No More Learning

But the danger of this pleasing intoxication must not be concealed; nor
indeed can any one, after having observed the life of Savage, need to
be cautioned against it. By imputing none of his miseries to himself, he
continued to act upon the same principles, and to follow the same path;
was never made wiser by his sufferings, nor preserved by one misfortune
from falling into another. He proceeded, throughout his life, to tread
the same steps on the same circle; always applauding his past conduct,
or, at least, forgetting it to amuse himself with phantoms of happiness,
which were dancing before him; and willingly turned his eyes from the
light of reason, when it would have discovered the illusion, and shown
him, what he never wished to see, his real state.

He is even accused, after having lulled his imagination with those ideal
opiates, of having tried the same experiment upon his conscience; and,
having accustomed himself to impute all deviations from the right to
foreign causes, it is certain that he was, upon every occasion, too
easily reconciled to himself, and that he appeared very little to regret
those practices which had impaired his reputation. The reigning errour
of his life was, that he mistook the love for the practice of virtue,
and was, indeed, not so much a good man as the friend of goodness.

This, at least, must be allowed him, that he always preserved a strong
sense of the dignity, the beauty, and the necessity of virtue; and that
he never contributed deliberately to spread corruption amongst mankind.
His actions, which were generally precipitate, were often blameable; but
his writings, being the productions of study, uniformly tended to the
exaltation of the mind, and the propagation of morality and piety.

These writings may improve mankind, when his failings shall be
forgotten; and, therefore, he must be considered, upon the whole, as a
benefactor to the world; nor can his personal example do any hurt, since
whoever hears of his faults will hear of the miseries which they brought
upon him, and which would deserve less pity, had not his condition been
such as made his faults pardonable. He may be considered as a child
exposed to all the temptations of indigence, at an age when resolution
was not yet strengthened by conviction, nor virtue confirmed by habit; a
circumstance which, in his Bastard, he laments in a very affecting
manner:

No mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with pray'r:
No father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.

The Bastard, however it might provoke or mortify his mother, could not
be expected to melt her to compassion, so that he was still under the
same want of the necessaries of life; and he, therefore, exerted all the
interest which his wit, or his birth, or his misfortunes, could procure,
to obtain, upon the death of Eusden, the place of poet laureate, and
prosecuted his application with so much diligence, that the king
publickly declared it his intention to bestow it upon him; but such was
the fate of Savage, that even the king, when he intended his advantage,
was disappointed in his schemes; for the lord chamberlain, who has the
disposal of the laurel, as one of the appendages of his office, either
did not know the king's design, or did not approve it, or thought the
nomination of the laureate an encroachment upon his rights, and,
therefore, bestowed the laurel upon Colley Cibber.

Mr. Savage, thus disappointed, took a resolution of applying to the
queen, that, having once given him life, she would enable him to support
it, and, therefore, published a short poem on her birthday, to which he
gave the odd title of Volunteer Laureate. The event of this essay he has
himself related in the following letter, which he prefixed to the poem,
when he afterwards reprinted it in the Gentleman's Magazine, from whence
I have copied it entire, as this was one of the few attempts in which
Mr. Savage succeeded.

"Mr. URBAN,--In your magazine for February you published the
last Volunteer Laureate, written on a very melancholy occasion,
the death of the royal patroness of arts and literature in
general, and of the author of that poem in particular; I now
send you the first that Mr. Savage wrote under that title. This
gentleman, notwithstanding a very considerable interest, being,
on the death of Mr. Eusden, disappointed of the laureate's
place, wrote the before-mentioned poem; which was no sooner
published, but the late queen sent to a bookseller for it. The
author had not at that time a friend either to get him
introduced, or his poem presented at court; yet such was the
unspeakable goodness of that princess, that, notwithstanding
this act of ceremony was wanting, in a few days after
publication, Mr. Savage received a bank bill of fifty pounds,
and a gracious message from her majesty, by the lord North and
Guildford, to this effect: 'That her majesty was highly pleased
with the verses; that she took particularly kind his lines there
relating to the king; that he had permission to write annually
on the same subject; and that he should yearly receive the like
present, till something better (which was her majesty's
intention) could be done for him. ' After this, he was permitted
to present one of his annual poems to her majesty, had the
honour of kissing her hand, and met with the most gracious
reception.

"Yours, &c. "

Such was the performance[80], and such its reception; a reception,
which, though by no means unkind, was yet not in the highest degree
generous: to chain down the genius of a writer to an annual panegyrick,
showed in the queen too much desire of hearing her own praises, and a
greater regard to herself than to him on whom her bounty was conferred.
It was a kind of avaricious generosity, by which flattery was rather
purchased than genius rewarded.

Mrs. Oldfield had formerly given him the same allowance with much more
heroick intention: she had no other view than to enable him to prosecute
his studies, and to set himself above the want of assistance, and was
contented with doing good without stipulating for encomiums.

Mr. Savage, however, was not at liberty to make exceptions, but was
ravished with the favours which he had received, and probably yet more
with those which he was promised: he considered himself now as a
favourite of the queen, and did not doubt but a few annual poems would
establish him in some profitable employment.

He, therefore, assumed the title-of volunteer laureate, not without some
reprehensions from Cibber, who informed him, that the title of laureate
was a mark of honour conferred by the king, from whom all honour is
derived, and which, therefore, no man has a right to bestow upon
himself; and added, that he might with equal propriety style himself a
volunteer lord or volunteer baronet. It cannot be denied that the remark
was just; but Savage did not think any title, which was conferred upon
Mr. Cibber, so honourable as that the usurpation of it could be imputed
to him as an instance of very exorbitant vanity, and, therefore,
continued to write under the same title, and received every year the
same reward.

He did not appear to consider these encomiums as tests of his abilities,
or as any thing more than annual hints to the queen of her promise, or
acts of ceremony, by the performance of which he was entitled to his
pension, and, therefore, did not labour them with great diligence, or
print more than fifty each year, except that for some of the last years
he regularly inserted them in the Gentleman's Magazine, by which they
were dispersed over the kingdom.

Of some of them he had himself so low an opinion, that he intended to
omit them in the collection of poems, for which he printed proposals,
and solicited subscriptions; nor can it seem strange, that, being
confined to the same subject, he should be at some times indolent, and
at others unsuccessful; that he should sometimes delay a disagreeable
task till it was too late to perform it well; or that he should
sometimes repeat the same sentiment on the same occasion, or at others
be misled by an attempt after novelty to forced conceptions and
far-fetched images.

He wrote, indeed, with a double intention, which supplied him with some
variety; for his business was, to praise the queen for the favours which
he had received, and to complain to her of the delay of those which she
had promised: in some of his pieces, therefore, gratitude is
predominant, and in some discontent; in some, he represents himself as
happy in her patronage; and, in others, as disconsolate to find himself
neglected.

Her promise, like other promises made to this unfortunate man, was never
performed, though he took sufficient care that it should not be
forgotten. The publication of his Volunteer Laureate procured him no
other reward than a regular remittance of fifty pounds.

He was not so depressed by his disappointments as to neglect any
opportunity that was offered of advancing his interest. When the
princess Anne was married, he wrote a poem upon her departure, only, as
he declared, "because it was expected from him," and he was not willing
to bar his own prospects by any appearance of neglect[81].

He never mentioned any advantage gained by this poem, or any regard that
was paid to it; and, therefore, it is likely that it was considered at
court as an act of duty, to which he was obliged by his dependence, and
which it was, therefore, not necessary to reward by any new favour: or,
perhaps, the queen really intended his advancement, and, therefore,
thought it superfluous to lavish presents upon a man whom she intended
to establish for life.

About this time not only his hopes were in danger of being frustrated,
but his pension likewise of being obstructed, by an accidental calumny.
The writer of the Daily Courant, a paper then published under the
direction of the ministry, charged him with a crime, which, though not
very great in itself, would have been remarkably invidious in him, and
might very justly have incensed the queen against him. He was accused by
name of influencing elections against the court, by appearing at the
head of a tory mob; nor did the accuser fail to aggravate his crime, by
representing it as the effect of the most atrocious ingratitude, and a
kind of rebellion against the queen, who had first preserved him from an
infamous death, and afterwards distinguished him by her favour, and
supported him by her charity. The charge, as it was open and confident,
was likewise, by good fortune, very particular. The place of the
transaction was mentioned, and the whole series of the rioter's conduct
related. This exactness made Mr. Savage's vindication easy; for he never
had in his life seen the place which was declared to be the scene of his
wickedness, nor ever had been present in any town when its
representatives were chosen. This answer he, therefore, made haste to
publish, with all the circumstances necessary to make it credible; and
very reasonably demanded, that the accusation should be retracted in the
same paper, that he might no longer suffer the imputation of sedition
and ingratitude. This demand was likewise pressed by him in a private
letter to the author of the paper, who, either trusting to the
protection of those whose defence he had undertaken, or having
entertained some personal malice against Mr. Savage, or fearing lest, by
retracting so confident an assertion, he should impair the credit of his
paper, refused to give him that satisfaction.

Mr. Savage, therefore, thought it necessary, to his own vindication, to
prosecute him in the King's Bench; but as he did not find any ill
effects from the accusation, having sufficiently cleared his innocence,
he thought any further procedure would have the appearance of revenge;
and, therefore, willingly dropped it.

He saw, soon afterwards, a process commenced in the same court against
himself, on an information in which he was accused of writing and
publishing an obscene pamphlet.

It was always Mr. Savage's desire to be distinguished; and, when any
controversy became popular, he never wanted some reason for engaging in
it with great ardour, and appearing at the head of the party which he
had chosen. As he was never celebrated for his prudence, he had no
sooner taken his side, and informed himself of the chief topicks of the
dispute, than he took all opportunities of asserting and propagating his
principles, without much regard to his own interest, or any other
visible design than that of drawing upon himself the attention of
mankind.

The dispute between the bishop of London and the chancellor is well
known to have been, for some time, the chief topick of political
conversation; and, therefore, Mr. Savage, in pursuance of his character,
endeavoured to become conspicuous among the controvertists with which
every coffee-house was filled on that occasion. He was an indefatigable
opposer of all the claims of ecclesiastical power, though he did not
know on what they were founded; and was, therefore, no friend to the
bishop of London. But he had another reason for appearing as a warm
advocate for Dr. Rundle; for he was the friend of Mr. Foster and Mr.
Thomson, who were the friends of Mr. Savage.

Thus remote was his interest in the question, which, however, as he
imagined, concerned him so nearly, that it was not sufficient to
harangue and dispute, but necessary likewise to write upon it.

He, therefore, engaged with great ardour in a new poem, called by him,
the Progress of a Divine; in which he conducts a profligate priest, by
all the gradations of wickedness, from a poor curacy in the country to
the highest preferments of the church; and describes, with that humour
which was natural to him, and that knowledge which was extended to all
the diversities of human life, his behaviour in every station; and
insinuates, that this priest, thus accomplished, found at last a patron
in the bishop of London.

When he was asked by one of his friends, on what pretence he could
charge the bishop with such an action, he had no more to say than that
he had only inverted the accusation; and that he thought it reasonable
to believe, that he who obstructed the rise of a good man without
reason, would, for bad reasons, promote the exaltation of a villain.

The clergy were universally provoked by this satire; and Savage, who, as
was his constant practice, had set his name to his performance, was
censured in the Weekly Miscellany[82] with severity, which he did not
seem inclined to forget.

But a return of invective was not thought a sufficient punishment. The
court of King's Bench was, therefore, moved against him; and he was
obliged to return an answer to a charge of obscenity. It was urged in
his defence, that obscenity was criminal when it was intended to promote
the practice of vice; but that Mr. Savage had only introduced obscene
ideas, with the view of exposing them to detestation, and of amending
the age, by showing the deformity of wickedness. This plea was admitted;
and sir Philip Yorke, who then presided in that court, dismissed the
information with encomiums upon the purity and excellence of Mr.
Savage's writings. The prosecution, however, answered in some measure
the purpose of those by whom it was set on foot; for Mr. Savage was so
far intimidated by it, that, when the edition of his poem was sold, he
did not venture to reprint it; so that it was in a short time forgotten,
or forgotten by all but those whom it offended.

It is said that some endeavours were used to incense the queen against
him: but he found advocates to obviate, at least, part of their effect;
for, though he was never advanced, he still continued to receive his
pension.

This poem drew more infamy upon him than any incident of his life; and,
as his conduct cannot be vindicated, it is proper to secure his memory
from reproach, by informing those whom he made his enemies, that he
never intended to repeat the provocation; and that, though, whenever he
thought he had any reason to complain of the clergy, he used to threaten
them with a new edition of the Progress of a Divine, it was his calm
and settled resolution to suppress it for ever.

He once intended to have made a better reparation for the folly or
injustice with which he might be charged, by writing another poem,
called the Progress of a Freethinker, whom he intended to lead through
all the stages of vice and folly, to convert him from virtue to
wickedness, and from religion to infidelity, by all the modish sophistry
used for that purpose; and, at last, to dismiss him by his own hand into
the other world.

That he did not execute this design is a real loss to mankind; for he
was too well acquainted with all the scenes of debauchery to have failed
in his representations of them, and too zealous for virtue not to have
represented them in such a manner as should expose them either to
ridicule or detestation.

But this plan was, like others, formed and laid aside, till the vigour
of his imagination was spent, and the effervescence of invention had
subsided; but soon gave way to some other design, which pleased by its
novelty for awhile, and then was neglected like the former.

He was still in his usual exigencies, having no certain support but the
pension allowed him by the queen, which, though it might have kept an
exact economist from want, was very far from being sufficient for Mr.
Savage, who had never been accustomed to dismiss any of his appetites
without the gratification which they solicited, and whom nothing but
want of money withheld from partaking of every pleasure that fell within
his view.

His conduct, with regard to his pension, was very particular. No sooner
had he changed the bill, than he vanished from the sight of all his
acquaintances, and lay, for some time, out of the reach of all the
inquiries that friendship or curiosity could make after him. At length
he appeared again penniless as before, but never informed even those
whom he seemed to regard most, where he had been; nor was his retreat
ever discovered.

This was his constant practice during the whole time that he received
the pension from the queen: he regularly disappeared and returned. He,
indeed, affirmed that he retired to study, and that the money supported
him in solitude for many months; but his friends declared, that the
short time in which it was spent sufficiently confuted his own account
of his conduct.

His politeness and his wit still raised him friends, who were desirous
of setting him at length free from that indigence by which he had been
hitherto oppressed; and, therefore, solicited sir Robert Walpole in his
favour with so much earnestness, that they obtained a promise of the
next place that should become vacant, not exceeding two hundred pounds a
year. This promise was made with an uncommon declaration, "that it was
not the promise of a minister to a petitioner, but of a friend to his
friend. " Mr. Savage now concluded himself set at ease for ever, and, as
he observes in a poem written on that incident of his life, trusted and
was trusted; but soon found that his confidence was ill-grounded, and
this friendly promise was not inviolable. He spent a long time in
solicitations, and, at last despaired and desisted.

He did not indeed deny, that he had given the minister some reason to
believe that he should not strengthen his own interest by advancing him,
for he had taken care to distinguish himself in coffee-houses as an
advocate for the ministry of the last years of queen Anne, and was
always ready to justify the conduct, and exalt the character of lord
Bolingbroke, whom he mentions with great regard in an Epistle upon
Authors, which he wrote about that time, but was too wise to publish,
and of which only some fragments have appeared, inserted by him in the
magazine after his retirement.

To despair was not, however, the character of Savage; when one patronage
failed, he had recourse to another. The prince was now extremely
popular, and had very liberally rewarded the merit of some writers, whom
Mr. Savage did not think superiour to himself, and, therefore, he
resolved to address a poem to him.

For this purpose he made choice of a subject which could regard only
persons of the highest rank and greatest affluence, and which was,
therefore, proper for a poem intended to procure the patronage of a
prince; and, having retired, for some time, to Richmond, that he might
prosecute his design in full tranquillity, without the temptations of
pleasure, or the solicitations of creditors, by which his meditations
were in equal danger of being disconcerted, he produced a poem on
Publick Spirit, with regard to Publick Works.

The plan of this poem is very extensive, and comprises a multitude of
topicks, each of which might furnish matter sufficient for a long
performance, and of which some have already employed more eminent
writers; but as he was, perhaps, not fully acquainted with the whole
extent of his own design, and was writing to obtain a supply of wants
too pressing to admit of long or accurate inquiries, he passes
negligently over many publick works, which, even in his own opinion,
deserved to be more elaborately treated.

But, though he may sometimes disappoint his reader by transient touches
upon these subjects, which have often been considered, and, therefore,
naturally raise expectations, he must be allowed amply to compensate his
omissions, by expatiating, in the conclusion of his work, upon a kind of
beneficence not yet celebrated by any eminent poet, though it now
appears more susceptible of embellishments, more adapted to exalt the
ideas, and affect the passions, than many of those which have hitherto
been thought most worthy of the ornaments of verse. The settlement of
colonies in uninhabited countries, the establishment of those in
security, whose misfortunes have made their own country no longer
pleasing or safe, the acquisition of property without injury to any, the
appropriation of the waste and luxuriant bounties of nature, and the
enjoyment of those gifts which heaven has scattered upon regions
uncultivated and unoccupied, cannot be considered without giving rise to
a great number of pleasing ideas, and bewildering the imagination in
delightful prospects; and, therefore, whatever speculations they may
produce in those who have confined themselves to political studies,
naturally fixed the attention, and excited the applause, of a poet. The
politician, when he considers men driven into other countries for
shelter, and obliged to retire to forests and deserts, and pass their
lives, and fix their posterity, in the remotest corners of the world, to
avoid those hardships which they suffer or fear in their native place,
may very properly inquire, why the legislature does not provide a remedy
for these miseries, rather than encourage an escape from them. He may
conclude that the flight of every honest man is a loss to the community;
that those who are unhappy without guilt ought to be relieved; and the
life, which is overburdened by accidental calamities, set at ease by the
care of the publick; and that those, who have by misconduct forfeited
their claim to favour, ought rather to be made useful to the society
which they have injured, than driven from it. But the poet is employed
in a more pleasing undertaking than that of proposing laws which,
however just or expedient, will never be made; or endeavouring to reduce
to rational schemes of government societies which were formed by chance,
and are conducted by the private passions of those who preside in them.
He guides the unhappy fugitive, from want and persecution, to plenty,
quiet, and security, and seats him in scenes of peaceful solitude, and
undisturbed repose. Savage has not forgotten, amidst the pleasing
sentiments which this prospect of retirement suggested to him, to
censure those crimes which have been generally committed by the
discoverers of new regions, and to expose the enormous wickedness of
making war upon barbarous nations because they cannot resist, and of
invading countries because they are fruitful; of extending navigation
only to propagate vice, and of visiting distant lands only to lay them
waste. He has asserted the natural equality of mankind, and endeavoured
to suppress that pride which inclines men to imagine that right is the
consequence of power.

His description of the various miseries which force men to seek for
refuge in distant countries, affords another instance of his proficiency
in the important and extensive study of human life; and the tenderness
with which he recounts them, another proof of his humanity and
benevolence.

It is observable, that the close of this poem discovers a change which
experience had made in Mr. Savage's opinions. In a poem written by him
in his youth, and published in his Miscellanies, he declares his
contempt of the contracted views and narrow prospects of the middle
state of life, and declares his resolution either to tower like the
cedar, or be trampled like the shrub; but in this poem, though addressed
to a prince, he mentions this state of life as comprising those who
ought most to attract reward, those who merit most the confidence of
power, and the familiarity of greatness; and, accidentally mentioning
this passage to one of his friends, declared, that, in his opinion, all
the virtue of mankind was comprehended in that state.

In describing villas and gardens, he did not omit to condemn that absurd
custom which prevails among the English, of permitting servants to
receive money from strangers for the entertainment that they receive,
and, therefore, inserted in his poem these lines:

But what the flow'ring pride of gardens rare,
However royal, or however fair,
If gates, which to access should still give way,
Ope but, like Peter's paradise, for pay?
If perquisited varlets frequent stand,
And each new walk must a new tax demand?
What foreign eye but with contempt surveys?
What muse shall from oblivion snatch their praise?

But before the publication of his performance he recollected, that the
queen allowed her garden and cave at Richmond to be shown for money; and
that she so openly countenanced the practice, that she had bestowed the
privilege of showing them as a place of profit on a man, whose merit
she valued herself upon rewarding, though she gave him only the liberty
of disgracing his country.

He, therefore, thought, with more prudence than was often exerted by
him, that the publication of these lines might be officiously
represented as an insult upon the queen, to whom he owed his life and
his subsistence: and that the propriety of his observation would be no
security against the censures which the unseasonableness of it might
draw upon him; he, therefore, suppressed the passage in the first
edition, but after the queen's death thought the same caution no longer
necessary, and restored it to the proper place.

The poem was, therefore, published without any political faults, and
inscribed to the prince: but Mr. Savage, having no friend upon whom he
could prevail to present it to him, had no other method of attracting
his observation than the publication of frequent advertisements, and,
therefore, received no reward from his patron, however generous on other
occasions.

This disappointment he never mentioned without indignation, being, by
some means or other, confident that the prince was not ignorant of his
address to him; and insinuated, that if any advances in popularity could
have been made by distinguishing him, he had not written without notice,
or without reward.

He was once inclined to have presented his poem in person, and sent to
the printer for a copy with that design; but either his opinion changed,
or his resolution deserted him, and he continued to resent neglect
without attempting to force himself into regard.

Nor was the publick much more favourable than his patron; for only
seventy-two were sold, though the performance was much commended by some
whose judgment in that kind of writing is generally allowed. But Savage
easily reconciled himself to mankind, without imputing any defect to his
work, by observing, that his poem was unluckily published two days after
the prorogation of the parliament, and, by consequence, at a time when
all those who could be expected to regard it were in the hurry of
preparing for their departure, or engaged in taking leave of others upon
their dismission from publick affairs.

It must be, however, allowed, in justification of the publick, that this
performance is not the most excellent of Mr. Savage's works; and that,
though it cannot be denied to contain many striking sentiments,
majestick lines, and just observations, it is, in general, not
sufficiently polished in the language, or enlivened in the imagery, or
digested in the plan.

Thus his poem contributed nothing to the alleviation of his poverty,
which was such as very few could have supported with equal patience; but
to which, it must likewise be confessed, that few would have been
exposed, who received punctually fifty pounds a year; a salary which,
though by no means equal to the demands of vanity and luxury, is yet
found sufficient to support families above want, and was, undoubtedly,
more than the necessities of life require.

But no sooner had he received his pension, than he withdrew to his
darling privacy, from which he returned, in a short time, to his former
distress, and, for some part of the year, generally lived by chance,
eating only when he was invited to the tables of his acquaintances, from
which the meanness of his dress often excluded him, when the politeness
and variety of his conversation would have been thought a sufficient
recompense for his entertainment.

He lodged as much by accident as he dined, and passed the night
sometimes in mean houses, which are set open at night to any casual
wanderers, sometimes in cellars, among the riot and filth of the meanest
and most profligate of the rabble; and sometimes, when he had not money
to support even the expenses of these receptacles, walked about the
streets till he was weary, and lay down in the summer upon a bulk, or in
the winter, with his associates in poverty, among the ashes of a
glass-house.

In this manner were passed those days and those nights which nature had
enabled him to have employed in elevated speculations, useful studies,
or pleasing conversation. On a bulk, in a cellar, or in a glass-house,
among thieves and beggars, was to be found the author of the Wanderer;
the man of exalted sentiments, extensive views, and curious
observations; the man whose remarks on life might have assisted the
statesman, whose ideas of virtue might have enlightened the moralist,
whose eloquence might have influenced senates, and whose delicacy might
have polished courts.

It cannot but be imagined that such necessities might sometimes force
him upon disreputable practices; and it is probable that these lines in
the Wanderer were occasioned by his reflections on his own conduct:

Though misery leads to happiness, and truth,
Unequal to the load, this languid youth,
(O, let none censure, if, untried by grief,
If, amidst woe, untempted by relief,)
He stoop'd reluctant to low arts of shame,
Which then, e'en then, he scorn'd and blush'd to name.

Whoever was acquainted with him was certain to be solicited for small
sums, which the frequency of the request made in time considerable; and
he was, therefore, quickly shunned by those who were become familiar
enough to be trusted with his necessities; but his rambling manner of
life, and constant appearance at houses of publick resort, always
procured him a new succession of friends, whose kindness had not been
exhausted by repeated requests; so that he was seldom absolutely without
resources, but had in his utmost exigencies this comfort, that he always
imagined himself sure of speedy relief.

It was observed, that he always asked favours of this kind without the
least submission or apparent consciousness of dependence, and that he
did not seem to look upon a compliance with his requst, as an obligation
that deserved any extraordinary acknowledgments; but a refusal was
resented by him as an affront, or complained of as an injury; nor did he
readily reconcile himself to those who either denied to lend, or gave
him afterwards any intimation that they expected to be repaid.

He was sometimes so far compassionated by those who knew both his merit
and distresses, that they received him into their families; but they
soon discovered him to be a very incommodious inmate; for, being always
accustomed to an irregular manner of life, he could not confine himself
to any stated hours, or pay any regard to the rules of a family, but
would prolong his conversation till midnight, without considering that
business might require his friend's application in the morning; and,
when he had persuaded himself to retire to bed, was not, without equal
difficulty, called up to dinner; it was, therefore, impossible to pay
him any distinction without the entire subversion of all economy, a kind
of establishment which, wherever he went, he always appeared ambitious
to overthrow.

It must, therefore, be acknowledged, in justification of mankind, that
it was not always by the negligence or coldness of his friends that
Savage was distressed, but because it was in reality very difficult to
preserve him long in a state of ease. To supply him with money was a
hopeless attempt; for no sooner did he see himself master of a sum
sufficient to set him free from care for a day, than he became profuse
and luxurious. When once he had entered a tavern, or engaged in a scheme
of pleasure, he never retired till want of money obliged him to some new
expedient. If he was entertained in a family, nothing was any longer to
be regarded there but amusements and jollity; wherever Savage entered,
he immediately expected that order and business should fly before him,
that all should thenceforward be left to hazard, and that no dull
principle of domestick management should be opposed to his inclination,
or intrude upon his gaiety.

His distresses, however afflictive, never dejected him; in his lowest
state he wanted not spirit to assert the natural dignity of wit, and was
always ready to repress that insolence which superiority of fortune
incited, and to trample on that reputation which rose upon any other
basis than that of merit: he never admitted any gross familiarities, or
submitted to be treated otherwise than as an equal. Once, when he was
without lodging, meat, or clothes, one of his friends, a man not indeed
remarkable for moderation in his prosperity, left a message, that he
desired to see him about nine in the morning. Savage knew that his
intention was to assist him; but was very much disgusted that he should
presume to prescribe the hour of his attendance, and, I believe, refused
to visit him, and rejected his kindness.

The same invincible temper, whether firmness or obstinacy, appeared in
his conduct to the lord Tyrconnel, from whom he very frequently
demanded, that the allowance which was once paid him should be restored;
but with whom he never appeared to entertain, for a moment, the thought
of soliciting a reconciliation, and whom he treated, at once, with all
the haughtiness of superiority, and all the bitterness of resentment. He
wrote to him, not in a style of supplication or respect, but of
reproach, menace, and contempt; and appeared determined, if he ever
regained his allowance, to hold it only by the right of conquest.

As many more can discover that a man is richer than that he is wiser
than themselves, superiority of understanding is not so readily
acknowledged as that of fortune; nor is that haughtiness, which the
consciousness of great abilities incites, borne with the same submission
as the tyranny of affluence; and, therefore, Savage, by asserting his
claim to deference and regard, and by treating those with contempt whom
better fortune animated to rebel against him, did not fail to raise a
great number of enemies in the different classes of mankind. Those who
thought themselves raised above him by the advantages of riches, hated
him, because they found no protection from the petulance of his wit.
Those who were esteemed for their writings feared him as a critick, and
maligned him as a rival, and almost all the smaller wits were his
professed enemies.

Among these Mr. Miller so far indulged his resentment as to introduce
him in a farce, and direct him to be personated on the stage, in a
dress like that which he then wore; a mean insult, which only insinuated
that Savage had but one coat, and which was, therefore, despised by him
rather than resented: for, though he wrote a lampoon against Miller, he
never printed it; and as no other person ought to prosecute that revenge
from which the person who was injured desisted, I shall not preserve
what Mr. Savage suppressed; of which the publication would indeed have
been a punishment too severe for so impotent an assault.

The great hardships of poverty were to Savage not the want of lodging or
of food, but the neglect and contempt which it drew upon him. He
complained that, as his affairs grew desperate, he found his reputation
for capacity visibly decline; that his opinion in questions of criticism
was no longer regarded, when his coat was out of fashion; and that those
who, in the interval of his prosperity, were always encouraging him to
great undertakings, by encomiums on his genius and assurances of
success, now received any mention of his designs with coldness, thought
that the subjects on which he proposed to write were very difficult, and
were ready to inform him, that the event of a poem was uncertain, that
an author ought to employ much time in the consideration of his plan,
and not presume to sit down to write in confidence of a few cursory
ideas, and a superficial knowledge; difficulties were started on all
sides, and he was no longer qualified for any performance but the
Volunteer Laureate.

Yet even this kind of contempt never depressed him; for he always
preserved a steady confidence in his own capacity, and believed nothing
above his reach, which he should at any time earnestly endeavour to
attain. He formed schemes of the same kind with regard to knowledge and
to fortune, and flattered himself with advances to be made in science,
as with riches, to be enjoyed in some distant period of his life. For
the acquisition of knowledge he was, indeed, far better qualified than
for that of riches; for he was naturally inquisitive, and desirous of
the conversation of those from whom any information was to be obtained,
but by no means solicitous to improve those opportunities that were
sometimes offered of raising his fortune; and he was remarkably
retentive of his ideas, which, when once he was in possession of them,
rarely forsook him; a quality which could never be communicated to his
money.

While he was thus wearing out his life in expectation that the queen
would some time recollect her promise, he had recourse to the usual
practice of writers, and published proposals for printing his works by
subscription, to which he was encouraged by the success of many who had
not a better right to the favour of the publick; but, whatever was the
reason, he did not find the world equally inclined to favour him; and he
observed, with some discontent, that though he offered his works at
half-a-guinea, he was able to procure but a small number in comparison
with those who subscribed twice as much to Duck.

Nor was it without indignation that he saw his proposals neglected by
the queen, who patronised Mr. Duck's with uncommon ardour, and incited a
competition among those who attended the court, who should most promote
his interest, and who should first offer a subscription. This was a
distinction to which Mr. Savage made no scruple of asserting, that his
birth, his misfortunes, and his genius, gave him a fairer title, than
could be pleaded by him on whom it was conferred.

Savage's applications were, however, not universally unsuccessful; for
some of the nobility countenanced his design, encouraged his proposals,
and subscribed with great liberality. He related of the duke of Chandos
particularly, that, upon receiving his proposals, he sent him ten
guineas.

But the money which his subscriptions afforded him was not less volatile
than that which he received from his other schemes; whenever a
subscription was paid him, he went to a tavern; and, as money so
collected is necessarily received in small sums, he never was able to
send his poems to the press, but, for many years, continued his
solicitation, and squandered whatever he obtained.

The project of printing his works was frequently revived; and, as his
proposals grew obsolete, new ones were printed with fresher dates. To
form schemes for the publication, was one of his favourite amusements;
nor was he ever more at ease than when, with any friend who readily fell
in with his schemes, he was adjusting the print, forming the
advertisements, and regulating the dispersion of his new edition, which
he really intended, some time, to publish; and which, as long experience
had shown him the impossibility of printing the volume together, he, at
last, determined to divide into weekly or monthly numbers, that the
profits of the first might supply the expenses of the next.

Thus he spent his time in mean expedients and tormenting suspense,
living, for the greatest part, in the fear of prosecutions from his
creditors, and, consequently, skulking in obscure parts of the town, of
which he was no stranger to the remotest corners. But, wherever he came,
his address secured him friends, whom his necessities soon alienated; so
that he had, perhaps, a more numerous acquaintance than any man ever
before attained, there being scarcely any person eminent on any account
to whom he was not known, or whose character he was not, in some degree,
able to delineate.

To the acquisition of this extensive acquaintance every circumstance of
his life contributed. He excelled in the arts of conversation, and,
therefore, willingly practised them. He had seldom any home, or even a
lodging, in which he could be private; and, therefore, was driven into
publick-houses for the common conveniences of life and supports of
nature. He was always ready to comply with every invitation, having no
employment to withhold him, and often no money to provide for himself;
and, by dining with one company, he never failed of obtaining an
introduction into another.

Thus dissipated was his life, and thus casual his subsistence; yet did
not the distraction of his views hinder him from reflection, nor the
uncertainty of his condition depress his gaiety. When he had wandered
about without any fortunate adventure by which he was led into a tavern,
he sometimes retired into the fields, and was able to employ his mind in
study, or amuse it with pleasing imaginations; and seldom appeared to be
melancholy, but when some sudden misfortune had just fallen upon him,
and even then, in a few moments, he would disentangle himself from his
perplexity, adopt the subject of conversation, and apply his mind wholly
to the objects that others presented to it.

This life, unhappy as it may be already imagined, was yet imbittered, in
1738, with new calamities. The death of the queen deprived him of all
the prospects of preferment, with which he so long entertained his
imagination; and, as sir Robert Walpole had before given him reason to
believe that he never intended the performance of his promise, he was
now abandoned again to fortune.

He was, however, at that time, supported by a friend; and as it was not
his custom to look out for distant calamities, or to feel any other pain
than that which forced itself upon his senses, he was not much afflicted
at his loss, and, perhaps, comforted himself that his pension would be
now continued without the annual tribute of a panegyrick.

Another expectation contributed likewise to support him: he had taken a
resolution to write a second tragedy upon the story of sir Thomas
Overbury, in which he preserved a few lines of his former play, but made
a total alteration of the plan, added new incidents, and introduced new
characters; so that it was a new tragedy, not a revival of the former.

Many of his friends blamed him for not making choice of another subject;
but, in vindication of himself, he asserted, that it was not easy to
find a better; and that he thought it his interest to extinguish the
memory of the first tragedy, which he could only do by writing one less
defective upon the same story; by which he should entirely defeat the
artifice of the booksellers, who, after the death of any author of
reputation, are always industrious to swell his works, by uniting his
worst productions with his best.

In the execution of this scheme, however, he proceeded but slowly, and
probably only employed himself upon it when he could find no other
amusement; but he pleased himself with counting the profits, and perhaps
imagined, that the theatrical reputation which he was about to acquire
would be equivalent to all that he had lost by the death of his
patroness.

He did not, in confidence of his approaching riches, neglect the
measures proper to secure the continuance of his pension, though some of
his favourers thought him culpable for omitting to write on her death;
but, on her birthday, next year, he gave a proof of the solidity of his
judgment, and the power of his genius. He knew that the track of elegy
had been so long beaten, that it was impossible to travel in it without
treading in the footsteps of those who had gone before him; and that,
therefore, it was necessary, that he might distinguish himself from the
herd of encomiasts, to find out some new walk of funeral panegyrick.

This difficult task he performed in such a manner that his poem may be
justly ranked among the best pieces that the death of princes has
produced. By transferring the mention of her death to her birthday, he
has formed a happy combination of topicks, which any other man would
have thought it very difficult to connect in one view, but which he has
united in such a manner, that the relation between them appears natural;
and it may be justly said, that what no other man would have thought on,
it now appears scarcely possible for any man to miss.

The beauty of this peculiar combination of images is so masterly, that
it is sufficient to set this poem above censure; and, therefore, it is
not necessary to mention many other delicate touches which may be found
in it, and which would deservedly be admired in any other performance.

To these proofs of his genius may be added, from the same poem, an
instance of his prudence, an excellence for which he was not so often
distinguished; he does not forget to remind the king, in the most
delicate and artful manner, of continuing his pension.

With regard to the success of this address, he was, for some time, in
suspense, but was in no great degree solicitous about it; and continued
his labour upon his new tragedy with great tranquillity, till the
friend, who had for a considerable time supported him, removing his
family to another place, took occasion to dismiss him. It then became
necessary to inquire more diligently what was determined in his affair,
having reason to suspect that no great favour was intended him, because
he had not received his pension at the usual time.

It is said, that he did not take those methods of retrieving his
interest, which were most likely to succeed; and some of those who were
employed in the exchequer cautioned him against too much violence in his
proceedings: but Mr. Savage, who seldom regulated his conduct by the
advice of others, gave way to his passion, and demanded of sir Robert
Walpole, at his levee, the reason of the distinction that was made
between him and the other pensioners of the queen, with a degree of
roughness, which, perhaps, determined him to withdraw what had been only
delayed.

Whatever was the crime of which he was accused or suspected, and
whatever influence was employed against him, he received, soon after, an
account that took from him all hopes of regaining his pension; and he
had now no prospect of subsistence but from his play, and he knew no way
of living for the time required to finish it.

So peculiar were the misfortunes of this man, deprived of an estate and
title by a particular law, exposed and abandoned by a mother, defrauded
by a mother of a fortune which his father had allotted him, he entered
the world without a friend; and though his abilities forced themselves
into esteem and reputation, he was never able to obtain any real
advantage, and whatever prospects arose, were always intercepted as he
began to approach them. The king's intentions in his favour were
frustrated; his dedication to the prince, whose generosity on every
other occasion was eminent, procured him no reward; sir Robert Walpole,
who valued himself upon keeping his promise to others, broke it to him
without regret; and the bounty of the queen was, after her death,
withdrawn from him, and from him only.

Such were his misfortunes, which yet he bore, not only with decency, but
with cheerfulness; nor was his gaiety clouded even by his last
disappointments, though he was, in a short time, reduced to the lowest
degree of distress, and often wanted both lodging and food. At this time
he gave another instance of the insurmountable obstinacy of his spirit:
his clothes were worn out; and he received notice, that at a
coffee-house some clothes and linen were left for him: the person who
sent them did not, I believe, inform him to whom he was to be obliged,
that he might spare the perplexity of acknowledging the benefit; but
though the offer was so far generous, it was made with some neglect of
ceremonies, which Mr. Savage so much resented, that he refused the
present, and declined to enter the house till the clothes that had been
designed for him were taken away.

His distress was now publickly known, and his friends, therefore,
thought it proper to concert some measures for his relief; and one of
them wrote a letter to him, in which he expressed his concern "for the
miserable withdrawing of his pension;" and gave him hopes, that, in a
short time, he should find himself supplied with a competence, "without
any dependence on those little creatures which we are pleased to call
the great. "

The scheme proposed for this happy and independent subsistence was, that
he should retire into Wales, and receive an allowance of fifty pounds a
year, to be raised by a subscription, on which he was to live privately
in a cheap place, without aspiring any more to affluence, or having any
further care of reputation.

This offer Mr. Savage gladly accepted, though with intentions very
different from those of his friends; for they proposed that he should
continue an exile from London for ever, and spend all the remaining part
of his life at Swansea; but he designed only to take the opportunity,
which their scheme offered him, of retreating for a short time, that he
might prepare his play for the stage, and his other works for the press,
and then to return to London to exhibit his tragedy, and live upon the
profits of his own labour.

With regard to his works, he proposed very great improvements, which
would have required much time, or great application; and, when he had
finished them, he designed to do justice to his subscribers, by
publishing them according to his proposals.

As he was ready to entertain himself with future pleasures, he had
planned out a scheme of life for the country, of which he had no
knowledge but from pastorals and songs.
He imagined that he should be
transported to scenes of flowery felicity, like those which one poet has
reflected to another; and had projected a perpetual round of innocent
pleasures, of which he suspected no interruption from pride, or
ignorance, or brutality.

With these expectations he was so enchanted, that when he was once
gently reproached by a friend for submitting to live upon a
subscription, and advised rather by a resolute exertion of his abilities
to support himself, he could not bear to debar himself from the
happiness which was to be found in the calm of a cottage, or lose the
opportunity of listening, without intermission, to the melody of the
nightingale, which he believed was to be heard from every bramble, and
which he did not fail to mention as a very important part of the
happiness of a country life.

While this scheme was ripening, his friends directed him to take a
lodging in the liberties of the Fleet, that he might be secure from his
creditors, and sent him, every Monday, a guinea, which he commonly spent
before the next morning, and trusted, after his usual manner, the
remaining part of the week to the bounty of fortune.

He now began very sensibly to feel the miseries of dependence. Those by
whom he was to be supported began to prescribe to him with an air of
authority, which he knew not how decently to resent, nor patiently to
bear; and he soon discovered, from the conduct of most of his
subscribers, that he was yet in the hands of "little creatures. "

Of the insolence that he was obliged to suffer, he gave many instances,
of which none appeared to raise his indignation to a greater height than
the method which was taken of furnishing him with clothes. Instead of
consulting him, and allowing him to send a tailor his orders for what
they thought proper to allow him, they proposed to send for a tailor to
take his measure, and then to consult how they should equip him.

This treatment was not very delicate, nor was it such as Savage's
humanity would have suggested to him on a like occasion; but it had
scarcely deserved mention, had it not, by affecting him in an uncommon
degree, shown the peculiarity of his character. Upon hearing the design
that was formed, he came to the lodging of a friend with the most
violent agonies of rage; and, being asked what it could be that gave him
such disturbance, he replied, with the utmost vehemence of indignation,
"that they had sent for a tailor to measure him. "

How the affair ended was never inquired, for fear of renewing his
uneasiness. It is probable that, upon recollection, he submitted with a
good grace to what he could not avoid, and that he discovered no
resentment where he had no power.

He was, however, not humbled to implicit and universal compliance; for
when the gentleman, who had first informed him of the design to support
him by a subscription, attempted to procure a reconciliation with the
lord Tyrconnel, he could by no means be prevailed upon to comply with
the measures that were proposed.

A letter was written for him[83] to sir William Lemon, to prevail upon
him to interpose his good offices with lord Tyrconnel, in which he
solicited sir William's assistance "for a man who really needed it as
much as any man could well do;" and informed him, that he was retiring
"for ever to a place where he should no more trouble his relations,
friends, or enemies;" he confessed, that his passion had betrayed him to
some conduct, with regard to lord Tyrconnel, for which he could not but
heartily ask his pardon; and as he imagined lord Tyrcounel's passion
might be yet so high that he would not "receive a letter from him,"
begged that sir William would endeavour to soften him; and expressed his
hopes that he would comply with his request, and that "so small a
relation would not harden his heart against him. "

That any man should presume to dictate a letter to him, was not very
agreeable to Mr. Savage; and, therefore, he was, before he had opened
it, not much inclined to approve it. But when he read it, he found it
contained sentiments entirely opposite to his own, and, as he asserted,
to the truth, and, therefore, instead of copying it, wrote his friend a
letter full of masculine resentment and warm expostulations. He very
justly observed, that the style was too supplicatory, and the
representation too abject, and that he ought, at least, to have made him
complain with "the dignity of a gentleman in distress. " He declared that
he would not write the paragraph in which he was to ask lord Tyrconnel's
pardon; for "he despised his pardon, and, therefore, could not heartily,
and would not hypocritically, ask it. " He remarked, that his friend made
a very unreasonable distinction between himself and him; for, says he,
when you mention men of high rank "in your own character," they are,
"those little creatures whom we are pleased to call the great;" but when
you address them "in mine," no servility is sufficiently humble. He
then, with great propriety, explained the ill consequences which might
be expected from such a letter, which his relations would print in their
own defence, and which would for ever be produced as a full answer to
all that he should allege against them; for he always intended to
publish a minute account of the treatment which he had received. It is
to be remembered, to the honour of the gentleman by whom this letter was
drawn up, that he yielded to Mr. Savage's reasons, and agreed that it
ought to be suppressed.

After many alterations and delays, a subscription was at length raised,
which did not amount to fifty pounds a year, though twenty were paid by
one gentleman; such was the generosity of mankind, that what had been
done by a player without solicitation, could not now be effected by
application and interest; and Savage had a great number to court and to
obey for a pension less than that which Mrs. Oldfield paid him without
exacting any servilities. Mr. Savage, however, was satisfied, and
willing to retire, and was convinced that the allowance, though scanty,
would be more than sufficient for him, being now determined to commence
a rigid economist, and to live according to the exactest rules of
frugality; for nothing was, in his opinion, more contemptible, than a
man, who, when he knew his income, exceeded it; and yet he confessed
that instances of such folly were too common, and lamented that some men
were not to be trusted with their own money.

Full of these salutary resolutions, he left London in July, 1739, having
taken leave, with great tenderness, of his friends, and parted from the
author of this narrative with tears in his eyes. He was furnished with
fifteen guineas, and informed that they would be sufficient, not only
for the expense of his journey, but for his support in Wales for some
time; and that there remained but little more of the first collection.
He promised a strict adherence to his maxims of parsimony, and went away
in the stagecoach; nor did his friends expect to hear from him till he
informed them of his arrival at Swansea.

But, when they least expected, arrived a letter dated the fourteenth day
after his departure, in which he sent them word, that he was yet upon
the road and without money; and that he, therefore, could not proceed
without a remittance. They then sent him the money that was in their
hands, with which he was enabled to reach Bristol, from whence he was to
go to Swansea by water.

At Bristol he found an embargo laid upon the shipping, so that he could
not immediately obtain a passage; and being, therefore, obliged to stay
there some time, he, with his usual felicity, ingratiated himself with
many of the principal inhabitants, was invited to their houses,
distinguished at their publick feasts, and treated with a regard that
gratified his vanity, and, therefore, easily engaged his affection. He
began, very early after his retirement, to complain of the conduct of
his friends in London, and irritated many of them so much by his
letters, that they withdrew, however honourably, their contributions;
and it is believed, that little more was paid him than the twenty pounds
a year, which were allowed him by the gentleman who proposed the
subscription.

After some stay at Bristol he retired to Swansea, the place originally
proposed for his residence, where he lived about a year, very much
dissatisfied with the diminution of his salary; but contracted, as in
other places, acquaintance with those who were most distinguished in
that country, among whom he has celebrated Mr. Powell and Mrs. Jones, by
some verses which he inserted in the Gentleman's Magazine[84].

Here he completed his tragedy, of which two acts were wanting when he
left London; and was desirous of coming to town, to bring it upon the
stage. This design was very warmly opposed; and he was advised, by his
chief benefactor, to put it into the hands of Mr. Thomson and Mr.
Mallet, that it might be fitted for the stage, and to allow his friends
to receive the profits, out of which an annual pension should be paid
him.

This proposal he rejected with the utmost contempt. He was by no means
convinced that the judgment of those, to whom he was required to
submit, was superiour to his own. He was now determined, as he expressed
it, to be "no longer kept in leading-strings," and had no elevated idea
of "his bounty, who proposed to pension him out of the profits of his
own labours. "

He attempted in Wales to promote a subscription for his works, and had
once hopes of success; but, in a short time afterwards, formed a
resolution of leaving that part of the country, to which he thought it
not reasonable to be confined, for the gratification of those who,
having promised him a liberal income, had no sooner banished him to a
remote corner, than they reduced his allowance to a salary scarcely
equal to the necessities of life.

His resentment of this treatment, which, in his own opinion, at least,
he had not deserved, was such, that he broke off all correspondence with
most of his contributors, and appeared to consider them as persecutors
and oppressors; and, in the latter part of his life, declared that their
conduct toward him since his departure from London "had been
perfidiousness improving on perfidiousness, and inhumanity on
inhumanity. "

It is not to be supposed, that the necessities of Mr. Savage did not
sometimes incite him to satirical exaggerations of the behaviour of
those by whom he thought himself reduced to them. But it must be
granted, that the diminution of his allowance was a great hardship, and
that those who withdrew their subscriptions from a man, who, upon the
faith of their promise, had gone into a kind of banishment, and
abandoned all those by whom he had been before relieved in his
distresses, will find it no easy task to vindicate their conduct.

It may be alleged, and perhaps justly, that he was petulant and
contemptuous; that he more frequently reproached his subscribers for not
giving him more, than thanked them for what he received; but it is to be
remembered, that his conduct, and this is the worst charge that can be
drawn up against him, did them no real injury, and that it, therefore,
ought rather to have been pitied than resented; at least, the
resentment it might provoke ought to have been generous and manly;
epithets which his conduct will hardly deserve, that starves the man
whom he has persuaded to put himself into his power.

It might have been reasonably demanded by Savage, that they should,
before they had taken away what they promised, have replaced him in his
former state; that they should have taken no advantages from the
situation to which the appearance of their kindness had reduced him, and
that he should have been recalled to London before he was abandoned. He
might justly represent, that he ought to have been considered as a lion
in the toils, and demand to be released before the dogs should be loosed
upon him.

He endeavoured, indeed, to release himself, and, with an intent to
return to London, went to Bristol, where a repetition of the kindness
which he had formerly found invited him to stay. He was not only
caressed and treated, but had a collection made for him of about thirty
pounds, with which it had been happy if he had immediately departed for
London; but his negligence did not suffer him to consider, that such
proofs of kindness were not often to be expected, and that this ardour
of benevolence was, in a great degree, the effect of novelty, and might,
probably, be every day less; and, therefore, he took no care to improve
the happy time, but was encouraged by one favour to hope for another,
till, at length, generosity was exhausted, and officiousness wearied.

Another part of his misconduct was the practice of prolonging his visits
to unseasonable hours, and disconcerting all the families into which he
was admitted. This was an errour in a place of commerce, which all the
charms of his conversation could not compensate; for what trader would
purchase such airy satisfaction by the loss of solid gain, which must be
the consequence of midnight merriment, as those hours which were gained
at night were generally lost in the morning?

Thus Mr. Savage, after the curiosity of the inhabitants was gratified,
found the number of his friends daily decreasing, perhaps, without
suspecting for what reason their conduct was altered; for he still
continued to harass, with his nocturnal intrusions, those that yet
countenanced him, and admitted him to their houses.

But he did not spend all the time of his residence at Bristol, in visits
or at taverns; for he sometimes returned to his studies, and began
several considerable designs. When he felt an inclination to write, he
always retired from the knowledge of his friends, and lay hid in an
obscure part of the suburbs, till he found himself again desirous of
company, to which it is likely that intervals of absence made him more
welcome.

He was always full of his design of returning to London, to bring his
tragedy upon the stage; but, having neglected to depart with the money
that was raised for him, he could not afterwards procure a sum
sufficient to defray the expenses of his journey; nor, perhaps, would a
fresh supply have had any other effect than by putting immediate
pleasures in his power, to have driven the thoughts of his journey out
of his mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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