges; and, if they are not
inclined to condemn him, he is in little care about the highflyers at
Button's. "

Pope did not long think Addison an impartial judge; for he considered
him as the writer of Tickell's version. The reasons for his suspicion I
will literally transcribe from Mr. Spence's collection.

"There had been a coldness (said Mr. Pope) between Mr. Addison and me
for some time; and we had not been in company together, for a good
while, any where but at Button's coffee-house, where I used to see him
almost every day. On his meeting me there, one day in particular, he
took me aside, and said he should be glad to dine with me, at such a
tavern, if I staid till those people were gone, (Budgell and Philips. )
We went accordingly; and, after dinner, Mr. Addison said, 'That he had
wanted for some time to talk with me; that his friend Tickell had
formerly, whilst at Oxford, translated the first book of the Iliad; that
he designed to print it, and had desired him to look it over; that he
must, therefore, beg that I would not desire him to look over my first
book, because, if he did, it would have the air of double-dealing. ' I
assured him that I did not at all take it ill of Mr. Tickell that he was
going to publish his translation; that he certainly had as much right to
translate any author as myself; and that publishing both was entering on
a fair stage. I then added, that I would not desire him to look over my
first book of the Iliad, because he had looked over Mr. Tickell's; but
could wish to have the benefit of his observations on my second, which I
had then finished, and which Mr. Tickell had not touched upon.
Accordingly I sent him the second book the next morning; and Mr.
Addison, a few days after, returned it, with very high commendations.
Soon after it was generally known that Mr. Tickell was publishing the
first book of the Iliad, I met Dr. Young in the street; and, upon our
falling into that subject, the doctor expressed a great deal of surprise
at Tickell's having had such a translation so long by him. He said, that
it was inconceivable to him, and that there must be some mistake in the
matter; that each used to communicate to the other whatever verses they
wrote, even to the least things; that Tickell could not have been busied
in so long a work there, without his knowing something of the matter;
and that he had never heard a single word of it till on this occasion.
The surprise of Dr. Young, together with what Steele has said against
Tickell in relation to this affair, make it highly probable that there
was some underhand dealing in that business; and indeed Tickell himself,
who is a very fair worthy man, has since, in a manner, as good as owned
it to me. [When it was introduced into a conversation between Mr.
Tickell and Mr. Pope, by a third person, Tickell did not deny it; which,
considering his honour, and zeal for his departed friend, was the same
as owning it. "]

Upon these suspicions, with which Dr. Warburton hints that other
circumstances concurred, Pope always, in his Art of Sinking, quotes this
book as the work of Addison.

To compare the two translations would be tedious; the palm is now given
universally to Pope; but I think the first lines of Tickell's were
rather to be preferred; and Pope seems to have since borrowed something
from them, in the correction of his own.

When the Hanover succession was disputed, Tickell gave what assistance
his pen would supply. His Letter to Avignon stands high among
party-poems; it expresses contempt without coarseness, and superiority
without insolence. It had the success which it deserved, being five
times printed.

He was now intimately united to Mr. Addison, who, when he went into
Ireland as secretary to the lord Sunderland, took him thither, and
employed him in publick business; and when, 1717, afterwards he rose to
be secretary of state, made him under-secretary. Their friendship seems
to have continued without abatement; for, when Addison died, he left him
the charge of publishing his works, with a solemn recommendation to the
patronage of Craggs.

To these works he prefixed an elegy on the author, which could owe none
of its beauties to the assistance, which might be suspected to have
strengthened or embellished his earlier compositions; but neither he nor
Addison ever produced nobler lines than are contained in the third and
fourth paragraphs; nor is a more sublime or more elegant funeral-poem to
be found in the whole compass of English literature.

He was afterwards, about 1725, made secretary to the lords justices of
Ireland, a place of great honour; in which he continued till 1740, when
he died on the twenty-third of April, at Bath.

Of the poems yet unmentioned, the longest is Kensington Gardens, of
which the versification is smooth and elegant, but the fiction
unskilfully compounded of Grecian deities and Gothick fairies. Neither
species of those exploded beings could have done much; and when they are
brought together, they only make each other contemptible. To Tickell,
however, cannot be refused a high place among the minor poets; nor
should it be forgotten that he was one of the contributors to the
Spectator. With respect to his personal character, he is said to have
been a man of gay conversation, at least a temperate lover of wine and
company, and in his domestick relations without censure.




HAMMOND.


Of Mr. Hammond, though he be well remembered as a man esteemed and
caressed by the elegant and great, I was at first able to obtain no
other memorials than such as are supplied by a book called Cibber's
Lives of the Poets; of which I take this opportunity to testify that it
was not written, nor, I believe, ever seen by either of the Cibbers; but
was the work of Robert Shiels, a native of Scotland, a man of very acute
understanding, though with little scholastick education, who, not long
after the publication of his work, died in London of a consumption. His
life was virtuous, and his end was pious. Theophilus Cibber, then a
prisoner for debt, imparted, as I was told, his name for ten guineas.
The manuscript of Shiels is now in my possession.

I have since found that Mr. Shiels, though he was no negligent inquirer,
has been misled by false accounts; for he relates that James Hammond,
the author of the elegies, was the son of a Turkey merchant, and had
some office at the prince of Wales's court, till love of a lady, whose
name was Dashwood, for a time disordered his understanding. He was
unextinguishably amorous, and his mistress inexorably cruel.

Of this narrative, part is true, and part false. He was the second son
of Anthony Hammond, a man of note among the wits, poets, and
parliamentary orators, in the beginning of this century, who was allied
to sir Robert Walpole by marrying his sister[43]. He was born about
1710, and educated at Westminster-school; but it does not appear that he
was of any university[44]. He was equerry to the prince of Wales, and
seems to have come very early into publick notice, and to have been
distinguished by those whose friendship prejudiced mankind at that time
in favour of the man on whom they were bestowed; for he was the
companion of Cobham, Lyttelton, and Chesterfield. He is said to have
divided his life between pleasure and books; in his retirement
forgetting the town, and in his gaiety losing the student. Of his
literary hours all the effects are here exhibited, of which the elegies
were written very early, and the prologue not long before his death.

In 1741, he was chosen into parliament for Truro, in Cornwall, probably
one of those who were elected by the prince's influence; and died next
year in June, at Stowe, the famous seat of lord Cobham. His mistress
long outlived him, and, in 1779, died unmarried. The character which her
lover bequeathed her was, indeed, not likely to attract courtship.

The elegies were published after his death; and while the writer's name
was remembered with fondness, they were read with a resolution to admire
them.

The recommendatory preface of the editor, who was then believed, and is
now affirmed by Dr. Maty, to be the earl of Chesterfield, raised strong
prejudices in their favour.

But of the prefacer, whoever he was, it may be reasonably suspected that
he never read the poems; for he professes to value them for a very high
species of excellence, and recommends them as the genuine effusions of
the mind, which expresses a real passion in the language of nature. But
the truth is, these elegies have neither passion, nature, nor manners.
Where there is fiction, there is no passion: he that describes himself
as a shepherd, and his Neæra or Delia as a shepherdess, and talks of
goats and lambs, feels no passion. He that courts his mistress with
Roman imagery deserves to lose her; for she may, with good reason,
suspect his sincerity. Hammond has few sentiments drawn from nature, and
few images from modern life. He produces nothing but frigid pedantry. It
would be hard to find in all his productions three stanzas that deserve
to be remembered.

Like other lovers, he threatens the lady with dying; and what then shall
follow?

Wilt thou in tears thy lover's corse attend;
With eyes averted light the solemn pyre,
Till all around the doleful flames ascend,
Then, slowly sinking, by degrees expire?

To sooth the hov'ring soul be thine the care,
With plaintive cries to lead the mournful band;
In sable weeds the golden vase to bear,
And cull my ashes with thy trembling hand:

Panchaia's odours be their costly feast,
And all the pride of Asia's fragrant year,
Give them the treasures of the farthest East,
And, what is still more precious, give thy tear.

Surely no blame can fall upon the nymph who rejected a swain of so
little meaning.

His verses are not rugged, but they have no sweetness; they never glide
in a stream of melody. Why Hammond or other writers have thought the
quatrain of ten syllables elegiack, it is difficult to tell. The
character of the elegy is gentleness and tenuity; but this stanza has
been pronounced by Dryden, whose knowledge of English metre was not
inconsiderable, to be the most magnificent of all the measures which our
language affords.

-----

[Footnote 43: This account is still erroneous. James Hammond, our
author, was of a different family, the second son of Anthony Hammond, of
Somersham-place, in the county of Huntingdon, esq. See Gent. Mag. vol.
lvii. p. 780. R. ]

[Footnote 44: Mr. Cole gives him to Cambridge. MSS. Athenae Cantab, in
Mus. Brit. ]




SOMERVILE.


Of Mr. [45] Somervile's life I am not able to say any thing that can
satisfy curiosity.

He was a gentleman whose estate was in Warwickshire: his house, where he
was born, in 1692, is called Edston, a seat inherited from a long line
of ancestors; for he was said to be of the first family in his county.
He tells of himself that he was born near the Avon's banks. He was bred
at Winchester-school, and was elected fellow of New college. It does not
appear that in the places of his education he exhibited any uncommon
proofs of genius or literature. His powers were first displayed in the
country, where he was distinguished as a poet, a gentleman, and a
skilful and useful justice of the peace.

Of the close of his life, those whom his poems have delighted will read
with pain the following account, copied from the letters of his friend
Shenstone, by whom he was too much resembled.

"--Our old friend Somervile is dead! I did not imagine I could have been
so sorry as I find myself on this occasion: 'Sublatum quaerimus. ' I can
now excuse all his foibles; impute them to age, and to distress of
circumstances: the last of these considerations wrings my very soul to
think on. For a man of high spirit, conscious of having, at least in one
production, generally pleased the world, to be plagued and threatened by
wretches that are low in every sense; to be forced to drink himself into
pains of the body, in order to get rid of the pains of the mind, is a
misery. "

He died July 19,1742, and was buried at Wotton, near Henley on Arden.

His distresses need not be much pitied: his estate is said to have been
fifteen hundred a-year, which, by his death, devolved to lord Somervile,
of Scotland. His mother, indeed, who lived till ninety, had a jointure
of six hundred.

It is with regret that I find myself not better enabled to exhibit
memorials of a writer, who, at least, must be allowed to have set a good
example to men of his own class, by devoting part of his time to elegant
knowledge; and who has shown, by the subjects which his poetry has
adorned, that it is practicable to be at once a skilful sportsman, and a
man of letters.

Somervile has tried many modes of poetry; and though, perhaps, he has
not in any reached such excellence as to raise much envy, it may
commonly be said, at least, that "he writes very well for a gentleman. "
His serious pieces are sometimes elevated, and his trifles are sometimes
elegant. In his verses to Addison, the couplet which mentions Clio is
written with the most exquisite delicacy of praise; it exhibits one of
those happy strokes that are seldom attained. In his odes to Marlborough
there are beautiful lines; but, in the second ode, he shows that he knew
little of his hero, when he talks of his private virtues. His subjects
are commonly such as require no great depth of thought, or energy of
expression. His fables are generally stale, and, therefore, excite no
curiosity. Of his favourite, the Two Springs, the fiction is unnatural,
and the moral inconsequential. In his tales there is too much
coarseness, with too little care of language, and not sufficient
rapidity of narration.

His great work is his Chase, which he undertook in his maturer age, when
his ear was improved to the approbation of blank verse, of which,
however, his two first lines give a bad specimen. To this poem praise
cannot be totally denied. He is allowed, by sportsmen, to write with
great intelligence of his subject, which is the first requisite to
excellence; and, though it is impossible to interest the common readers
of verse in the dangers or pleasures of the chase, he has done all that
transition and variety could easily effect; and has, with great
propriety, enlarged his plan by the modes of hunting used in other
countries.

With still less judgment did he choose blank verse as the vehicle of
Rural Sports. If blank verse be not tumid and gorgeous, it is crippled
prose; and familiar images, in laboured language, have nothing to
recommend them but absurd novelty, which, wanting the attractions of
nature, cannot please long. One excellence of the Splendid Shilling is,
that it is short. Disguise can gratify no longer than it deceives[46].

-----

[Footnote 45: William. ]

[Footnote 46: An allusion of approbation is made to the above in
Nichol's Literary Anecdotes of the eighteenth century, ii. 58. ED. ]




SAVAGE[47].


It has been observed, in all ages, that the advantages of nature, or of
fortune, have contributed very little to the promotion of happiness; and
that those whom the splendour of their rank, or the extent of their
capacity, have placed upon the summits of human life, have not often
given any just occasion to envy, in those who look up to them from a
lower station: whether it be that apparent superiority incites great
designs, and great designs are naturally liable to fatal miscarriages;
or, that the general lot of mankind is misery, and the misfortunes of
those, whose eminence drew upon them an universal attention, have been
more carefully recorded, because they were more generally observed, and
have, in reality, been only more conspicuous than those of others, not
more frequent, or more severe.

That affluence and power, advantages extrinsick and adventitious, and,
therefore, easily separable from those by whom they are possessed,
should very often flatter the mind with expectations of felicity which
they cannot give, raises no astonishment; but it seems rational to hope,
that intellectual greatness should produce better effects; that minds
qualified for great attainments should first endeavour their own
benefit; and that they, who are most able to teach others the way to
happiness, should with most certainty follow it themselves.

But this expectation, however plausible, has been very frequently
disappointed. The heroes of literary as well as civil history, have been
very often no less remarkable for what they have suffered, than for what
they have achieved; and volumes have been written only to enumerate the
miseries of the learned, and relate their unhappy lives and untimely
deaths.

To these mournful narratives, I am about to add the life of Richard
Savage, a man whose writings entitle him to an eminent rank in the
classes of learning, and whose misfortunes claim a degree of compassion,
not always due to the unhappy, as they were often the consequences of
the crimes of others, rather than his own.

In the year 1697, Anne, countess of Macclesfield, having lived, for same
time, upon very uneasy terms with her husband, thought a publick
confession of adultery the most obvious and expeditious method of
obtaining her liberty; and, therefore, declared, that the child, with
which she was then great, was begotten by the earl Rivers. This, as may
be imagined, made her husband no less desirous of a separation than
herself, and he prosecuted his design in the most effectual manner; for
he applied not to the ecclesiastical courts for a divorce, but to the
parliament for an act, by which his marriage might be dissolved, the
nuptial contract totally annulled, and the children of his wife
illegitimated. This act, after the usual deliberation, he obtained,
though without the approbation of some, who considered marriage as an
affair only cognizable by ecclesiastical judges[48]; and, on March 3rd,
was separated from his wife, whose fortune, which was very great, was
repaid her, and who having, as well as her husband, the liberty of
making another choice, was, in a short time, married to colonel Brett.

While the earl of Macclesfield was prosecuting this affair, his wife
was, on the 10th of January, 1697-8, delivered of a son; and the earl
Rivers, by appearing to consider him as his own, left none any reason to
doubt of the sincerity of her declaration; for he was his godfather, and
gave him his own name, which was, by his direction, inserted in the
register of St. Andrew's parish[49] in Holborn, but, unfortunately, left
him to the care of his mother, whom, as she was now set free from her
husband, he, probably, imagined likely to treat with great tenderness
the child that had contributed to so pleasing an event. It is not,
indeed, easy to discover what motives could be found to overbalance that
natural affection of a parent, or what interest could be promoted by
neglect or cruelty. The dread of shame or of poverty, by which some
wretches have been incited to abandon or to murder their children,
cannot be supposed to have affected a woman who had proclaimed her
crimes and solicited reproach, and on whom the clemency of the
legislature had undeservedly bestowed a fortune, which would have been
very little diminished by the expenses which the care of her child
could have brought upon her. It was, therefore, not likely that she
would be wicked without temptation; that she would look upon her son,
from his birth, with a kind of resentment and abhorrence; and, instead
of supporting, assisting, and defending him, delight to see him
struggling with misery, or that she would take every opportunity of
aggravating his misfortunes, and obstructing his resources, and, with an
implacable and restless cruelty, continue her persecution from the first
hour of his life to the last.

But, whatever were her motives, no sooner was her son born, than she
discovered a resolution of disowning him; and, in a very short time,
removed him from her sight, by committing him to the care of a poor
woman, whom she directed to educate him as her own, and enjoined never
to inform him of his true parents.

Such was the beginning of the life of Richard Savage. Born with a legal
claim to honour and to affluence, he was, in two months, illegitimated
by the parliament, and disowned by his mother, doomed to poverty and
obscurity, and launched upon the ocean of life, only that he might be
swallowed by its quicksands, or dashed upon its rocks.

His mother could not, indeed, infect others with the same cruelty. As it
was impossible to avoid the inquiries which the curiosity or tenderness
of her relations made after her child, she was obliged to give some
account of the measures she had taken; and her mother, the lady Mason,
whether in approbation of her design, or to prevent more criminal
contrivances, engaged to transact with the nurse, to pay her for her
care, and to superintend the education of the child.

In this charitable office she was assisted by his godmother, Mrs. Lloyd,
who, while she lived, always looked upon him with that tenderness which
the barbarity of his mother made peculiarly necessary; but her death,
which happened in his tenth year, was another of the misfortunes of his
childhood; for though she kindly endeavoured to alleviate his loss by a
legacy of three hundred pounds, yet, as he had none to prosecute his
claim, to shelter him from oppression, or call in law to the assistance
of justice, her will was eluded by the executors, and no part of the
money was ever paid[50].

He was, however, not yet wholly abandoned. The lady Mason still
continued her care, and directed him to be placed at a small
grammar-school near St. Alban's, where he was called by the name of his
nurse, without the least intimation that he had a claim to any other.
Here he was initiated in literature, and passed through several of the
classes, with what rapidity or with what applause cannot now be known.
As he always spoke with respect of his master, it is probable that the
mean rank, in which he then appeared, did not hinder his genius from
being distinguished, or his industry from being rewarded; and if in so
low a state he obtained distinction and rewards, it is not likely they
were gained but by genius and industry.

It is very reasonable to conjecture, that his application was equal to
his abilities, because his improvement was more than proportioned to the
opportunities which he enjoyed; nor can it be doubted, that if his
earliest productions had been preserved, like those of happier students,
we might in some have found vigorous sallies of that sprightly humour
which distinguishes the Author to be let, and in others strong touches
of that ardent imagination which painted the solemn scenes of the
Wanderer.

While he was thus cultivating his genius, his father, the earl Rivers,
was seized with a distemper, which, in a short time, put an end to his
life[51]. He had frequently inquired after his son, and had always been
amused with fallacious and evasive answers; but, being now, in his own
opinion, on his deathbed, he thought it his duty to provide for him
among his other natural children, and, therefore, demanded a positive
account of him, with an importunity not to be diverted or denied. His
mother, who could no longer refuse an answer, determined, at least, to
give such as should cut him off for ever from that happiness which
competence affords, and, therefore, declared that he was dead; which is,
perhaps, the first instance of a lie invented by a mother to deprive her
son of a provision which was designed him by another, and which she
could not expect herself, though he should lose it.

This was, therefore, an act of wickedness which could not be defeated,
because it could not be suspected; the earl did not imagine there could
exist in a human form a mother that would ruin her son without enriching
herself, and, therefore, bestowed upon some other person six thousand
pounds, which he had in his will bequeathed to Savage.

The same cruelty which incited his mother to intercept this provision
which had been intended him, prompted her, in a short time, to another
project, a project worthy of such a disposition. She endeavoured to rid
herself from the danger of being at any time made known to him, by
sending him secretly to the American plantations[52].

By whose kindness this scheme was counteracted, or by what interposition
she was induced to lay aside her design, I know not; it is not
improbable that the lady Mason might persuade or compel her to desist,
or, perhaps, she could not easily find accomplices wicked enough to
concur in so cruel an action; for it may be conceived, that those who
had, by a long gradation of guilt, hardened their hearts against the
sense of common wickedness, would yet be shocked at the design of a
mother to expose her son to slavery and want, to expose him without
interest, and without provocation; and Savage might, on this occasion,
find protectors and advocates among those who had long traded in crimes,
and whom compassion had never touched before.

Being hindered, by whatever means, from banishing him into another
country, she formed, soon after, a scheme for burying him in poverty and
obscurity in his own; and, that his station of life, if not the place of
his residence, might keep him for ever at a distance from her, she
ordered him to be placed with a shoemaker in Holborn, that, after the
usual time of trial, he might become his apprentice[53].

It is generally reported, that this project was, for some time,
successful, and that Savage was employed at the awl longer than he was
willing to confess; nor was it, perhaps, any great advantage to him,
that an unexpected discovery determined him to quit his occupation.

About this time his nurse, who had always treated him as her own son,
died; and it was natural for him to take care of those effects which, by
her death, were, as he imagined, become his own: he, therefore, went to
her house, opened her boxes, and examined her papers, among which he
found some letters written to her by the lady Mason, which informed him
of his birth, and the reasons for which it was concealed.

He was no longer satisfied with the employment which had been allotted
him, but thought he had a right to share the affluence of his mother;
and, therefore, without scruple, applied to her as her son, and made use
of every art to awaken her tenderness, and attract her regard. But
neither his letters, nor the interposition of those friends which his
merit or his distress procured him, made any impression upon her mind.
She, still resolved to neglect, though she could no longer disown him.

It was to no purpose that he frequently solicited her to admit him to
see her: she avoided him with the most vigilant precaution, and ordered
him to be excluded from her house, by whomsoever he might be introduced,
and what reason soever he might give for entering it.

Savage was at the same time so touched with the discovery of his real
mother, that it was his frequent practice to walk in the dark
evenings[54] for several hours before her door, in hopes of seeing her
as she might come by accident to the window, or cross her apartment with
a candle in her hand.

But all his assiduity and tenderness were without effect, for he could
neither soften her heart nor open her hand, and was reduced to the
utmost miseries of want, while he was endeavouring to awaken the
affection of a mother. He was, therefore, obliged to seek some other
means of support; and, having no profession, became, by necessity, an
author.

At this time the attention of the literary world was engrossed by the
Bangorian controversy, which filled the press with pamphlets, and the
coffee-houses with disputants. Of this subject, as most popular, he made
choice for his first attempt, and, without any other knowledge of the
question than he had casually collected from conversation, published a
poem against the bishop[55].

What was the success or merit of this performance, I know not; it was
probably lost among the innumerable pamphlets to which that dispute gave
occasion. Mr. Savage was himself in a little time ashamed of it, and
endeavoured to suppress it, by destroying all the copies that he could
collect.

He then attempted a more gainful kind of writing[56], and, in his
eighteenth year, offered to the stage a comedy, borrowed from a Spanish
plot, which was refused by the players, and was, therefore, given by him
to Mr. Bullock, who, having more interest, made some slight
alterations, and brought it upon the stage, under the title of Woman's a
Riddle[57], but allowed the unhappy author no part of the profit.

Not discouraged, however, at his repulse, he wrote, two years
afterwards, Love in a Veil, another comedy, borrowed likewise from the
Spanish, but with little better success than before; for, though it was
received and acted, yet it appeared so late in the year, that the author
obtained no other advantage from it, than the acquaintance of sir
Richard Steele, and Mr. Wilks, by whom he was pitied, caressed, and
relieved.

Sir Richard Steele, having declared in his favour with all the ardour of
benevolence which constituted his character, promoted his interest with
the utmost zeal, related his misfortunes, applauded his merit, took all
the opportunities of recommending him, and asserted, that "the
inhumanity of his mother had given him a right to find every good man
his father[58]. "

Nor was Mr. Savage admitted to his acquaintance only, but to his
confidence, of which he sometimes related an instance too extraordinary
to be omitted, as it affords a very just idea of his patron's character.

He was once desired by sir Richard, with an air of the utmost
importance, to come very early to his house the next morning. Mr. Savage
came as he had promised, found the chariot at the door, and sir Richard
waiting for him, and ready to go out. What was intended, and whither
they were to go, Savage could not conjecture, and was not willing to
inquire; but immediately seated himself with sir Richard. The coachman
was ordered to drive, and they hurried, with the utmost expedition, to
Hyde-park corner, where they stopped at a petty tavern, and retired to a
private room. Sir Richard then informed him, that he intended to publish
a pamphlet, and that he had desired him to come thither that he might
write for him. They soon sat down to the work. Sir Richard dictated, and
Savage wrote, till the dinner that had been ordered was put upon the
table. Savage was surprised at the meanness of the entertainment, and,
after some hesitation, ventured to ask for wine, which sir Richard, not
without reluctance, ordered to be brought. They then finished their
dinner, and proceeded in their pamphlet, which they concluded in the
afternoon.

Mr. Savage then imagined his task over, and expected that sir Richard
would call for the reckoning, and return home; but his expectations
deceived him, for sir Richard told him that he was without money, and
that the pamphlet must be sold, before the dinner could be paid for; and
Savage was, therefore, obliged to go and offer their new production to
sale for two guineas, which, with some difficulty, he obtained. Sir
Richard then returned home, having retired that day only to avoid his
creditors, and composed the pamphlet only to discharge his reckoning.

Mr. Savage related another fact equally uncommon, which, though it has
no relation to his life, ought to be preserved. Sir Richard Steele
having one day invited to his house a great number of persons of the
first quality, they were surprised at the number of liveries which
surrounded the table; and after dinner, when wine and mirth had set them
free from the observation of rigid ceremony, one of them inquired of sir
Richard, how such an expensive train of domesticks could be consistent
with his fortune. Sir Richard very frankly confessed, that they were
fellows of whom he would very willingly be rid: and being then asked why
he did not discharge them, declared that they were bailiffs, who had
introduced themselves with an execution, and whom, since he could not
send them away, he had thought it convenient to embellish with liveries,
that they might do him credit while they staid.

His friends were diverted with the expedient, and, by paying the debt,
discharged their attendance, having obliged sir Richard to promise that
they should never again find him graced with a retinue of the same kind.

Under such a tutor Mr. Savage was not likely to learn prudence or
frugality; and, perhaps, many of the misfortunes which the want of those
virtues brought upon him in the following parts of his life, might be
justly imputed to so unimproving an example.

Nor did the kindness of sir Richard end in common favours. He proposed
to have established him in some settled scheme of life, and to have
contracted a kind of alliance with him, by marrying him to a natural
daughter, on whom he intended to bestow a thousand pounds. But, though
he was always lavish of future bounties, he conducted his affairs in
such a manner, that he was very seldom able to keep his promises, or
execute his own intentions; and, as he was never able to raise the sum
which he had offered, the marriage was delayed. In the mean time he was
officiously informed, that Mr. Savage had ridiculed him; by which he was
so much exasperated, that he withdrew the allowance which he had paid
him, and never afterwards admitted him to his house.

It is not, indeed, unlikely that Savage might, by his imprudence, expose
himself to the malice of a talebearer; for his patron had many follies,
which, as his discernment easily discovered, his imagination might
sometimes incite him to mention too ludicrously. A little knowledge of
the world is sufficient to discover that such weakness is very common,
and that there are few who do not sometimes, in the wantonness of
thoughtless mirth, or the heat of transient resentment, speak of their
friends and benefactors with levity and contempt, though, in their
cooler moments, they want neither sense of their kindness, nor reverence
for their virtue: the fault, therefore, of Mr. Savage was rather
negligence than ingratitude. But sir Richard must, likewise, be
acquitted of severity, for who is there that can patiently bear contempt
from one whom he has relieved and supported, whose establishment he has
laboured, and whose interest he has promoted?

He was now again abandoned to fortune, without any other friend than
Mr. Wilks; a man who, whatever were his abilities or skill as an actor,
deserves, at least, to be remembered for his virtues[59], which are not
often to be found in the world, and, perhaps, Jess often in his
profession than in others. To be humane, generous, and candid, is a very
high degree of merit in any case; but those qualities deserve still
greater praise, when they are found in that condition which makes almost
every other man, for whatever reason, contemptuous, insolent, petulant,
selfish, and brutal.

As Mr. Wilks was one of those to whom calamity seldom complained without
relief, he naturally took an unfortunate wit into his protection, and
not only assisted him in any casual distresses, but continued an equal
and steady kindness to the time of his death.

By his interposition Mr. Savage once obtained from his mother[60] fifty
pounds, and a promise of one hundred and fifty more; but it was the
fate of this unhappy man, that few promises of any advantage to him were
performed. His mother was infected, among others, with the general
madness of the South-sea traffick; and, having been disappointed in her
expectations, refused to pay what, perhaps, nothing but the prospect of
sudden affluence prompted her to promise.

Being thus obliged to depend upon the friendship of Mr. Wilks, he was,
consequently, an assiduous frequenter of the theatres; and, in a short
time, the amusements of the stage took such possession of his mind, that
he never was absent from a play in several years.

This constant attendance naturally procured him the acquaintance of the
players; and, among others, of Mrs. Oldfield, who was so much pleased
with his conversation, and touched with his misfortunes, that she
allowed him a settled pension of fifty pounds a year, which was during
her life regularly paid.

That this act of generosity may receive its due praise, and that the
good actions of Mrs. Oldfield may not be sullied by her general
character, it is proper to mention what Mr. Savage often declared, in
the strongest terms, that he never saw her alone, or in any other place
than behind the scenes.

At her death he endeavoured to show his gratitude in the most decent
manner, by wearing mourning, as for a mother; but did not celebrate her
in elegies[61], because he knew that too great profusion of praise would
only have revived those faults which his natural equity did not allow
him to think less, because they were committed by one who favoured him;
but of which, though his virtue would not endeavour to palliate them,
his gratitude would not suffer him to prolong the memory, or diffuse the
censure.

In his Wanderer, he has, indeed, taken an opportunity of mentioning
her; but celebrates her not for her virtue, but her beauty, an
excellence which none ever denied her: this is the only encomium with
which he has rewarded her liberality; and, perhaps, he has, even in
this, been too lavish of his praise. He seems to have thought, that
never to mention his benefactress would have an appearance of
ingratitude, though to have dedicated any particular performance to her
memory would have only betrayed an officious partiality, that, without
exalting her character, would have depressed his own.

He had sometimes, by the kindness of Mr. Wilks, the advantage of a
benefit, on which occasions he often received uncommon marks of regard
and compassion; and was once told, by the duke of Dorset, that it was
just to consider him as an injured nobleman; and that, in his opinion,
the nobility ought to think themselves obliged, without solicitation, to
take every opportunity of supporting him by their countenance and
patronage. But he had generally the mortification to hear, that the
whole interest of his mother was employed to frustrate his applications,
and that she never left any expedient untried, by which he might be cut
off from the possibility of supporting life. The same disposition she
endeavoured to diffuse among all those over whom nature or fortune gave
her any influence; and, indeed, succeeded too well in her design; but
could not always propagate her effrontery with her cruelty; for some of
those, whom she incited against him, were ashamed of their own conduct,
and boasted of that relief which they never gave him.

In this censure I do not indiscriminately involve all his relations; for
he has mentioned, with gratitude, the humanity of one lady, whose name I
am now unable to recollect, and to whom, therefore, I cannot pay the
praises which she deserves, for having acted well, in opposition to
influence, precept, and example.

The punishment which our laws inflict upon those parents who murder
their infants, is well known; nor has its justice ever been contested;
but, if they deserve death who destroy a child in its birth, what pains
can be severe enough for her who forbears to destroy him, only to
inflict sharper miseries upon him; who prolongs his life, only to make
him miserable; and who exposes him, without care and without pity, to
the malice of oppression, the caprices of chance, and the temptations of
poverty; who rejoices to see him overwhelmed with calamities; and, when
his own industry, or the charity of others, has enabled him to rise, for
a short time, above his miseries, plunges him again into his former
distress?

The kindness of his friends not affording him any constant supply, and
the prospect of improving his fortune by enlarging his acquaintance
necessarily leading him to places of expense, he found it necessary[62]
to endeavour, once more, at dramatick poetry, for which he was now
better qualified, by a more extensive knowledge and longer observation.
But having been unsuccessful in comedy, though rather for want of
opportunities than genius, he resolved now to try whether he should not
be more fortunate in exhibiting a tragedy.

The story which he chose for the subject, was that of sir Thomas
Overbury, a story well adapted to the stage, though, perhaps, not far
enough removed from the present age to admit properly the fictions
necessary to complete the plan; for the mind, which naturally loves
truth, is always most offended with the violation of those truths of
which we are most certain; and we, of course, conceive those facts most
certain, which approach nearest to our own time.

Out of this story he formed a tragedy, which, if the circumstances in
which he wrote it be considered, will afford, at once, an uncommon proof
of strength of genius, and evenness of mind, of a serenity not to be
ruffled, and an imagination not to be suppressed.

During a considerable part of the time in which he was employed upon
this performance, he was without lodging, and often without meat; nor
had he any other conveniences for study than the fields or the streets
allowed him: there he used to walk and form his speeches, and,
afterwards, step into a shop, beg for a few moments the use of the pen
and ink, and write down what he had composed, upon paper which he had
picked up by accident.

If the performance of a writer thus distressed is not perfect, its
faults ought, surely, to be imputed to a cause very different from want
of genius, and must rather excite pity than provoke censure.

But when, under these discouragements, the tragedy was finished, there
yet remained the labour of introducing it on the stage; an undertaking,
which, to an ingenuous mind, was, in a very high degree, vexatious and
disgusting; for, having little interest or reputation, he was obliged to
submit himself wholly to the players, and admit, with whatever
reluctance, the emendations of Mr. Cibber, which he always considered as
the disgrace of his performance.

He had, indeed, in Mr. Hill, another critick of a very different class,
from whose friendship he received great assistance on many occasions,
and whom he never mentioned but with the utmost tenderness and regard.
He had been for some time distinguished by him with very particular
kindness, and on this occasion it was natural to apply to him, as an
author of an established character. He, therefore, sent this tragedy to
him, with a short copy of verses[63], in which he desired his
correction. Mr. Hill, whose humanity and politeness are generally known,
readily complied with his request; but, as he is remarkable for
singularity of sentiment, and bold experiments in language, Mr. Savage
did not think his play much improved by his innovation, and had, even at
that time, the courage to reject several passages which he could not
approve; and, what is still more laudable, Mr. Hill had the generosity
not to resent the neglect of his alterations, but wrote the prologue
and epilogue, in which he touches on the circumstances of the author
with great tenderness.

After all these obstructions and compliances, he was only able to bring
his play upon the stage in the summer, when the chief actors had
retired, and the rest were in possession of the house for their own
advantage. Among these, Mr. Savage was admitted to play the part of sir
Thomas Overbury[64], by which he gained no great reputation, the theatre
being a province for which nature seemed not to have designed him; for
neither his voice, look, nor gesture, were such as were expected on the
stage; and he was so much ashamed of having been reduced to appear as a
player, that he always blotted out his name from the list, when a copy
of his tragedy was to be shown to his friends.

In the publication of his performance he was more successful, for the
rays of genius that glimmered in it, that glimmered through all the
mists which poverty and Cibber had been able to spread over it, procured
him the notice and esteem of many persons eminent for their rank, their
virtue, and their wit.

Of this play, acted, printed, and dedicated, the accumulated profits
arose to a hundred pounds, which he thought at that time a very large
sum, having been never master of so much before.

In the dedication[65], for which he received ten guineas, there is
nothing remarkable. The preface contains a very liberal encomium on the
blooming excellencies of Mr. Theophilus Cibber, which Mr. Savage could
not in the latter part of his life see his friends about to read without
snatching the play out of their hands. The generosity of Mr. Hill did
not end on this occasion; for afterwards, when Mr. Savage's necessities
returned, he encouraged a subscription to a Miscellany of Poems in a
very extraordinary manner, by publishing his story in the Plain
Dealer[66], with some affecting lines, which he asserts to have been
written by Mr. Savage upon the treatment received by him from his
mother, but of which he was himself the author, as Mr. Savage afterwards
declared. These lines, and the paper in which they were inserted, had a
very powerful effect upon all but his mother, whom, by making her
cruelty more publick, they only hardened in her aversion.

Mr. Hill not only promoted the subscription to the Miscellany, but
furnished likewise the greatest part of the poems of which it is
composed, and particularly the Happy Man, which he published as a
specimen.

The subscriptions of those whom these papers should influence to
patronise merit in distress, without any other solicitation, were
directed to be left at Button's coffee-house; and Mr. Savage going
thither a few days afterwards, without expectation of any effect from
his proposal, found to his surprise seventy guineas[67], which had been
sent him in consequence of the compassion excited by Mr. Hill's
pathetick representation.

To this Miscellany he wrote a preface, in which he gives an account of
his mother's cruelty in a very uncommon strain of humour, and with a
gaiety of imagination; which the success of his subscription probably
produced.

The dedication is addressed to the lady Mary Wortley Montague, whom he
flatters without reserve, and, to confess the truth, with very little
art[68]. The same observation may be extended to all his dedications:
his compliments are constrained and violent, heaped together without the
grace of order, or the decency of introduction: he seems to have written
his panegyricks for the perusal only of his patrons, and to have
imagined that he had no other task than to pamper them with praises,
however gross, and that flattery would make its way to the heart,
without the assistance of elegance or invention.

Soon afterwards the death of the king furnished a general subject for a
poetical contest, in which Mr. Savage engaged, and is allowed to have
carried the prize of honour from his competitors: but I know not whether
he gained by his performance any other advantage than the increase of
his reputation; though it must certainly have been with further views
that he prevailed upon himself to attempt a species of writing, of which
all the topicks had been long before exhausted, and which was made at
once difficult by the multitudes that had failed in it, and those that
had succeeded.

He was now advancing in reputation, and though frequently involved in
very distressful perplexities, appeared, however, to be gaining upon
mankind, when both his fame and his life were endangered by an event, of
which it is not yet determined, whether it ought to be mentioned as a
crime or a calamity.

On the 20th of November, 1727, Mr. Savage came from Richmond, where he
then lodged, that he might pursue his studies with less interruption,
with an intent to discharge another lodging which he had in Westminster;
and accidentally meeting two gentlemen, his acquaintances, whose names
were Merchant and Gregory, he went in with them to a neighbouring
coffee-house, and sat drinking till it was late, it being in no time of
Mr. Savage's life any part of his character to be the first of the
company that desired to separate. He would willingly have gone to bed in
the same house; but there was not room for the whole company, and,
therefore, they agreed to ramble about the streets, and divert
themselves with such amusements as should offer themselves till morning.

In this walk they happened unluckily to discover a light in Robinson's
coffee-house, near Charing-cross, and, therefore, went in. Merchant,
with some rudeness, demanded a room, and was told that there was a good
fire in the next parlour, which the company were about to leave, being
then paying their reckoning. Merchant, not satisfied with this answer,
rushed into the room, and was followed by his companions. He then
petulantly placed himself between the company and the fire, and soon
after kicked down the table. This produced a quarrel, swords were drawn
on both sides, and one Mr. James Sinclair was killed. Savage, having
likewise wounded a maid that held him, forced his way with Merchant out
of the house; but being intimidated and confused, without resolution
either to fly or stay, they were taken in a back court by one of the
company, and some soldiers, whom he had called to his assistance.

Being secured and guarded that night, they were in the morning carried
before three justices, who committed them to the Gate-house, from
whence, upon the death of Mr. Sinclair, which happened the same day,
they were removed in the night to Newgate, where they were, however,
treated with some distinction, exempted from the ignominy of chains, and
confined, not among the common criminals, but in the press-yard.

When the day of trial came, the court was crowded in a very unusual
manner; and the publick appeared to interest itself, as in a cause of
general concern. The witnesses against Mr. Savage and his friends were,
the woman who kept the house, which was a house of ill fame, and her
maid, the men who were in the room with Mr. Sinclair, and a woman of the
town, who had been drinking with them, and with whom one of them had
been seen in bed. They swore in general, that Merchant gave the
provocation, which Savage and Gregory drew their swords to justify; that
Savage drew first, and that he stabbed Sinclair when he was not in a
posture of defence, or while Gregory commanded his sword; that after he
had given the thrust he turned pale, and would have retired, but that
the maid clung round him, and one of the company endeavoured to detain
him, from whom he broke, by cutting the maid on the head, but was
afterwards taken in a court.

There was some difference in their depositions; one did not see Savage
give the wound, another saw it given when Sinclair held his point
towards the ground; and the woman of the town asserted, that she did not
see Sinclair's sword at all: this difference, however, was very far from
amounting to inconsistency; but it was sufficient to show that the hurry
of the dispute was such, that it was not easy to discover the truth with
relation to particular circumstances, and that, therefore, some
deductions were to be made from the credibility of the testimonies.

Sinclair had declared several times before his death, that he received
his wound from Savage; nor did Savage at his trial deny the fact, but
endeavoured partly to extenuate it, by urging the suddenness of the
whole action, and the impossibility of any ill design, or premeditated
malice; and partly to justify it by the necessity of self-defence, and
the hazard of his own life, if he had lost that opportunity of giving
the thrust: he observed, that neither reason nor law obliged a man to
wait for the blow which was threatened, and which, if he should suffer
it, he might never be able to return; that it was always allowable to
prevent an assault, and to preserve life by taking away that of the
adversary by whom it was endangered.

With regard to the violence with which he endeavoured to escape, he
declared, that it was not his design to fly from justice, or decline a
trial, but to avoid the expenses and severities of a prison; and that he
intended to have appeared at the bar without compulsion.

This defence, which took up more than an hour, was heard by the
multitude that thronged the court with the most attentive and respectful
silence; those who thought he ought not to be acquitted, owned that
applause could not be refused him; and those who before pitied his
misfortunes, now reverenced his abilities.

The witnesses which appeared against him were proved to be persons of
characters which did not entitle them to much credit; a common strumpet,
a woman by whom strumpets were entertained, and a man by whom they were
supported: and the character of Savage was, by several persons of
distinction, asserted to be that of a modest inoffensive man, not
inclined to broils or to insolence, and who had, to that time, been only
known for his misfortunes and his wit.

Had his audience been his judges, he had undoubtedly been acquitted; but
Mr. Page, who was then upon the bench, treated him with his usual
insolence and severity, and when he had summed up the evidence,
endeavoured to exasperate the jury, as Mr. Savage used to relate it,
with this eloquent harangue:

"Gentlemen of the jury, you are to consider that Mr. Savage is a very
great man, a much greater man than you or I, gentlemen of the jury; that
he wears very fine clothes, much finer clothes than you or I, gentlemen
of the jury; that he has abundance of money in his pocket, much more
money than you or I, gentlemen of the jury; but, gentlemen of the jury,
is it not a very hard case, gentlemen of the jury, that Mr. Savage
should, therefore, kill you or me, gentlemen of the jury? "

Mr. Savage, hearing his defence thus misrepresented, and the men who
were to decide his fate incited against him by invidious comparisons,
resolutely asserted, that his cause was not candidly explained, and
began to recapitulate what he had before said with regard to his
condition, and the necessity of endeavouring to escape the expenses of
imprisonment; but the judge having ordered him to be silent, and
repeated his orders without effect, commanded that he should be taken
from the bar by force.

The jury then heard the opinion of the judge, that good characters were
of no weight against positive evidence, though they might turn the scale
where it was doubtful; and that though, when two men attack each other,
the death of either is only manslaughter; but where one is the
aggressor, as in the case before them, and, in pursuance of his first
attack, kills the other, the law supposes the action, however sudden, to
be malicious. They then deliberated upon their verdict, and determined
that Mr. Savage and Mr. Gregory were guilty of murder; and Mr. Merchant,
who had no sword, only of manslaughter.

Thus ended this memorable trial, which lasted eight hours. Mr. Savage
and Mr. Gregory were conducted back to prison, where they were more
closely confined, and loaded with irons of fifty pounds' weight: four
days afterwards they were sent back to the court to receive sentence; on
which occasion Mr. Savage made, as far as it could be retained in
memory, the following speech:

"It is now, my lord, too late to offer any thing by way of defence or
vindication; nor can we expect from your lordships, in this court, but
the sentence which the law requires you, as judges, to pronounce against
men of our calamitous condition. But we are also persuaded, that as mere
men, and out of this seat of rigorous justice, you are susceptive of the
tender passions, and too humane not to commiserate the unhappy situation
of those, whom the law sometimes, perhaps--exacts--from you to pronounce
upon. No doubt, you distinguish between offences which arise out of
premeditation, and a disposition habituated to vice or immorality, and
transgressions, which are the unhappy and unforeseen effects of casual
absence of reason, and sudden impulse of passion; we, therefore, hope
you will contribute all you can to an extension of that mercy, which
the gentlemen of the jury have been pleased to show Mr. Merchant, who
(allowing facts as sworn against us by the evidence) has led us into
this our calamity. I hope this will not be construed as if we meant to
reflect upon that gentleman, or remove any thing from us upon him, or
that we repine the more at our fate, because he has no participation of
it: no, my lord; for my part, I declare nothing could more soften my
grief, than to be without any companion in so great a misfortune[69]. "

Mr. Savage had now no hopes of life, but from the mercy of the crown,
which was very earnestly solicited by his friends, and which, with
whatever difficulty the story may obtain belief, was obstructed only by
his mother.

To prejudice the queen against him, she made use of an incident, which
was omitted in the order of time, that it might be mentioned together
with the purpose which it was made to serve. Mr. Savage, when he had
discovered his birth, had an incessant desire to speak to his mother,
who always avoided him in publick, and refused him admission into her
house. One evening walking, as it was his custom, in the street that she
inhabited, he saw the door of her house by accident open; he entered it,
and, finding no person in the passage to hinder him, went up stairs to
salute her. She discovered him before he could enter her chamber,
alarmed the family with the most distressful outcries, and, when she had
by her screams gathered them about her, ordered them to drive out of the
house that villain, who had forced himself in upon her, and endeavoured
to murder her. Savage, who had attempted, with the most submissive
tenderness, to soften her rage, hearing her utter so detestable an
accusation, thought it prudent to retire; and, I believe, never
attempted afterwards to speak to her.

But, shocked as he was with her falsehood and her cruelty, he imagined
that she intended no other use of her lie, than to set herself free from
his embraces and solicitations, and was very far from suspecting that
she would treasure it in her memory as an instrument of future
wickedness, or that she would endeavour for this fictitious assault to
deprive him of his life.

But when the queen was solicited for his pardon, and informed of the
severe treatment which he had suffered from his judge, she answered,
that, however unjustifiable might be the manner of his trial, or
whatever extenuation the action for which he was condemned might admit,
she could not think that man a proper object of the king's mercy, who
had been capable of entering his mother's house in the night, with an
intent to murder her.

By whom this atrocious calumny had been transmitted to the queen;
whether she that invented had the front to relate it; whether she found
any one weak enough to credit it, or corrupt enough to concur with her
in her hateful design, I know not; but methods had been taken to
persuade the queen so strongly of the truth of it, that she, for a long
time, refused to hear any of those who petitioned for his life.

Thus had Savage perished by the evidence of a bawd, a strumpet, and his
mother, had not justice and compassion procured him an advocate of rank
too great to be rejected unheard, and of virtue too eminent to be heard
without being believed. His merit and his calamities happened to reach
the ear of the countess of Hertford, who engaged in his support with all
the tenderness that is excited by pity, and all the zeal which is
kindled by generosity; and, demanding an audience of the queen, laid
before her the whole series of his mother's cruelty, exposed the
improbability of an accusation by which he was charged with an intent to
commit a murder that could produce no advantage, and soon convinced her
how little his former conduct could deserve to be mentioned as a reason
for extraordinary severity.

The interposition of this lady was so successful, that he was soon after
admitted to bail, and, on the 9th of March, 1728, pleaded the king's
pardon.

It is natural to inquire upon what motives his mother could prosecute
him in a manner so outrageous and implacable; for what reason she could
employ all the arts of malice, and all the snares of calumny, to take
away the life of her own son, of a son who never injured her, who was
never supported by her expense, nor obstructed any prospect of pleasure
or advantage: why she should endeavour to destroy him by a lie--a lie
which could not gain credit, but must vanish of itself at the first
moment of examination, and of which only this can be said to make it
probable, that it may be observed from her conduct, that the most
execrable crimes are sometimes committed without apparent temptation.

This mother is still alive[70] and may, perhaps, even yet, though her
malice was so often defeated, enjoy the pleasure of reflecting, that the
life, which she often endeavoured to destroy, was, at least, shortened
by her maternal offices; that, though she could not transport her son to
the plantations, bury him in the shop of a mechanick, or hasten the hand
of the publick executioner, she has yet had the satisfaction of
imbittering all his hours, and forcing him into exigencies that hurried
on his death.

It is by no means necessary to aggravate the enormity of this woman's
conduct, by placing it in opposition to that of the countess of
Hertford; no one can fail to observe how much more amiable it is to
relieve, than to oppress, and to rescue innocence from destruction, than
to destroy without an injury.

Mr. Savage, during his imprisonment, his trial, and the time in which he
lay under sentence of death, behaved with great firmness and equality of
mind, and confirmed by his fortitude the esteem of those who before
admired him for his abilities[71]. The peculiar circumstances of his
life ere made more generally known by a short account[72], which was
then published, and of which several thousands were, in a few weeks,
dispersed over the nation; and the compassion of mankind operated so
powerfully in his favour, that he was enabled, by frequent presents, not
only to support himself, but to assist Mr. Gregory in prison; and, when
he was pardoned and released, he found the number of his friends not
lessened.

The nature of the act for which he had been tried was in itself
doubtful; of the evidences which appeared against him, the character of
the man was not unexceptionable, that of the woman notoriously infamous;
she, whose testimony chiefly influenced the jury to condemn him,
afterwards retracted her assertions. He always himself denied that he
was drunk, as had been generally reported. Mr. Gregory, who is now,
1744, collector of Antigua, is said to declare him far less criminal
than he was imagined, even by some who favoured him; and Page himself
afterwards confessed, that he had treated him with uncommon rigour. When
all these particulars are rated together, perhaps the memory of Savage
may not be much sullied by his trial.

Some time after he had obtained his liberty, he met in the street the
woman that had sworn with so much malignity against him. She informed
him, that she was in distress, and, with a degree of confidence not
easily attainable, desired him to relieve her. He, instead of insulting
her misery, and taking pleasure in the calamities of one who had brought
his life into danger, reproved her gently for her perjury; and changing
the only guinea that he had, divided it equally between her and himself.

This is an action which, in some ages, would have made a saint, and,
perhaps, in others a hero, and which, without any hyperbolical
encomiums, must be allowed to be an instance of uncommon generosity, an
act of complicated virtue; by which he at once relieved the poor,
corrected the vitious, and forgave an enemy; by which he at once
remitted the strongest provocations, and exercised the most ardent
charity.