Title: Johnson's Lives of the Poets — Volume 1
Author: Johnson, Samuel
Language: English
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                       CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY.

                                * * * * *



                                  LIVES
                                  OF THE
                              ENGLISH POETS


                        Addison    Savage    Swift

                                * * * * *

                                    BY
                          SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.

                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]

                       CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:
                _LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_.
                                  1888.



INTRODUCTION.


JOHNSON’S “Lives of the Poets” were written to serve as Introductions to
a trade edition of the works of poets whom the booksellers selected for
republication. Sometimes, therefore, they dealt briefly with men in whom
the public at large has long ceased to be interested. Richard Savage
would be of this number if Johnson’s account of his life had not secured
for him lasting remembrance. Johnson’s Life of Savage in this volume has
not less interest than the Lives of Addison and Swift, between which it
is set, although Savage himself has no right at all to be remembered in
such company. Johnson published this piece of biography when his age was
thirty-five; his other lives of poets appeared when that age was about
doubled. He was very poor when the Life of Savage was written for Cave.
Soon after its publication, we are told, Mr. Harte dined with Cave, and
incidentally praised it. Meeting him again soon afterwards Cave said to
Mr. Harte, “You made a man very happy t’other day.”  “How could that be?”
asked Harte. “Nobody was there but ourselves.”  Cave answered by
reminding him that a plate of victuals was sent behind a screen, which
was to Johnson, dressed so shabbily that he did not choose to appear.

Johnson, struggling, found Savage struggling, and was drawn to him by
faith in the tale he told. We have seen in our own time how even an
Arthur Orton could find sensible and good people to believe the tale with
which he sought to enforce claim upon the Tichborne baronetcy. Savage had
literary skill, and he could personate the manners of a gentleman in days
when there were still gentlemen of fashion who drank, lied, and swaggered
into midnight brawls. I have no doubt whatever that he was the son of the
nurse with whom the Countess of Macclesfield had placed a child that
died, and that after his mother’s death he found the papers upon which he
built his plot to personate the child, extort money from the Countess and
her family, and bring himself into a profitable notoriety.

Johnson’s simple truthfulness and ready sympathy made it hard for him to
doubt the story told as Savage told it to him. But when he told it again
himself, though he denounced one whom he believed to be an unnatural
mother, and dealt gently with his friend, he did not translate evil into
good. Through all the generous and kindly narrative we may see clearly
that Savage was an impostor. There is the heart of Johnson in the noble
appeal against judgment of the self-righteous who have never known the
harder trials of the world, when he says of Savage, “Those are no proper
judges of his conduct, who have slumbered away their time on the down of
plenty; nor will any wise man easily presume to say, ‘Had I been in
Savage’s condition, I should have lived or written better than Savage.’”
But Johnson, who made large allowance for temptations pressing on the
poor, himself suffered and overcame the hardest trials, firm always to
his duty, true servant of God and friend of man.

Richard Savage’s whole public life was built upon a lie. His base nature
foiled any attempt made to befriend him; and the friends he lost, he
slandered; Richard Steele among them. Samuel Johnson was a friend easy to
make, and difficult to lose. There was no money to be got from him, for
he was altogether poor in everything but the large spirit of human
kindness. Savage drew largely on him for sympathy, and had it; although
Johnson was too clear-sighted to be much deceived except in judgment upon
the fraudulent claims which then gave rise to division of opinion. The
Life of Savage is a noble piece of truth, although it rests on faith put
in a fraud.

                                                                     H. M.



ADDISON.


JOSEPH ADDISON was born on the 1st of May, 1672, at Milston, of which his
father, Lancelot Addison, was then rector, near Ambrosebury, in
Wiltshire, and, appearing weak and unlikely to live, he was christened
the same day. After the usual domestic education, which from the
character of his father may be reasonably supposed to have given him
strong impressions of piety, he was committed to the care of Mr. Naish at
Ambrosebury, and afterwards of Mr. Taylor at Salisbury.

Not to name the school or the masters of men illustrious for literature,
is a kind of historical fraud, by which honest fame is injuriously
diminished: I would therefore trace him through the whole process of his
education. In 1683, in the beginning of his twelfth year, his father,
being made Dean of Lichfield, naturally carried his family to his new
residence, and, I believe, placed him for some time, probably not long,
under Mr. Shaw, then master of the school at Lichfield, father of the
late Dr. Peter Shaw. Of this interval his biographers have given no
account, and I know it only from a story of a _barring-out_, told me,
when I was a boy, by Andrew Corbet, of Shropshire, who had heard it from
Mr. Pigot, his uncle.

The practice of _barring-out_ was a savage licence, practised in many
schools to the end of the last century, by which the boys, when the
periodical vacation drew near, growing petulant at the approach of
liberty, some days before the time of regular recess, took possession of
the school, of which they barred the doors, and bade their master
defiance from the windows. It is not easy to suppose that on such
occasions the master would do more than laugh; yet, if tradition may be
credited, he often struggled hard to force or surprise the garrison. The
master, when Pigot was a schoolboy, was _barred out_ at Lichfield; and
the whole operation, as he said, was planned and conducted by Addison.

To judge better of the probability of this story, I have inquired when he
was sent to the Chartreux; but, as he was not one of those who enjoyed
the founder’s benefaction, there is no account preserved of his
admission. At the school of the Chartreux, to which he was removed either
from that of Salisbury or Lichfield, he pursued his juvenile studies
under the care of Dr. Ellis, and contracted that intimacy with Sir
Richard Steele which their joint labours have so effectually recorded.

Of this memorable friendship the greater praise must be given to Steele.
It is not hard to love those from whom nothing can be feared; and Addison
never considered Steele as a rival; but Steele lived, as he confesses,
under an habitual subjection to the predominating genius of Addison, whom
he always mentioned with reverence, and treated with obsequiousness.

Addison, who knew his own dignity, could not always forbear to show it,
by playing a little upon his admirer; but he was in no danger of retort;
his jests were endured without resistance or resentment. But the sneer of
jocularity was not the worst. Steele, whose imprudence of generosity, or
vanity of profusion, kept him always incurably necessitous, upon some
pressing exigence, in an evil hour, borrowed a hundred pounds of his
friend probably without much purpose of repayment; but Addison, who seems
to have had other notions of a hundred pounds, grew impatient of delay,
and reclaimed his loan by an execution. Steele felt with great
sensibility the obduracy of his creditor, but with emotions of sorrow
rather than of anger.

In 1687 he was entered into Queen’s College in Oxford, where, in 1689,
the accidental perusal of some Latin verses gained him the patronage of
Dr. Lancaster, afterwards Provost of Queen’s College; by whose
recommendation he was elected into Magdalen College as a demy, a term by
which that society denominates those who are elsewhere called scholars:
young men who partake of the founder’s benefaction, and succeed in their
order to vacant fellowships. Here he continued to cultivate poetry and
criticism, and grew first eminent by his Latin compositions, which are
indeed entitled to particular praise. He has not confined himself to the
imitation of any ancient author, but has formed his style from the
general language, such as a diligent perusal of the productions of
different ages happened to supply. His Latin compositions seem to have
had much of his fondness, for he collected a second volume of the “Musæ
Anglicanæ” perhaps for a convenient receptacle, in which all his Latin
pieces are inserted, and where his poem on the Peace has the first place.
He afterwards presented the collection to Boileau, who from that time
“conceived,” says Tickell, “an opinion of the English genius for poetry.”
Nothing is better known of Boileau than that he had an injudicious and
peevish contempt of modern Latin, and therefore his profession of regard
was probably the effect of his civility rather than approbation.

Three of his Latin poems are upon subjects on which perhaps he would not
have ventured to have written in his own language: “The Battle of the
Pigmies and Cranes,” “The Barometer,” and “A Bowling-green.”  When the
matter is low or scanty, a dead language, in which nothing is mean
because nothing is familiar, affords great conveniences; and by the
sonorous magnificence of Roman syllables, the writer conceals penury of
thought, and want of novelty, often from the reader and often from
himself.

In his twenty-second year he first showed his power of English poetry by
some verses addressed to Dryden; and soon after published a translation
of the greater part of the Fourth Georgic upon Bees; after which, says
Dryden, “my latter swarm is scarcely worth the hiving.”  About the same
time he composed the arguments prefixed to the several books of Dryden’s
Virgil; and produced an Essay on the Georgics, juvenile, superficial, and
uninstructive, without much either of the scholar’s learning or the
critic’s penetration. His next paper of verses contained a character of
the principal English poets, inscribed to Henry Sacheverell, who was
then, if not a poet, a writer of verses; as is shown by his version of a
small part of Virgil’s Georgics, published in the Miscellanies; and a
Latin encomium on Queen Mary, in the “Musæ Anglicanæ.”  These verses
exhibit all the fondness of friendship; but, on one side or the other,
friendship was afterwards too weak for the malignity of faction. In this
poem is a very confident and discriminate character of Spenser, whose
work he had then never read; so little sometimes is criticism the effect
of judgment. It is necessary to inform the reader that about this time he
was introduced by Congreve to Montague, then Chancellor of the Exchequer:
Addison was then learning the trade of a courtier, and subjoined Montague
as a poetical name to those of Cowley and of Dryden. By the influence of
Mr. Montague, concurring, according to Tickell, with his natural modesty,
he was diverted from his original design of entering into holy orders.
Montague alleged the corruption of men who engaged in civil employments
without liberal education; and declared that, though he was represented
as an enemy to the Church, he would never do it any injury but by
withholding Addison from it.

Soon after (in 1695) he wrote a poem to King William, with a rhyming
introduction addressed to Lord Somers. King William had no regard to
elegance or literature; his study was only war; yet by a choice of
Ministers, whose disposition was very different from his own, he
procured, without intention, a very liberal patronage to poetry. Addison
was caressed both by Somers and Montague.

In 1697 appeared his Latin verses on the Peace of Ryswick, which he
dedicated to Montague, and which was afterwards called, by Smith, “the
best Latin poem since the ‘Æneid.’”  Praise must not be too rigorously
examined; but the performance cannot be denied to be vigorous and
elegant. Having yet no public employment, he obtained (in 1699) a pension
of three hundred pounds a year, that he might be enabled to travel. He
stayed a year at Blois, probably to learn the French language and then
proceeded in his journey to Italy, which he surveyed with the eyes of a
poet. While he was travelling at leisure, he was far from being idle: for
he not only collected his observations on the country, but found time to
write his “Dialogues on Medals,” and four acts of _Cato_. Such, at least,
is the relation of Tickell. Perhaps he only collected his materials and
formed his plan. Whatever were his other employments in Italy, he there
wrote the letter to Lord Halifax which is justly considered as the most
elegant, if not the most sublime, of his poetical productions. But in
about two years he found it necessary to hasten home; being, as Swift
informs us, distressed by indigence, and compelled to become the tutor of
a travelling squire, because his pension was not remitted.

At his return he published his Travels, with a dedication to Lord Somers.
As his stay in foreign countries was short, his observations are such as
might be supplied by a hasty view, and consist chiefly in comparisons of
the present face of the country with the descriptions left us by the
Roman poets, from whom he made preparatory collections, though he might
have spared the trouble had he known that such collections had been made
twice before by Italian authors.

The most amusing passage of his book is his account of the minute
republic of San Marino; of many parts it is not a very severe censure to
say that they might have been written at home. His elegance of language,
and variegation of prose and verse, however, gain upon the reader; and
the book, though awhile neglected, became in time so much the favourite
of the public that before it was reprinted it rose to five times its
price.

When he returned to England (in 1702), with a meanness of appearance
which gave testimony of the difficulties to which he had been reduced, he
found his old patrons out of power, and was therefore, for a time, at
full leisure for the cultivation of his mind; and a mind so cultivated
gives reason to believe that little time was lost. But he remained not
long neglected or useless. The victory at Blenheim (1704) spread triumph
and confidence over the nation; and Lord Godolphin, lamenting to Lord
Halifax that it had not been celebrated in a manner equal to the subject,
desired him to propose it to some better poet. Halifax told him that
there was no encouragement for genius; that worthless men were
unprofitably enriched with public money, without any care to find or
employ those whose appearance might do honour to their country. To this
Godolphin replied that such abuses should in time be rectified; and that,
if a man could be found capable of the task then proposed, he should not
want an ample recompense. Halifax then named Addison, but required that
the Treasurer should apply to him in his own person. Godolphin sent the
message by Mr. Boyle, afterwards Lord Carlton; and Addison, having
undertaken the work, communicated it to the Treasury while it was yet
advanced no further than the simile of the angel, and was immediately
rewarded by succeeding Mr. Locke in the place of Commissioner of Appeals.

In the following year he was at Hanover with Lord Halifax: and the year
after he was made Under Secretary of State, first to Sir Charles Hedges,
and in a few months more to the Earl of Sunderland. About this time the
prevalent taste for Italian operas inclined him to try what would be the
effect of a musical drama in our own language. He therefore wrote the
opera of Rosamond, which, when exhibited on the stage, was either hissed
or neglected; but, trusting that the readers would do him more justice,
he published it with an inscription to the Duchess of Marlborough—a woman
without skill, or pretensions to skill, in poetry or literature. His
dedication was therefore an instance of servile absurdity, to be exceeded
only by Joshua Barnes’s dedication of a Greek Anacreon to the Duke. His
reputation had been somewhat advanced by The Tender Husband, a comedy
which Steele dedicated to him, with a confession that he owed to him
several of the most successful scenes. To this play Addison supplied a
prologue.

When the Marquis of Wharton was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland,
Addison attended him as his secretary; and was made Keeper of the
Records, in Birmingham’s Tower, with a salary of three hundred pounds a
year. The office was little more than nominal, and the salary was
augmented for his accommodation. Interest and faction allow little to the
operation of particular dispositions or private opinions. Two men of
personal characters more opposite than those of Wharton and Addison could
not easily be brought together. Wharton was impious, profligate, and
shameless; without regard, or appearance of regard, to right and wrong.
Whatever is contrary to this may be said of Addison; but as agents of a
party they were connected, and how they adjusted their other sentiments
we cannot know.

Addison must, however, not be too hastily condemned. It is not necessary
to refuse benefits from a bad man when the acceptance implies no
approbation of his crimes; nor has the subordinate officer any obligation
to examine the opinions or conduct of those under whom he acts, except
that he may not be made the instrument of wickedness. It is reasonable to
suppose that Addison counteracted, as far as he was able, the malignant
and blasting influence of the Lieutenant; and that at least by his
intervention some good was done, and some mischief prevented. When he was
in office he made a law to himself, as Swift has recorded, never to remit
his regular fees in civility to his friends: “for,” said he, “I may have
a hundred friends; and if my fee be two guineas, I shall, by
relinquishing my right, lose two hundred guineas, and no friend gain more
than two; there is therefore no proportion between the good imparted and
the evil suffered.”  He was in Ireland when Steele, without any
communication of his design, began the publication of the _Tatler_; but
he was not long concealed; by inserting a remark on Virgil which Addison
had given him he discovered himself. It is, indeed, not easy for any man
to write upon literature or common life so as not to make himself known
to those with whom he familiarly converses, and who are acquainted with
his track of study, his favourite topic, his peculiar notions, and his
habitual phrases.

If Steele desired to write in secret, he was not lucky; a single month
detected him. His first _Tatler_ was published April 22 (1709); and
Addison’s contribution appeared May 26. Tickell observes that the
_Tatler_ began and was concluded without his concurrence. This is
doubtless literally true; but the work did not suffer much by his
unconsciousness of its commencement, or his absence at its cessation; for
he continued his assistance to December 23, and the paper stopped on
January 2. He did not distinguish his pieces by any signature; and I know
not whether his name was not kept secret till the papers were collected
into volumes.

To the _Tatler_, in about two months, succeeded the _Spectator_: a series
of essays of the same kind, but written with less levity, upon a more
regular plan, and published daily. Such an undertaking showed the writers
not to distrust their own copiousness of materials or facility of
composition, and their performance justified their confidence. They
found, however, in their progress many auxiliaries. To attempt a single
paper was no terrifying labour; many pieces were offered, and many were
received.

Addison had enough of the zeal of party; but Steele had at that time
almost nothing else. The _Spectator_, in one of the first papers, showed
the political tenets of its authors; but a resolution was soon taken of
courting general approbation by general topics, and subjects on which
faction had produced no diversity of sentiments—such as literature,
morality, and familiar life. To this practice they adhered with few
deviations. The ardour of Steele once broke out in praise of Marlborough;
and when Dr. Fleetwood prefixed to some sermons a preface overflowing
with Whiggish opinions, that it might be read by the Queen, it was
reprinted in the _Spectator_.

To teach the minuter decencies and inferior duties, to regulate the
practice of daily conversation, to correct those depravities which are
rather ridiculous than criminal, and remove those grievances which, if
they produce no lasting calamities, impress hourly vexation, was first
attempted by Casa in his book of “Manners,” and Castiglione in his
“Courtier:” two books yet celebrated in Italy for purity and elegance,
and which, if they are now less read, are neglected only because they
have effected that reformation which their authors intended, and their
precepts now are no longer wanted. Their usefulness to the age in which
they were written is sufficiently attested by the translations which
almost all the nations of Europe were in haste to obtain.

This species of instruction was continued, and perhaps advanced, by the
French; among whom La Bruyère’s “Manners of the Age” (though, as Boileau
remarked, it is written without connection) certainly deserves praise for
liveliness of description and justness of observation.

Before the _Tatler_ and _Spectator_, if the writers for the theatre are
excepted, England had no masters of common life. No writers had yet
undertaken to reform either the savageness of neglect, or the
impertinence of civility; to show when to speak, or to be silent; how to
refuse, or how to comply. We had many books to teach us our more
important duties, and to settle opinions in philosophy or politics; but
an _arbiter elegantiarum_, (a judge of propriety) was yet wanting who
should survey the track of daily conversation, and free it from thorns
and prickles, which tease the passer, though they do not wound him. For
this purpose nothing is so proper as the frequent publication of short
papers, which we read, not as study, but amusement. If the subject be
slight, the treatise is short. The busy may find time, and the idle may
find patience. This mode of conveying cheap and easy knowledge began
among us in the civil war, when it was much the interest of either party
to raise and fix the prejudices of the people. At that time appeared
_Mercurius Aulicus_, _Mercurius Rusticus_, and _Mercurius Civicus_. It is
said that when any title grew popular, it was stolen by the antagonist,
who by this stratagem conveyed his notions to those who would not have
received him had he not worn the appearance of a friend. The tumult of
those unhappy days left scarcely any man leisure to treasure up
occasional compositions; and so much were they neglected that a complete
collection is nowhere to be found.

These Mercuries were succeeded by L’Estrange’s _Observator_; and that by
Lesley’s _Rehearsal_, and perhaps by others; but hitherto nothing had
been conveyed to the people, in this commodious manner, but controversy
relating to the Church or State; of which they taught many to talk, whom
they could not teach to judge.

It has been suggested that the Royal Society was instituted soon after
the Restoration to divert the attention of the people from public
discontent. The _Tatler_ and _Spectator_ had the same tendency; they were
published at a time when two parties—loud, restless, and violent, each
with plausible declarations, and each perhaps without any distinct
termination of its views—were agitating the nation; to minds heated with
political contest they supplied cooler and more inoffensive reflections;
and it is said by Addison, in a subsequent work, that they had a
perceptible influence upon the conversation of that time, and taught the
frolic and the gay to unite merriment with decency—an effect which they
can never wholly lose while they continue to be among the first books by
which both sexes are initiated in the elegances of knowledge.

The _Tatler_ and _Spectator_ adjusted, like Casa, the unsettled practice
of daily intercourse by propriety and politeness; and, like La Bruyère,
exhibited the “Characters and Manners of the Age.”  The personages
introduced in these papers were not merely ideal; they were then known,
and conspicuous in various stations. Of the _Tatler_ this is told by
Steele in his last paper; and of the _Spectator_ by Budgell in the
preface to “Theophrastus,” a book which Addison has recommended, and
which he was suspected to have revised, if he did not write it. Of those
portraits which may be supposed to be sometimes embellished, and
sometimes aggravated, the originals are now partly known, and partly
forgotten. But to say that they united the plans of two or three eminent
writers, is to give them but a small part of their due praise; they
superadded literature and criticism, and sometimes towered far above
their predecessors; and taught, with great justness of argument and
dignity of language, the most important duties and sublime truths. All
these topics were happily varied with elegant fictions and refined
allegories, and illuminated with different changes of style and
felicities of invention.

It is recorded by Budgell, that of the characters feigned or exhibited in
the _Spectator_, the favourite of Addison was Sir Roger de Coverley, of
whom he had formed a very delicate and discriminate idea, which he would
not suffer to be violated; and therefore when Steele had shown him
innocently picking up a girl in the Temple, and taking her to a tavern,
he drew upon himself so much of his friend’s indignation that he was
forced to appease him by a promise of forbearing Sir Roger for the time
to come.

The reason which induced Cervantes to bring his hero to the grave, _para
mi sola nacio Don Quixote_, _y yo para el_, made Addison declare, with
undue vehemence of expression, that he would kill Sir Roger; being of
opinion that they were born for one another, and that any other hand
would do him wrong.

It may be doubted whether Addison ever filled up his original
delineation. He describes his knight as having his imagination somewhat
warped; but of this perversion he has made very little use. The
irregularities in Sir Roger’s conduct seem not so much the effects of a
mind deviating from the beaten track of life, by the perpetual pressure
of some overwhelming idea, as of habitual rusticity, and that negligence
which solitary grandeur naturally generates. The variable weather of the
mind, the flying vapours of incipient madness, which from time to time
cloud reason without eclipsing it, it requires so much nicety to exhibit
that Addison seems to have been deterred from prosecuting his own design.

To Sir Roger (who, as a country gentleman, appears to be a Tory, or, as
it is gently expressed, an adherent to the landed interest) is opposed
Sir Andrew Freeport, a new man, a wealthy merchant, zealous for the
moneyed interest, and a Whig. Of this contrariety of opinions, it is
probable more consequences were at first intended than could be produced
when the resolution was taken to exclude party from the paper. Sir Andrew
does but little, and that little seems not to have pleased Addison, who,
when he dismissed him from the club, changed his opinions. Steele had
made him, in the true spirit of unfeeling commerce, declare that he
“would not build an hospital for idle people;” but at last he buys land,
settles in the country, and builds, not a manufactory, but an hospital
for twelve old husbandmen—for men with whom a merchant has little
acquaintance, and whom he commonly considers with little kindness.

Of essays thus elegant, thus instructive, and thus commodiously
distributed, it is natural to suppose the approbation general, and the
sale numerous. I once heard it observed that the sale may be calculated
by the product of the tax, related in the last number to produce more
than twenty pounds a week, and therefore stated at one-and-twenty pounds,
or three pounds ten shillings a day: this, at a halfpenny a paper, will
give sixteen hundred and eighty for the daily number. This sale is not
great; yet this, if Swift be credited, was likely to grow less; for he
declares that the _Spectator_, whom he ridicules for his endless mention
of the _fair sex_, had before his recess wearied his readers.

The next year (1713), in which _Cato_ came upon the stage, was the grand
climacteric of Addison’s reputation. Upon the death of _Cato_ he had, as
is said, planned a tragedy in the time of his travels, and had for
several years the four first acts finished, which were shown to such as
were likely to spread their admiration. They were seen by Pope and by
Cibber, who relates that Steele, when he took back the copy, told him, in
the despicable cant of literary modesty, that, whatever spirit his friend
had shown in the composition, he doubted whether he would have courage
sufficient to expose it to the censure of a British audience. The time,
however, was now come when those who affected to think liberty in danger
affected likewise to think that a stage-play might preserve it; and
Addison was importuned, in the name of the tutelary deities of Britain,
to show his courage and his zeal by finishing his design.

To resume his work he seemed perversely and unaccountably unwilling; and
by a request, which perhaps he wished to be denied, desired Mr. Hughes to
add a fifth act. Hughes supposed him serious; and, undertaking the
supplement, brought in a few days some scenes for his examination; but he
had in the meantime gone to work himself, and produced half an act, which
he afterwards completed, but with brevity irregularly disproportionate to
the foregoing parts, like a task performed with reluctance and hurried to
its conclusion.

It may yet be doubted whether _Cato_ was made public by any change of the
author’s purpose; for Dennis charged him with raising prejudices in his
own favour by false positions of preparatory criticism, and with
_poisoning the town_ by contradicting in the _Spectator_ the established
rule of poetical justice, because his own hero, with all his virtues, was
to fall before a tyrant. The fact is certain; the motives we must guess.

Addison was, I believe, sufficiently disposed to bar all avenues against
all danger. When Pope brought him the prologue, which is properly
accommodated to the play, there were these words, “Britains, arise! be
worth like this approved;” meaning nothing more than—Britons, erect and
exalt yourselves to the approbation of public virtue. Addison was
frighted, lest he should be thought a promoter of insurrection, and the
line was liquidated to “Britains, attend.”

Now “heavily in clouds came on the day, the great, the important day,”
when Addison was to stand the hazard of the theatre. That there might,
however, be left as little hazard as was possible, on the first night
Steele, as himself relates, undertook to pack an audience. “This,” says
Pope, “had been tried for the first time in favour of the _Distressed
Mother_; and was now, with more efficacy, practised for _Cato_.”  The
danger was soon over. The whole nation was at that time on fire with
faction. The Whigs applauded every line in which liberty was mentioned,
as a satire on the Tories; and the Tories echoed every clap, to show that
the satire was unfelt. The story of Bolingbroke is well known; he called
Booth to his box, and gave him fifty guineas for defending the cause of
liberty so well against a perpetual dictator. “The Whigs,” says Pope,
“design a second present, when they can accompany it with as good a
sentence.”

The play, supported thus by the emulation of factious praise, was acted
night after night for a longer time than, I believe, the public had
allowed to any drama before; and the author, as Mrs. Porter long
afterwards related, wandered through the whole exhibition behind the
scenes with restless and unappeasable solicitude. When it was printed,
notice was given that the Queen would be pleased if it was dedicated to
her; “but, as he had designed that compliment elsewhere, he found himself
obliged,” says Tickell, “by his duty on the one hand, and his honour on
the other, to send it into the world without any dedication.”

Human happiness has always its abatements; the brightest sunshine of
success is not without a cloud. No sooner was _Cato_ offered to the
reader than it was attacked by the acute malignity of Dennis with all the
violence of angry criticism. Dennis, though equally zealous, and probably
by his temper more furious than Addison, for what they called liberty,
and though a flatterer of the Whig Ministry, could not sit quiet at a
successful play; but was eager to tell friends and enemies that they had
misplaced their admirations. The world was too stubborn for instruction;
with the fate of the censurer of Corneille’s _Cid_, his animadversions
showed his anger without effect, and _Cato_ continued to be praised.

Pope had now an opportunity of courting the friendship of Addison by
vilifying his old enemy, and could give resentment its full play without
appearing to revenge himself. He therefore published “A Narrative of the
Madness of John Dennis:” a performance which left the objections to the
play in their full force, and therefore discovered more desire of vexing
the critic than of defending the poet.

Addison, who was no stranger to the world, probably saw the selfishness
of Pope’s friendship; and, resolving that he should have the consequences
of his officiousness to himself, informed Dennis by Steele that he was
sorry for the insult; and that, whenever he should think fit to answer
his remarks, he would do it in a manner to which nothing could be
objected.

The greatest weakness of the play is in the scenes of love, which are
said by Pope to have been added to the original plan upon a subsequent
review, in compliance with the popular practice of the stage. Such an
authority it is hard to reject; yet the love is so intimately mingled
with the whole action that it cannot easily be thought extrinsic and
adventitious; for if it were taken away, what would be left? or how were
the four acts filled in the first draft?  At the publication the wits
seemed proud to pay their attendance with encomiastic verses. The best
are from an unknown hand, which will perhaps lose somewhat of their
praise when the author is known to be Jeffreys.

_Cato_ had yet other honours. It was censured as a party-play by a
scholar of Oxford; and defended in a favourable examination by Dr. Sewel.
It was translated by Salvini into Italian, and acted at Florence; and by
the Jesuits of St. Omer’s into Latin, and played by their pupils. Of this
version a copy was sent to Mr. Addison: it is to be wished that it could
be found, for the sake of comparing their version of the soliloquy with
that of Bland.

A tragedy was written on the same subject by Des Champs, a French poet,
which was translated with a criticism on the English play. But the
translator and the critic are now forgotten.

Dennis lived on unanswered, and therefore little read. Addison knew the
policy of literature too well to make his enemy important by drawing the
attention of the public upon a criticism which, though sometimes
intemperate, was often irrefragable.

While _Cato_ was upon the stage, another daily paper, called the
_Guardian_, was published by Steele. To this Addison gave great
assistance, whether occasionally or by previous engagement is not known.
The character of _Guardian_ was too narrow and too serious: it might
properly enough admit both the duties and the decencies of life, but
seemed not to include literary speculations, and was in some degree
violated by merriment and burlesque. What had the _Guardian_ of the
Lizards to do with clubs of tall or of little men, with nests of ants, or
with Strada’s prolusions?  Of this paper nothing is necessary to be said
but that it found many contributors, and that it was a continuation of
the _Spectator_, with the same elegance and the same variety, till some
unlucky sparkle from a Tory paper set Steele’s politics on fire, and wit
at once blazed into faction. He was soon too hot for neutral topics, and
quitted the _Guardian_ to write the Englishman.

The papers of Addison are marked in the _Spectator_ by one of the letters
in the name of Clio, and in the _Guardian_ by a hand; whether it was, as
Tickell pretends to think, that he was unwilling to usurp the praise of
others, or as Steele, with far greater likelihood, insinuates, that he
could not without discontent impart to others any of his own. I have
heard that his avidity did not satisfy itself with the air of renown, but
that with great eagerness he laid hold on his proportion of the profits.

Many of these papers were written with powers truly comic, with nice
discrimination of characters, and accurate observation of natural or
accidental deviations from propriety; but it was not supposed that he had
tried a comedy on the stage, till Steele after his death declared him the
author of _The Drummer_. This, however, Steele did not know to be true by
any direct testimony, for when Addison put the play into his hands, he
only told him it was the work of a “gentleman in the company;” and when
it was received, as is confessed, with cold disapprobation, he was
probably less willing to claim it. Tickell omitted it in his collection;
but the testimony of Steele, and the total silence of any other claimant,
has determined the public to assign it to Addison, and it is now printed
with other poetry. Steele carried _The Drummer_ to the play-house, and
afterwards to the press, and sold the copy for fifty guineas.

To the opinion of Steele may be added the proof supplied by the play
itself, of which the characters are such as Addison would have
delineated, and the tendency such as Addison would have promoted. That it
should have been ill received would raise wonder, did we not daily see
the capricious distribution of theatrical praise.

He was not all this time an indifferent spectator of public affairs. He
wrote, as different exigences required (in 1707), “The Present State of
the War, and the Necessity of an Augmentation;” which, however judicious,
being written on temporary topics, and exhibiting no peculiar powers,
laid hold on no attention, and has naturally sunk by its own weight into
neglect. This cannot be said of the few papers entitled the _Whig
Examiner_, in which is employed all the force of gay malevolence and
humorous satire. Of this paper, which just appeared and expired, Swift
remarks, with exultation, that “it is now down among the dead men.”  He
might well rejoice at the death of that which he could not have killed.
Every reader of every party, since personal malice is past, and the
papers which once inflamed the nation are read only as effusions of wit,
must wish for more of the _Whig Examiners_; for on no occasion was the
genius of Addison more vigorously exerted, and on none did the
superiority of his powers more evidently appear. His “Trial of Count
Tariff,” written to expose the treaty of commerce with France, lived no
longer than the question that produced it.

Not long afterwards an attempt was made to revive the _Spectator_, at a
time indeed by no means favourable to literature, when the succession of
a new family to the throne filled the nation with anxiety, discord, and
confusion; and either the turbulence of the times, or the satiety of the
readers, put a stop to the publication after an experiment of eighty
numbers, which were actually collected into an eighth volume, perhaps
more valuable than any of those that went before it. Addison produced
more than a fourth part; and the other contributors are by no means
unworthy of appearing as his associates. The time that had passed during
the suspension of the _Spectator_, though it had not lessened his power
of humour, seems to have increased his disposition to seriousness: the
proportion of his religious to his comic papers is greater than in the
former series.

The _Spectator_, from its re-commencement, was published only three times
a week; and no discriminative marks were added to the papers. To Addison,
Tickell has ascribed twenty-three. The _Spectator_ had many contributors;
and Steele, whose negligence kept him always in a hurry, when it was his
turn to furnish a paper, called loudly for the letters, of which Addison,
whose materials were more, made little use—having recourse to sketches
and hints, the product of his former studies, which he now reviewed and
completed: among these are named by Tickell the Essays on Wit, those on
the Pleasures of the Imagination, and the Criticism on Milton.

When the House of Hanover took possession of the throne, it was
reasonable to expect that the zeal of Addison would be suitably rewarded.
Before the arrival of King George, he was made Secretary to the Regency,
and was required by his office to send notice to Hanover that the Queen
was dead, and that the throne was vacant. To do this would not have been
difficult to any man but Addison, who was so overwhelmed with the
greatness of the event, and so distracted by choice of expression, that
the lords, who could not wait for the niceties of criticism, called Mr.
Southwell, a clerk in the House, and ordered him to despatch the message.
Southwell readily told what was necessary in the common style of
business, and valued himself upon having done what was too hard for
Addison. He was better qualified for the _Freeholder_, a paper which he
published twice a week, from December 23, 1715, to the middle of the next
year. This was undertaken in defence of the established Government,
sometimes with argument, and sometimes with mirth. In argument he had
many equals; but his humour was singular and matchless. Bigotry itself
must be delighted with the “Tory Fox-hunter.”  There are, however, some
strokes less elegant and less decent; such as the “Pretender’s Journal,”
in which one topic of ridicule is his poverty. This mode of abuse had
been employed by Milton against King Charles II.

                                             “Jacobœi.
   Centum exulantis viscera Marsupii regis.”

And Oldmixon delights to tell of some alderman of London that he had more
money than the exiled princes; but that which might be expected from
Milton’s savageness, or Oldmixon’s meanness, was not suitable to the
delicacy of Addison.

Steele thought the humour of the _Freeholder_ too nice and gentle for
such noisy times, and is reported to have said that the Ministry made use
of a lute, when they should have called for a trumpet.

This year (1716) he married the Countess Dowager of Warwick, whom he had
solicited by a very long and anxious courtship, perhaps with behaviour
not very unlike that of Sir Roger to his disdainful widow; and who, I am
afraid, diverted herself often by playing with his passion. He is said to
have first known her by becoming tutor to her son. “He formed,” said
Tonson, “the design of getting that lady from the time when he was first
taken into the family.”  In what part of his life he obtained the
recommendation, or how long, and in what manner he lived in the family, I
know not. His advances at first were certainly timorous, but grew bolder
as his reputation and influence increased; till at last the lady was
persuaded to marry him, on terms much like those on which a Turkish
princess is espoused, to whom the Sultan is reported to pronounce,
“Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave.”  The marriage, if
uncontradicted report can be credited, made no addition to his happiness;
it neither found them nor made them equal. She always remembered her own
rank, and thought herself entitled to treat with very little ceremony the
tutor of her son. Rowe’s ballad of the “Despairing Shepherd” is said to
have been written, either before or after marriage, upon this memorable
pair; and it is certain that Addison has left behind him no encouragement
for ambitious love.

The year after (1717) he rose to his highest elevation, being made
Secretary of State. For this employment he might be justly supposed
qualified by long practice of business, and by his regular ascent through
other offices; but expectation is often disappointed; it is universally
confessed that he was unequal to the duties of his place. In the House of
Commons he could not speak, and therefore was useless to the defence of
the Government. “In the office,” says Pope, “he could not issue an order
without losing his time in quest of fine expressions.”  What he gained in
rank he lost in credit; and finding by experience his own inability, was
forced to solicit his dismission, with a pension of fifteen hundred
pounds a year. His friends palliated this relinquishment, of which both
friends and enemies knew the true reason, with an account of declining
health, and the necessity of recess and quiet. He now returned to his
vocation, and began to plan literary occupations for his future life. He
purposed a tragedy on the death of Socrates: a story of which, as Tickell
remarks, the basis is narrow, and to which I know not how love could have
been appended. There would, however, have been no want either of virtue
in the sentiments, or elegance in the language. He engaged in a nobler
work, a “Defence of the Christian Religion,” of which part was published
after his death; and he designed to have made a new poetical version of
the Psalms.

These pious compositions Pope imputed to a selfish motive, upon the
credit, as he owns, of Tonson; who, having quarrelled with Addison, and
not loving him, said that when he laid down the Secretary’s office he
intended to take orders and obtain a bishopric; “for,” said he, “I always
thought him a priest in his heart.”

That Pope should have thought this conjecture of Tonson worth
remembrance, is a proof—but indeed, so far as I have found, the only
proof—that he retained some malignity from their ancient rivalry. Tonson
pretended to guess it; no other mortal ever suspected it; and Pope might
have reflected that a man who had been Secretary of State in the Ministry
of Sunderland knew a nearer way to a bishopric than by defending religion
or translating the Psalms.

It is related that he had once a design to make an English dictionary,
and that he considered Dr. Tillotson as the writer of highest authority.
There was formerly sent to me by Mr. Locker, clerk of the Leathersellers
Company, who was eminent for curiosity and literature, a collection of
examples selected from Tillotson’s works, as Locker said, by Addison. It
came too late to be of use, so I inspected it but slightly, and remember
it indistinctly. I thought the passages too short. Addison, however, did
not conclude his life in peaceful studies, but relapsed, when he was near
his end, to a political dispute.

It so happened that (1718–19) a controversy was agitated with great
vehemence between those friends of long continuance, Addison and Steele.
It may be asked, in the language of Homer, what power or what cause
should set them at variance. The subject of their dispute was of great
importance. The Earl of Sunderland proposed an Act, called the “Peerage
Bill;” by which the number of Peers should be fixed, and the King
restrained from any new creation of nobility, unless when an old family
should be extinct. To this the Lords would naturally agree; and the King,
who was yet little acquainted with his own prerogative, and, as is now
well known, almost indifferent to the possessions of the Crown, had been
persuaded to consent. The only difficulty was found among the Commons,
who were not likely to approve the perpetual exclusion of themselves and
their posterity. The Bill, therefore, was eagerly opposed, and, among
others, by Sir Robert Walpole, whose speech was published.

The Lords might think their dignity diminished by improper advancements,
and particularly by the introduction of twelve new Peers at once, to
produce a majority of Tories in the last reign: an act of authority
violent enough, yet certainly legal, and by no means to be compared with
that contempt of national right with which some time afterwards, by the
instigation of Whiggism, the Commons, chosen by the people for three
years, chose themselves for seven. But, whatever might be the disposition
of the Lords, the people had no wish to increase their power. The
tendency of the Bill, as Steele observed in a letter to the Earl of
Oxford, was to introduce an aristocracy: for a majority in the House of
Lords, so limited, would have been despotic and irresistible.

To prevent this subversion of the ancient establishment, Steele, whose
pen readily seconded his political passions, endeavoured to alarm the
nation by a pamphlet called “The Plebeian.”  To this an answer was
published by Addison, under the title of “The Old Whig,” in which it is
not discovered that Steele was then known to be the advocate for the
Commons. Steele replied by a second “Plebeian;” and, whether by ignorance
or by courtesy, confined himself to his question, without any personal
notice of his opponent. Nothing hitherto was committed against the laws
of friendship or proprieties of decency; but controvertists cannot long
retain their kindness for each other. The “Old Whig” answered “The
Plebeian,” and could not forbear some contempt of “little _Dicky_, whose
trade it was to write pamphlets.”  Dicky, however, did not lose his
settled veneration for his friend, but contented himself with quoting
some lines of _Cato_, which were at once detection and reproof. The Bill
was laid aside during that session, and Addison died before the next, in
which its commitment was rejected by two hundred and sixty-five to one
hundred and seventy-seven.

Every reader surely must regret that these two illustrious friends, after
so many years passed in confidence and endearment, in unity of interest,
conformity of opinion, and fellowship of study, should finally part in
acrimonious opposition. Such a controversy was “bellum plusquam
_civile_,” as Lucan expresses it. Why could not faction find other
advocates?  But among the uncertainties of the human state, we are doomed
to number the instability of friendship. Of this dispute I have little
knowledge but from the “Biographia Britannica.”  “The Old Whig” is not
inserted in Addison’s works: nor is it mentioned by Tickell in his Life;
why it was omitted, the biographers doubtless give the true reason—the
fact was too recent, and those who had been heated in the contention were
not yet cool.

The necessity of complying with times, and of sparing persons, is the
great impediment of biography. History may be formed from permanent
monuments and records: but lives can only be written from personal
knowledge, which is growing every day less, and in a short time is lost
for ever. What is known can seldom be immediately told; and when it might
be told, it is no longer known. The delicate features of the mind, the
nice discriminations of character, and the minute peculiarities of
conduct, are soon obliterated; and it is surely better that caprice,
obstinacy, frolic, and folly, however they might delight in the
description, should be silently forgotten, than that, by wanton merriment
and unseasonable detection, a pang should be given to a widow, a
daughter, a brother, or a friend. As the process of these narratives is
now bringing me among my contemporaries, I begin to feel myself “walking
upon ashes under which the fire is not extinguished,” and coming to the
time of which it will be proper rather to say “nothing that is false,
than all that is true.”

The end of this useful life was now approaching. Addison had for some
time been oppressed by shortness of breath, which was now aggravated by a
dropsy; and, finding his danger pressing, he prepared to die conformably
to his own precepts and professions. During this lingering decay, he
sent, as Pope relates, a message by the Earl of Warwick to Mr. Gay,
desiring to see him. Gay, who had not visited him for some time before,
obeyed the summons, and found himself received with great kindness. The
purpose for which the interview had been solicited was then discovered.
Addison told him that he had injured him; but that, if he recovered, he
would recompense him. What the injury was he did not explain, nor did Gay
ever know; but supposed that some preferment designed for him had, by
Addison’s intervention, been withheld.

Lord Warwick was a young man, of very irregular life, and perhaps of
loose opinions. Addison, for whom he did not want respect, had very
diligently endeavoured to reclaim him, but his arguments and
expostulations had no effect. One experiment, however, remained to be
tried; when he found his life near its end, he directed the young lord to
be called, and when he desired with great tenderness to hear his last
injunctions, told him, “I have sent for you that you may see how a
Christian can die.”  What effect this awful scene had on the earl, I know
not; he likewise died himself in a short time.

In Tickell’s excellent Elegy on his friend are these lines:—

   “He taught us how to live; and, oh! too high
   The price of knowledge, taught us how to die”—

in which he alludes, as he told Dr. Young, to this moving interview.

Having given directions to Mr. Tickell for the publication of his works,
and dedicated them on his death-bed to his friend Mr. Craggs, he died
June 17, 1719, at Holland House, leaving no child but a daughter.

Of his virtue it is a sufficient testimony that the resentment of party
has transmitted no charge of any crime. He was not one of those who are
praised only after death; for his merit was so generally acknowledged
that Swift, having observed that his election passed without a contest,
adds that if he proposed himself for King he would hardly have been
refused. His zeal for his party did not extinguish his kindness for the
merit of his opponents; when he was Secretary in Ireland, he refused to
intermit his acquaintance with Swift. Of his habits or external manners,
nothing is so often mentioned as that timorous or sullen taciturnity,
which his friends called modesty by too mild a name. Steele mentions with
great tenderness “that remarkable bashfulness which is a cloak that hides
and muffles merit;” and tells us “that his abilities were covered only by
modesty, which doubles the beauties which are seen, and gives credit and
esteem to all that are concealed.”  Chesterfield affirms that “Addison
was the most timorous and awkward man that he ever saw.”  And Addison,
speaking of his own deficiency in conversation, used to say of himself
that, with respect to intellectual wealth, “he could draw bills for a
thousand pounds, though he had not a guinea in his pocket.”  That he
wanted current coin for ready payment, and by that want was often
obstructed and distressed; and that he was often oppressed by an improper
and ungraceful timidity, every testimony concurs to prove; but
Chesterfield’s representation is doubtless hyperbolical. That man cannot
be supposed very unexpert in the arts of conversation and practice of
life who, without fortune or alliance, by his usefulness and dexterity
became Secretary of State, and who died at forty-seven, after having not
only stood long in the highest rank of wit and literature, but filled one
of the most important offices of State.

The time in which he lived had reason to lament his obstinacy of silence;
“for he was,” says Steele, “above all men in that talent called humour,
and enjoyed it in such perfection that I have often reflected, after a
night spent with him apart from all the world, that I had had the
pleasure of conversing with an intimate acquaintance of Terence and
Catullus, who had all their wit and nature, heightened with humour more
exquisite and delightful than any other man ever possessed.”  This is the
fondness of a friend; let us hear what is told us by a rival. “Addison’s
conversation,” says Pope, “had something in it more charming than I have
found in any other man. But this was only when familiar: before
strangers, or perhaps a single stranger, he preserved his dignity by a
stiff silence.”  This modesty was by no means inconsistent with a very
high opinion of his own merit. He demanded to be the first name in modern
wit; and, with Steele to echo him, used to depreciate Dryden, whom Pope
and Congreve defended against them. There is no reason to doubt that he
suffered too much pain from the prevalence of Pope’s poetical reputation;
nor is it without strong reason suspected that by some disingenuous acts
he endeavoured to obstruct it; Pope was not the only man whom he
insidiously injured, though the only man of whom he could be afraid. His
own powers were such as might have satisfied him with conscious
excellence. Of very extensive learning he has indeed given no proofs. He
seems to have had small acquaintance with the sciences, and to have read
little except Latin and French; but of the Latin poets his “Dialogues on
Medals” show that he had perused the works with great diligence and
skill. The abundance of his own mind left him little indeed of
adventitious sentiments; his wit always could suggest what the occasion
demanded. He had read with critical eyes the important volume of human
life, and knew the heart of man, from the depths of stratagem to the
surface of affectation. What he knew he could easily communicate. “This,”
says Steele, “was particular in this writer—that when he had taken his
resolution, or made his plan for what he designed to write, he would walk
about a room and dictate it into language with as much freedom and ease
as any one could write it down, and attend to the coherence and grammar
of what he dictated.”

Pope, who can be less suspected of favouring his memory, declares that he
wrote very fluently, but was slow and scrupulous in correcting; that many
of his _Spectators_ were written very fast, and sent immediately to the
press; and that it seemed to be for his advantage not to have time for
much revisal. “He would alter,” says Pope, “anything to please his
friends before publication, but would not re-touch his pieces afterwards;
and I believe not one word of _Cato_ to which I made an objection was
suffered to stand.”

The last line of _Cato_ is Pope’s, having been originally written—

   “And oh! ’twas this that ended Cato’s life.”

Pope might have made more objections to the six concluding lines. In the
first couplet the words “from hence” are improper; and the second line is
taken from Dryden’s Virgil. Of the next couplet, the first verse, being
included in the second, is therefore useless; and in the third _Discord_
is made to produce _Strife_.

Of the course of Addison’s familiar day, before his marriage, Pope has
given a detail. He had in the house with him Budgell, and perhaps
Philips. His chief companions were Steele, Budgell, Philips [Ambrose],
Carey, Davenant, and Colonel Brett. With one or other of these he always
breakfasted. He studied all morning; then dined at a tavern; and went
afterwards to Button’s. Button had been a servant in the Countess of
Warwick’s family, who, under the patronage of Addison, kept a
coffee-house on the south side of Russell Street, about two doors from
Covent Garden. Here it was that the wits of that time used to assemble.
It is said when Addison had suffered any vexation from the countess, he
withdrew the company from Button’s house. From the coffee-house he went
again to a tavern, where he often sat late, and drank too much wine. In
the bottle discontent seeks for comfort, cowardice for courage, and
bashfulness for confidence. It is not unlikely that Addison was first
seduced to excess by the manumission which he obtained from the servile
timidity of his sober hours. He that feels oppression from the presence
of those to whom he knows himself superior will desire to set loose his
powers of conversation; and who that ever asked succours from Bacchus was
able to preserve himself from being enslaved by his auxiliary?

Among those friends it was that Addison displayed the elegance of his
colloquial accomplishments, which may easily be supposed such as Pope
represents them. The remark of Mandeville, who, when he had passed an
evening in his company, declared that he was a parson in a tie-wig, can
detract little from his character; he was always reserved to strangers,
and was not incited to uncommon freedom by a character like that of
Mandeville.

From any minute knowledge of his familiar manners the intervention of
sixty years has now debarred us. Steele once promised Congreve and the
public a complete description of his character; but the promises of
authors are like the vows of lovers. Steele thought no more on his
design, or thought on it with anxiety that at last disgusted him, and
left his friend in the hands of Tickell.

One slight lineament of his character Swift has preserved. It was his
practice, when he found any man invincibly wrong, to flatter his opinions
by acquiescence, and sink him yet deeper in absurdity. This artifice of
mischief was admired by Stella; and Swift seems to approve her
admiration. His works will supply some information. It appears, from the
various pictures of the world, that, with all his bashfulness, he had
conversed with many distinct classes of men, had surveyed their ways with
very diligent observation, and marked with great acuteness the effects of
different modes of life. He was a man in whose presence nothing
reprehensible was out of danger; quick in discerning whatever was wrong
or ridiculous, and not unwilling to expose it. “There are,” says Steele,
“in his writings many oblique strokes upon some of the wittiest men of
the age.”  His delight was more to excite merriment than detestation; and
he detects follies rather than crimes. If any judgment be made from his
books of his moral character, nothing will be found but purity and
excellence. Knowledge of mankind, indeed, less extensive than that of
Addison, will show that to write, and to live, are very different. Many
who praise virtue, do no more than praise it. Yet it is reasonable to
believe that Addison’s professions and practice were at no great
variance, since amidst that storm of faction in which most of his life
was passed, though his station made him conspicuous, and his activity
made him formidable, the character given him by his friends was never
contradicted by his enemies. Of those with whom interest or opinion
united him he had not only the esteem, but the kindness; and of others
whom the violence of opposition drove against him, though he might lose
the love, he retained the reverence.

It is justly observed by Tickell that he employed wit on the side of
virtue and religion. He not only made the proper use of wit himself, but
taught it to others; and from his time it has been generally subservient
to the cause of reason and of truth. He has dissipated the prejudice that
had long connected gaiety with vice, and easiness of manners with laxity
of principles. He has restored virtue to its dignity, and taught
innocence not to be ashamed. This is an elevation of literary character
“above all Greek, above all Roman fame.”  No greater felicity can genius
attain than that of having purified intellectual pleasure, separated
mirth from indecency, and wit from licentiousness; of having taught a
succession of writers to bring elegance and gaiety to the aid of
goodness; and, if I may use expressions yet more awful, of having “turned
many to righteousness.”

Addison, in his life and for some time afterwards, was considered by a
greater part of readers as supremely excelling both in poetry and
criticism. Part of his reputation may be probably ascribed to the
advancement of his fortune; when, as Swift observes, he became a
statesman, and saw poets waiting at his levée, it was no wonder that
praise was accumulated upon him. Much likewise may be more honourably
ascribed to his personal character: he who, if he had claimed it, might
have obtained the diadem, was not likely to be denied the laurel. But
time quickly puts an end to artificial and accidental fame; and Addison
is to pass through futurity protected only by his genius. Every name
which kindness or interest once raised too high is in danger, lest the
next age should, by the vengeance of criticism, sink it in the same
proportion. A great writer has lately styled him “an indifferent poet,
and a worse critic.”  His poetry is first to be considered; of which it
must be confessed that it has not often those felicities of diction which
give lustre to sentiments, or that vigour of sentiment that animates
diction: there is little of ardour, vehemence, or transport; there is
very rarely the awfulness of grandeur, and not very often the splendour
of elegance. He thinks justly, but he thinks faintly. This is his general
character; to which, doubtless, many single passages will furnish
exception. Yet, if he seldom reaches supreme excellence, he rarely sinks
into dulness, and is still more rarely entangled in absurdity. He did not
trust his powers enough to be negligent. There is in most of his
compositions a calmness and equability, deliberate and cautious,
sometimes with little that delights, but seldom with anything that
offends. Of this kind seem to be his poems to Dryden, to Somers, and to
the King. His ode on St. Cecilia has been imitated by Pope, and has
something in it of Dryden’s vigour. Of his Account of the English Poets
he used to speak as a “poor thing;” but it is not worse than his usual
strain. He has said, not very judiciously, in his character of Waller—

   “Thy verse could show even Cromwell’s innocence,
   And compliment the storms that bore him hence.
   Oh! had thy Muse not come an age too soon,
   But seen great Nassau on the British throne,
   How had his triumph glittered in thy page!”

What is this but to say that he who could compliment Cromwell had been
the proper poet for King William?  Addison, however, printed the piece.

The Letter from Italy has been always praised, but has never been praised
beyond its merit. It is more correct, with less appearance of labour, and
more elegant, with less ambition of ornament, than any other of his
poems. There is, however, one broken metaphor, of which notice may
properly be taken:—

                           “Fired with that name—
   I bridle in my struggling Muse with pain,
   That longs to launch into a nobler strain.”

To _bridle a goddess_ is no very delicate idea; but why must she be
_bridled_? because she _longs to launch_; an act which was never hindered
by a _bridle_: and whither will she _launch_? into a _nobler strain_. She
is in the first line a _horse_, in the second a _boat_; and the care of
the poet is to keep his _horse_ or his _boat_ from _singing_.

The next composition is the far-famed “Campaign,” which Dr. Warton has
termed a “Gazette in Rhyme,” with harshness not often used by the
good-nature of his criticism. Before a censure so severe is admitted, let
us consider that war is a frequent subject of poetry, and then inquire
who has described it with more justice and force. Many of our own writers
tried their powers upon this year of victory: yet Addison’s is
confessedly the best performance; his poem is the work of a man not
blinded by the dust of learning; his images are not borrowed merely from
books. The superiority which he confers upon his hero is not personal
prowess and “mighty bone,” but deliberate intrepidity, a calm command of
his passions, and the power of consulting his own mind in the midst of
danger. The rejection and contempt of fiction is rational and manly. It
may be observed that the last line is imitated by Pope:—

   “Marlb’rough’s exploits appear divinely bright—
   Raised of themselves their genuine charms they boast,
   And those that paint them truest, praise them most.”

This Pope had in his thoughts, but, not knowing how to use what was not
his own, he spoiled the thought when he had borrowed it:—

   “The well-sung woes shall soothe my pensive ghost;
   He best can paint them who shall feel them most.”

Martial exploits may be _painted_; perhaps _woes_ may be _painted_; but
they are surely not _painted_ by being _well sung_: it is not easy to
paint in song, or to sing in colours.

No passage in the “Campaign” has been more often mentioned than the
simile of the angel, which is said in the _Tatler_ to be “one of the
noblest thoughts that ever entered into the heart of man,” and is
therefore worthy of attentive consideration. Let it be first inquired
whether it be a simile. A poetical simile is the discovery of likeness
between two actions in their general nature dissimilar, or of causes
terminating by different operations in some resemblance of effect. But
the mention of another like consequence from a like cause, or of a like
performance by a like agency, is not a simile, but an exemplification. It
is not a simile to say that the Thames waters fields, as the Po waters
fields; or that as Hecla vomits flames in Iceland, so Ætna vomits flames
in Sicily. When Horace says of Pindar that he pours his violence and
rapidity of verse, as a river swollen with rain rushes from the mountain;
or of himself, that his genius wanders in quest of poetical decorations,
as the bee wanders to collect honey; he, in either case, produces a
simile: the mind is impressed with the resemblance of things generally
unlike, as unlike as intellect and body. But if Pindar had been described
as writing with the copiousness and grandeur of Homer, or Horace had told
that he reviewed and finished his own poetry with the same care as
Isocrates polished his orations, instead of similitude, he would have
exhibited almost identity; he would have given the same portraits with
different names. In the poem now examined, when the English are
represented as gaining a fortified pass by repetition of attack and
perseverance of resolution, their obstinacy of courage and vigour of
onset are well illustrated by the sea that breaks, with incessant
battery, the dykes of Holland. This is a simile. But when Addison, having
celebrated the beauty of Marlborough’s person, tells us that “Achilles
thus was formed of every grace,” here is no simile, but a mere
exemplification. A simile may be compared to lines converging at a point,
and is more excellent as the lines approach from greater distance: an
exemplification may be considered as two parallel lines, which run on
together without approximation, never far separated, and never joined.

Marlborough is so like the angel in the poem that the action of both is
almost the same, and performed by both in the same manner. Marlborough
“teaches the battle to rage;” the angel “directs the storm:”  Marlborough
is “unmoved in peaceful thought;” the angel is “calm and serene:”
Marlborough stands “unmoved amidst the shock of hosts;” the angel rides
“calm in the whirlwind.”  The lines on Marlborough are just and noble,
but the simile gives almost the same images a second time. But perhaps
this thought, though hardly a simile, was remote from vulgar conceptions,
and required great labour and research, or dexterity of application. Of
this Dr. Madden, a name which Ireland ought to honour, once gave me his
opinion. “If I had set,” said he, “ten schoolboys to write on the battle
of Blenheim, and eight had brought me the angel, I should not have been
surprised.”

The opera of _Rosamond_, though it is seldom mentioned, is one of the
first of Addison’s compositions. The subject is well chosen, the fiction
is pleasing, and the praise of Marlborough, for which the scene gives an
opportunity, is, what perhaps every human excellence must be, the product
of good luck improved by genius. The thoughts are sometimes great, and
sometimes tender; the versification is easy and gay. There is doubtless
some advantage in the shortness of the lines, which there is little
temptation to load with expletive epithets. The dialogue seems commonly
better than the songs. The two comic characters of Sir Trusty and
Grideline, though of no great value, are yet such as the poet intended.
Sir Trusty’s account of the death of Rosamond is, I think, too grossly
absurd. The whole drama is airy and elegant; engaging in its process, and
pleasing in its conclusion. If Addison had cultivated the lighter parts
of poetry, he would probably have excelled.

The tragedy of _Cato_, which, contrary to the rule observed in selecting
the works of other poets, has by the weight of its character forced its
way into the late collection, is unquestionably the noblest production of
Addison’s genius. Of a work so much read, it is difficult to say anything
new. About things on which the public thinks long, it commonly attains to
think right; and of _Cato_ it has been not unjustly determined that it is
rather a poem in dialogue than a drama, rather a succession of just
sentiments in elegant language than a representation of natural
affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life. Nothing
here “excites or assuages emotion:” here is “no magical power of raising
phantastic terror or wild anxiety.”  The events are expected without
solicitude, and are remembered without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we
have no care; we consider not what they are doing, or what they are
suffering; we wish only to know what they have to say. _Cato_ is a being
above our solicitude; a man of whom the gods take care, and whom we leave
to their care with heedless confidence. To the rest neither gods nor men
can have much attention; for there is not one amongst them that strongly
attracts either affection or esteem. But they are made the vehicles of
such sentiments and such expression that there is scarcely a scene in the
play which the reader does not wish to impress upon his memory.

When _Cato_ was shown to Pope, he advised the author to print it, without
any theatrical exhibition, supposing that it would be read more
favourably than heard. Addison declared himself of the same opinion, but
urged the importunity of his friends for its appearance on the stage. The
emulation of parties made it successful beyond expectation; and its
success has introduced or confirmed among us the use of dialogue too
declamatory, of unaffecting elegance, and chill philosophy. The
universality of applause, however it might quell the censure of common
mortals, had no other effect than to harden Dennis in fixed dislike; but
his dislike was not merely capricious. He found and showed many faults;
he showed them indeed with anger, but he found them indeed with
acuteness, such as ought to rescue his criticism from oblivion; though,
at last, it will have no other life than it derives from the work which
it endeavours to oppress. Why he pays no regard to the opinion of the
audience, he gives his reason by remarking that—

“A deference is to be paid to a general applause when it appears that the
applause is natural and spontaneous; but that little regard is to be had
to it when it is affected or artificial. Of all the tragedies which in
his memory have had vast and violent runs, not one has been excellent,
few have been tolerable, most have been scandalous. When a poet writes a
tragedy who knows he has judgment, and who feels he has genius, that poet
presumes upon his own merit, and scorns to make a cabal. That people come
coolly to the representation of such a tragedy, without any violent
expectation, or delusive imagination, or invincible prepossession; that
such an audience is liable to receive the impressions which the poem
shall naturally make on them, and to judge by their own reason, and their
own judgments; and that reason and judgment are calm and serene, not
formed by nature to make proselytes, and to control and lord it over the
imagination of others. But that when an author writes a tragedy who knows
he has neither genius nor judgment, he has recourse to the making a
party, and he endeavours to make up in industry what is wanting in
talent, and to supply by poetical craft the absence of poetical art: that
such an author is humbly contented to raise men’s passions by a plot
without doors, since he despairs of doing it by that which he brings upon
the stage. That party and passion, and prepossession, are clamorous and
tumultuous things, and so much the more clamorous and tumultuous by how
much the more erroneous: that they domineer and tyrannise over the
imaginations of persons who want judgment, and sometimes too of those who
have it, and, like a fierce and outrageous torrent, bear down all
opposition before them.”

He then condemns the neglect of poetical justice, which is one of his
favourite principles:—

“’Tis certainly the duty of every tragic poet, by the exact distribution
of poetical justice, to imitate the Divine Dispensation, and to inculcate
a particular Providence. ’Tis true, indeed, upon the stage of the world,
the wicked sometimes prosper and the guiltless suffer; but that is
permitted by the Governor of the World, to show, from the attribute of
His infinite justice, that there is a compensation in futurity, to prove
the immortality of the human soul, and the certainty of future rewards
and punishments. But the poetical persons in tragedy exist no longer than
the reading or the representation; the whole extent of their enmity is
circumscribed by those; and therefore, during that reading or
representation, according to their merits or demerits, they must be
punished or rewarded. If this is not done, there is no impartial
distribution of poetical justice, no instructive lecture of a particular
Providence, and no imitation of the Divine Dispensation. And yet the
author of this tragedy does not only run counter to this, in the fate of
his principal character; but everywhere, throughout it, makes virtue
suffer, and vice triumph: for not only Cato is vanquished by Cæsar, but
the treachery and perfidiousness of Syphax prevail over the honest
simplicity and the credulity of Juba; and the sly subtlety and
dissimulation of Portius over the generous frankness and open-heartedness
of Marcus.”

Whatever pleasure there may be in seeing crimes punished and virtue
rewarded, yet, since wickedness often prospers in real life, the poet is
certainly at liberty to give it prosperity on the stage. For if poetry
has an imitation of reality, how are its laws broken by exhibiting the
world in its true form?  The stage may sometimes gratify our wishes; but
if it be truly the “_mirror of life_,” it ought to show us sometimes what
we are to expect.

Dennis objects to the characters that they are not natural or reasonable;
but as heroes and heroines are not beings that are seen every day, it is
hard to find upon what principles their conduct shall be tried. It is,
however, not useless to consider what he says of the manner in which Cato
receives the account of his son’s death:—

“Nor is the grief of Cato, in the fourth act, one jot more in nature than
that of his son and Lucia in the third. Cato receives the news of his
son’s death, not only with dry eyes, but with a sort of satisfaction; and
in the same page sheds tears for the calamity of his country, and does
the same thing in the next page upon the bare apprehension of the danger
of his friends. Now, since the love of one’s country is the love of one’s
countrymen, as I have shown upon another occasion, I desire to ask these
questions:—Of all our countrymen, which do we love most, those whom we
know, or those whom we know not?  And of those whom we know, which do we
cherish most, our friends or our enemies?  And of our friends, which are
the dearest to us, those who are related to us, or those who are not?
And of all our relations, for which have we most tenderness, for those
who are near to us, or for those who are remote?  And of our near
relations, which are the nearest, and consequently the dearest to us, our
offspring, or others?  Our offspring, most certainly; as Nature, or in
other words Providence, has wisely contrived for the preservation of
mankind. Now, does it not follow, from what has been said, that for a man
to receive the news of his son’s death with dry eyes, and to weep at the
same time for the calamities of his country, is a wretched affectation
and a miserable inconsistency?  Is not that, in plain English, to receive
with dry eyes the news of the deaths of those for whose sake our country
is a name so dear to us, and at the same time to shed tears for those for
whose sakes our country is not a name so dear to us?”

But this formidable assailant is less resistible when he attacks the
probability of the action and the reasonableness of the plan. Every
critical reader must remark that Addison has, with a scrupulosity almost
unexampled on the English stage, confined himself in time to a single
day, and in place to rigorous unity. The scene never changes, and the
whole action of the play passes in the great hall of Cato’s house at
Utica. Much, therefore, is done in the hall for which any other place had
been more fit; and this impropriety affords Dennis many hints of
merriment and opportunities of triumph. The passage is long; but as such
disquisitions are not common, and the objections are skilfully formed and
vigorously urged, those who delight in critical controversy will not
think it tedious:—

“Upon the departure of Portius, Sempronius makes but one soliloquy, and
immediately in comes Syphax, and then the two politicians are at it
immediately. They lay their heads together, with their snuff-boxes in
their hands, as Mr. Bayes has it, and feague it away. But, in the midst
of that wise scene, Syphax seems to give a seasonable caution to
Sempronius:—

   “‘_Syph_. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate
   Is called together?  Gods! thou must be cautious;
   Cato has piercing eyes.’

“There is a great deal of caution shown, indeed, in meeting in a
governor’s own hall to carry on their plot against him. Whatever opinion
they have of his eyes, I suppose they have none of his ears, or they
would never have talked at this foolish rate so near:—

   “‘Gods! thou must be cautious.’

Oh! yes, very cautious: for if Cato should overhear you, and turn you off
for politicians, Cæsar would never take you.

“When Cato, Act II., turns the senators out of the hall upon pretence of
acquainting Juba with the result of their debates, he appears to me to do
a thing which is neither reasonable nor civil. Juba might certainly have
better been made acquainted with the result of that debate in some
private apartment of the palace. But the poet was driven upon this
absurdity to make way for another, and that is to give Juba an
opportunity to demand Marcia of her father. But the quarrel and rage of
Juba and Syphax, in the same act; the invectives of Syphax against the
Romans and Cato; the advice that he gives Juba in her father’s hall to
bear away Marcia by force; and his brutal and clamorous rage upon his
refusal, and at a time when Cato was scarcely out of sight, and perhaps
not out of hearing, at least some of his guards or domestics must
necessarily be supposed to be within hearing; is a thing that is so far
from being probable, that it is hardly possible.

“Sempronius, in the second act, comes back once more in the same morning
to the governor’s hall to carry on the conspiracy with Syphax against the
governor, his country, and his family: which is so stupid that it is
below the wisdom of the O—s, the Macs, and the Teagues; even Eustace
Commins himself would never have gone to Justice-hall to have conspired
against the Government. If officers at Portsmouth should lay their heads
together in order to the carrying off J— G—’s niece or daughter, would
they meet in J— G—’s hall to carry on that conspiracy?  There would be no
necessity for their meeting there—at least, till they came to the
execution of their plot—because there would be other places to meet in.
There would be no probability that they should meet there, because there
would be places more private and more commodious. Now there ought to be
nothing in a tragical action but what is necessary or probable.

“But treason is not the only thing that is carried on in this hall; that,
and love and philosophy take their turns in it, without any manner of
necessity or probability occasioned by the action, as duly and as
regularly, without interrupting one another, as if there were a triple
league between them, and a mutual agreement that each should give place
to and make way for the other in a due and orderly succession.

“We now come to the third act. Sempronius, in this act, comes into the
governor’s hall with the leaders of the mutiny; but as soon as Cato is
gone, Sempronius, who but just before had acted like an unparalleled
knave, discovers himself, like an egregious fool, to be an accomplice in
the conspiracy.

   “‘_Semp_. Know, villains, when such paltry slaves presume
   To mix in treason, if the plot succeeds,
   They’re thrown neglected by; but, if it fails,
   They’re sure to die like dogs, as you shall do.
   Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth
   To sudden death.’

“’Tis true, indeed, the second leader says there are none there but
friends; but is that possible at such a juncture?  Can a parcel of rogues
attempt to assassinate the governor of a town of war, in his own house,
in midday, and, after they are discovered and defeated, can there be none
near them but friends?  Is it not plain, from these words of Sempronius—

   “‘Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth
   To sudden death—’

and from the entrance of the guards upon the word of command, that those
guards were within ear-shot?  Behold Sempronius, then, palpably
discovered. How comes it to pass, then, that instead of being hanged up
with the rest, he remains secure in the governor’s hall, and there
carries on his conspiracy against the Government, the third time in the
same day, with his old comrade Syphax, who enters at the same time that
the guards are carrying away the leaders, big with the news of the defeat
of Sempronius?—though where he had his intelligence so soon is difficult
to imagine. And now the reader may expect a very extraordinary scene.
There is not abundance of spirit, indeed, nor a great deal of passion,
but there is wisdom more than enough to supply all defects.

   “‘_Syph_. Our first design, my friend, has proved abortive;
   Still there remains an after-game to play:
   My troops are mounted; their Numidian steeds
   Snuff up the winds, and long to scour the desert.
   Let but Sempronius lead us in our flight,
   We’ll force the gate where Marcus keeps his guard,
   And hew down all that would oppose our passage;
   A day will bring us into Cæsar’s camp.

      _Semp_. Confusion! I have failed of half my purpose;
   Marcia, the charming Marcia’s left behind.’

Well, but though he tells us the half-purpose he has failed of, he does
not tell us the half that he has carried. But what does he mean by

   “‘Marcia, the charming Marcia’s left behind’?

He is now in her own house! and we have neither seen her nor heard of her
anywhere else since the play began. But now let us hear Syphax:—

   “‘What hinders, then, but that you find her out,
   And hurry her away by manly force?’

But what does old Syphax mean by finding her out?  They talk as if she
were as hard to be found as a hare in a frosty morning.

   “‘_Semp_. But how to gain admission?’

Oh! she is found out then, it seems.

   “‘But how to gain admission? for access
   Is giv’n to none but Juba and her brothers.’

But, raillery apart, why access to Juba?  For he was owned and received
as a lover neither by the father nor by the daughter. Well, but let that
pass. Syphax puts Sempronius out of pain immediately; and, being a
Numidian, abounding in wiles, supplies him with a stratagem for admission
that, I believe, is a _nonpareil_.

   “‘_Syph_. Thou shalt have Juba’s dress, and Juba’s guards;
   The doors will open when Numidia’s prince
   Seems to appear before them.’

“Sempronius is, it seems, to pass for Juba in full day at Cato’s house,
where they were both so very well known, by having Juba’s dress and his
guards; as if one of the Marshals of France could pass for the Duke of
Bavaria at noonday, at Versailles, by having his dress and liveries. But
how does Syphax pretend to help Sempronius to young Juba’s dress?  Does
he serve him in a double capacity, as general and master of his wardrobe?
But why Juba’s guards?  For the devil of any guards has Juba appeared
with yet. Well, though this is a mighty politic invention, yet, methinks,
they might have done without it: for, since the advice that Syphax gave
to Sempronius was

   “‘To hurry her away by manly force,’

in my opinion the shortest and likeliest way of coming at the lady was by
demolishing, instead of putting on an impertinent disguise to circumvent
two or three slaves. But Sempronius, it seems, is of another opinion. He
extols to the skies the invention of old Syphax:—

   “‘_Semp_. Heavens! what a thought was there!’

“Now, I appeal to the reader if I have not been as good as my word. Did I
not tell him that I would lay before him a very wise scene?

“But now let us lay before the reader that part of the scenery of the
fourth act which may show the absurdities which the author has run into,
through the indiscreet observance of the unity of place. I do not
remember that Aristotle has said anything expressly concerning the unity
of place. ’Tis true, implicitly he has said enough in the rules which he
has laid down for the chorus. For by making the chorus an essential part
of tragedy, and by bringing it on the stage immediately after the opening
of the scene, and retaining it there till the very catastrophe, he has so
determined and fixed the place of action that it was impossible for an
author on the Grecian stage to break through that unity. I am of opinion
that if a modern tragic poet can preserve the amity of place, without
destroying the probability of the incidents, ’tis always best for him to
do it; because by the preservation of that unity, as we have taken notice
above, he adds grace and clearness and comeliness to the representation.
But since there are no express rules about it, and we are under no
compulsion to keep it, since we have no chorus as the Grecian poet had;
if it cannot be preserved without rendering the greater part of the
incidents unreasonable and absurd, and perhaps sometimes monstrous, ’tis
certainly better to break it.

“Now comes bully Sempronius, comically accoutred and equipped with his
Numidian dress and his Numidian guards. Let the reader attend to him with
all his ears, for the words of the wise are precious:—

   “‘_Semp_. The deer is lodged; I’ve tracked her to her covert.’

“Now I would fain know why this deer is said to be lodged, since we have
not heard one word since the play began of her being at all out of
harbour: and if we consider the discourse with which she and Lucia begin
the act, we have reason to believe that they had hardly been talking of
such matters in the street. However, to pleasure Sempronius, let us
suppose, for once, that the deer is lodged:—

   “‘The deer is lodged; I’ve tracked her to her covert.’

“If he had seen her in the open field, what occasion had he to track her
when he had so many Numidian dogs at his heels, which, with one halloo,
he might have set upon her haunches?  If he did not see her in the open
field, how could he possibly track her?  If he had seen her in the
street, why did he not set upon her in the street, since through the
street she must be carried at last?  Now here, instead of having his
thoughts upon his business, and upon the present danger; instead of
meditating and contriving how he shall pass with his mistress through the
southern gate, where her brother Marcus is upon the guard, and where he
would certainly prove an impediment to him (which is the Roman word for
the _baggage_); instead of doing this, Sempronius is entertaining himself
with whimsies:—

   “‘_Semp_. How will the young Numidian rave to see
   His mistress lost!  If aught could glad my soul
   Beyond th’ enjoyment of so bright a prize,
   ’Twould be to torture that young, gay barbarian.
   But hark! what noise?  Death to my hopes! ’tis he,
   ’Tis Juba’s self!  There is but one way left!
   He must be murdered, and a passage cut
   Through those his guards.’

“Pray, what are ‘those guards’?  I thought at present that Juba’s guards
had been Sempronius’s tools, and had been dangling after his heels.

“But now let us sum up all these absurdities together. Sempronius goes at
noon-day, in Juba’s clothes and with Juba’s guards, to Cato’s palace, in
order to pass for Juba, in a place where they were both so very well
known: he meets Juba there, and resolves to murder him with his own
guards. Upon the guards appearing a little bashful, he threatens them:—

   “‘Hah! dastards, do you tremble?
   Or act like men; or, by yon azure heav’n!’—

“But the guards still remaining restive, Sempronius himself attacks Juba,
while each of the guards is representing Mr. Spectator’s sign of the
Gaper, awed, it seems, and terrified by Sempronius’s threats. Juba kills
Sempronius, and takes his own army prisoners, and carries them in triumph
away to Cato. Now I would fain know if any part of Mr. Bayes’s tragedy is
so full of absurdity as this?

“Upon hearing the clash of swords, Lucia and Marcia come in. The question
is, why no men come in upon hearing the noise of swords in the governor’s
hall?  Where was the governor himself?  Where were his guards?  Where
were his servants?  Such an attempt as this, so near the governor of a
place of war, was enough to alarm the whole garrison: and yet, for almost
half an hour after Sempronius was killed, we find none of those appear
who were the likeliest in the world to be alarmed; and the noise of
swords is made to draw only two poor women thither, who were most certain
to run away from it. Upon Lucia and Marcia’s coming in, Lucia appears in
all the symptoms of an hysterical gentlewoman:—

      “‘_Luc_. Sure ’twas the clash of swords! my troubled heart
   Is so cast down, and sunk amidst its sorrows,
   It throbs with fear, and aches at every sound!’

And immediately her old whimsy returns upon her:—

   “O Marcia, should thy brothers, for my sake—
   I die away with horror at the thought.’

“She fancies that there can be no cutting of throats but it must be for
her. If this is tragical, I would fain know what is comical. Well, upon
this they spy the body of Sempronius; and Marcia, deluded by the habit,
it seems, takes him for Juba; for, says she,

   “‘The face is muffled up within the garment.’

“Now, how a man could fight, and fall, with his face muffled up in his
garment, is, I think, a little hard to conceive!  Besides, Juba, before
he killed him, knew him to be Sempronius. It was not by his garment that
he knew this; it was by his face, then: his face therefore was not
muffled. Upon seeing this man with his muffled face, Marcia falls
a-raving; and, owning her passion for the supposed defunct, begins to
make his funeral oration. Upon which Juba enters listening, I suppose on
tip-toe; for I cannot imagine how any one can enter listening in any
other posture. I would fain know how it came to pass that, during all
this time, he had sent nobody—no, not so much as a candle-snuffer—to take
away the dead body of Sempronius. Well, but let us regard him listening.
Having left his apprehension behind him, he, at first, applies what
Marcia says to Sempronius; but finding at last, with much ado, that he
himself is the happy man, he quits his eaves-dropping, and discovers
himself just time enough to prevent his being cuckolded by a dead man, of
whom the moment before he had appeared so jealous, and greedily
intercepts the bliss which was fondly designed for one who could not be
the better for it. But here I must ask a question: how comes Juba to
listen here, who had not listened before throughout the play?  Or how
comes he to be the only person of this tragedy who listens, when love and
treason were so often talked in so public a place as a hall?  I am afraid
the author was driven upon all these absurdities only to introduce this
miserable mistake of Marcia, which, after all, is much below the dignity
of tragedy; as anything is which is the effect or result of trick.

“But let us come to the scenery of the fifth act. Cato appears first upon
the scene, sitting in a thoughtful posture; in his hand Plato’s Treatise
on the Immortality of the Soul; a drawn sword on the table by him. Now
let us consider the place in which this sight is presented to us. The
place, forsooth, is a long hall. Let us suppose that any one should place
himself in this posture, in the midst of one of our halls in London; that
he should appear solus, in a sullen posture, a drawn sword on the table
by him; in his hand Plato’s Treatise on the Immortality of the Soul,
translated lately by Bernard Lintot: I desire the reader to consider
whether such a person as this would pass with them who beheld him for a
great patriot, a great philosopher, or a general, or some whimsical
person who fancied himself all these? and whether the people who belonged
to the family would think that such a person had a design upon their
midriffs or his own?

“In short, that Cato should sit long enough in the aforesaid posture, in
the midst of this large hall, to read over Plato’s Treatise on the
Immortality of the Soul, which is a lecture of two long hours; that he
should propose to himself to be private there upon that occasion; that he
should be angry with his son for intruding there; then that he should
leave this hall upon the pretence of sleep, give himself the mortal wound
in his bedchamber, and then be brought back into that hall to expire,
purely to show his good breeding, and save his friends the trouble of
coming up to his bedchamber; all this appears to me to be improbable,
incredible, impossible.”

Such is the censure of Dennis. There is, as Dryden expresses it, perhaps
“too much horse-play in his railleries;” but if his jests are coarse, his
arguments are strong. Yet, as we love better to be pleased than to be
taught, _Cato_ is read, and the critic is neglected. Flushed with
consciousness of these detections of absurdity in the conduct, he
afterwards attacked the sentiments of Cato; but he then amused himself
with petty cavils and minute objections.

Of Addison’s smaller poems no particular mention is necessary; they have
little that can employ or require a critic. The parallel of the princes
and gods in his verses to Kneller is often happy, but is too well known
to be quoted. His translations, so far as I compared them, want the
exactness of a scholar. That he understood his authors, cannot be
doubted; but his versions will not teach others to understand them, being
too licentiously paraphrastical. They are, however, for the most part,
smooth and easy; and, what is the first excellence of a translator, such
as may be read with pleasure by those who do not know the originals. His
poetry is polished and pure; the product of a mind too judicious to
commit faults, but not sufficiently vigorous to attain excellence. He has
sometimes a striking line, or a shining paragraph; but in the whole he is
warm rather than fervid, and shows more dexterity than strength. He was,
however, one of our earliest examples of correctness. The versification
which he had learned from Dryden he debased rather than refined. His
rhymes are often dissonant; in his Georgic he admits broken lines. He
uses both triplets and Alexandrines, but triplets more frequently in his
translation than his other works. The mere structure of verses seems
never to have engaged much of his care. But his lines are very smooth in
_Rosamond_, and too smooth in _Cato_.

Addison is now to be considered as a critic: a name which the present
generation is scarcely willing to allow him. His criticism is condemned
as tentative or experimental rather than scientific; and he is considered
as deciding by taste rather than by principles.

It is not uncommon for those who have grown wise by the labour of others
to add a little of their own, and overlook their masters. Addison is now
despised by some who perhaps would never have seen his defects but by the
lights which he afforded them. That he always wrote as he would think it
necessary to write now, cannot be affirmed; his instructions were such as
the characters of his readers made proper. That general knowledge which
now circulates in common talk was in his time rarely to be found. Men not
professing learning were not ashamed of ignorance; and, in the female
world, any acquaintance with books was distinguished only to be censured.
His purpose was to infuse literary curiosity, by gentle and unsuspected
conveyance, into the gay, the idle, and the wealthy; he therefore
presented knowledge in the most alluring form, not lofty and austere, but
accessible and familiar. When he showed them their defects, he showed
them likewise that they might be easily supplied. His attempt succeeded;
inquiry was awakened, and comprehension expanded. An emulation of
intellectual elegance was excited, and from this time to our own life has
been gradually exalted, and conversation purified and enlarged.

Dryden had, not many years before, scattered criticism over his prefaces
with very little parsimony; but though he sometimes condescended to be
somewhat familiar, his manner was in general too scholastic for those who
had yet their rudiments to learn, and found it not easy to understand
their master. His observations were framed rather for those that were
learning to write than for those that read only to talk.

An instructor like Addison was now wanting, whose remarks, being
superficial, might be easily understood, and being just, might prepare
the mind for more attainments. Had he presented “Paradise Lost” to the
public with all the pomp of system and severity of science, the criticism
would perhaps have been admired, and the poem still have been neglected;
but by the blandishments of gentleness and facility he has made Milton an
universal favourite, with whom readers of every class think it necessary
to be pleased. He descended now and then to lower disquisitions: and by a
serious display of the beauties of “Chevy Chase” exposed himself to the
ridicule of Wagstaff, who bestowed a like pompous character on Tom Thumb;
and to the contempt of Dennis, who, considering the fundamental position
of his criticism, that “Chevy Chase” pleases, and ought to please,
because it is natural, observes; “that there is a way of deviating from
nature, by bombast or tumour, which soars above nature, and enlarges
images beyond their real bulk; by affectation, which forsakes nature in
quest of something unsuitable; and by imbecility, which degrades nature
by faintness and diminution, by obscuring its appearances, and weakening
its effects.”  In “Chevy Chase” there is not much of either bombast or
affectation; but there is chill and lifeless imbecility. The story cannot
possibly be told in a manner that shall make less impression on the mind.

Before the profound observers of the present race repose too securely on
the consciousness of their superiority to Addison, let them consider his
Remarks on Ovid, in which may be found specimens of criticism
sufficiently subtle and refined: let them peruse likewise his Essays on
Wit, and on the Pleasures of Imagination, in which he founds art on the
base of nature, and draws the principles of invention from dispositions
inherent in the mind of man with skill and elegance, such as his
contemners will not easily attain.

As a describer of life and manners, he must be allowed to stand perhaps
the first of the first rank. His humour, which, as Steele observes, is
peculiar to himself, is so happily diffused as to give the grace of
novelty to domestic scenes and daily occurrences. He never “o’ersteps the
modesty of nature,” nor raises merriment or wonder by the violation of
truth. His figures neither divert by distortion nor amaze by aggravation.
He copies life with so much fidelity that he can be hardly said to
invent; yet his exhibitions have an air so much original, that it is
difficult to suppose them not merely the product of imagination.

As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed. His religion has
nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious: he appears neither weakly
credulous nor wantonly sceptical; his morality is neither dangerously lax
nor impracticably rigid. All the enchantment of fancy, and all the
cogency of argument, are employed to recommend to the reader his real
interest, the care of pleasing the Author of his being. Truth is shown
sometimes as the phantom of a vision; sometimes appears half-veiled in an
allegory; sometimes attracts regard in the robes of fancy; and sometimes
steps forth in the confidence of reason. She wears a thousand dresses,
and in all is pleasing.

   “Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet.”

His prose is the model of the middle style; on grave subjects not formal,
on light occasions not grovelling; pure without scrupulosity, and exact
without apparent elaboration; always equable, and always easy, without
glowing words or pointed sentences. Addison never deviates from his track
to snatch a grace; he seeks no ambitious ornaments, and tries no
hazardous innovations. His page is always luminous, but never blazes in
unexpected splendour.

It was apparently his principal endeavour to avoid all harshness and
severity of diction; he is therefore sometimes verbose in his transitions
and connections, and sometimes descends too much to the language of
conversation; yet if his language had been less idiomatical it might have
lost somewhat of its genuine Anglicism. What he attempted, he performed;
he is never feeble and he did not wish to be energetic; he is never rapid
and he never stagnates. His sentences have neither studied amplitude nor
affected brevity; his periods, though not diligently rounded, are voluble
and easy. Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not
coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights
to the volumes of Addison.



SAVAGE.


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

That affluence and power, advantages extrinsic and adventitious, and
therefore easily separable from those by whom they are possessed, should
very often flatter the mind with expectations of felicity which they
cannot give, raises no astonishment: but it seems rational to hope that
intellectual greatness should produce better effects; that minds
qualified for great attainments should first endeavour their own benefit,
and that they who are most able to teach others the way to happiness,
should with most certainty follow it themselves. But this expectation,
however plausible, has been very frequently disappointed. The heroes of
literary as well as civil history have been very often no less remarkable
for what they have suffered than for what they have achieved; and volumes
have been written only to enumerate the miseries of the learned, and
relate their unhappy lives and untimely deaths.

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

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

While the Earl of Macclesfield was prosecuting this affair, his wife was,
on the 10th of January, 1607–8,[sic] delivered of a son: and the Earl
Rivers, by appearing to consider him as his own, left none any reason to
doubt of the sincerity of her declaration; for he was his godfather and
gave him his own name, which was by his direction inserted in the
register of St. Andrew’s parish in Holborn, but unfortunately left him to
the care of his mother, whom, as she was now set free from her husband,
he probably imagined likely to treat with great tenderness the child that
had contributed to so pleasing an event. It is not indeed easy to
discover what motives could be found to overbalance that natural
affection of a parent, or what interest could be promoted by neglect or
cruelty. The dread of shame or of poverty, by which some wretches have
been incited to abandon or murder their children, cannot be supposed to
have affected a woman who had proclaimed her crimes and solicited
reproach, and on whom the clemency of the Legislature had undeservedly
bestowed a fortune, which would have been very little diminished by the
expenses which the care of her child could have brought upon her. It was
therefore not likely that she would be wicked without temptation; that
she would look upon her son from his birth with a kind of resentment and
abhorrence; and, instead of supporting, assisting, and defending him,
delight to see him struggling with misery, or that she would take every
opportunity of aggravating his misfortunes, and obstructing his
resources, and with an implacable and restless cruelty continue her
persecution from the first hour of his life to the last. But whatever
were her motives, no sooner was her son born than she discovered a
resolution of disowning him; and in a very short time removed him from
her sight, by committing him to the care of a poor woman, whom she
directed to educate him as her own, and enjoined never to inform him of
his true parents.

Such was the beginning of the life of Richard Savage. Born with a legal
claim to honour and to affluence, he was in two months illegitimated by
the Parliament, and disowned by his mother, doomed to poverty and
obscurity, and launched upon the ocean of life only that he might be
swallowed by its quicksands, or dashed upon its rocks. His mother could
not indeed infect others with the same cruelty. As it was impossible to
avoid the inquiries which the curiosity or tenderness of her relations
made after her child, she was obliged to give some account of the
measures she had taken; and her mother, the Lady Mason, whether in
approbation of her design, or to prevent more criminal contrivances,
engaged to transact with the nurse, to pay her for her care, and to
superintend the education of the child.

In this charitable office she was assisted by his godmother, Mrs. Lloyd,
who, while she lived, always looked upon him with that tenderness which
the barbarity of his mother made peculiarly necessary; but her death,
which happened in his tenth year, was another of the misfortunes of his
childhood, for though she kindly endeavoured to alleviate his loss by a
legacy of three hundred pounds, yet as he had none to prosecute his
claim, to shelter him from oppression, or call in law to the assistance
of justice, her will was eluded by the executors, and no part of the
money was ever paid. He was, however, not yet wholly abandoned. The Lady
Mason still continued her care, and directed him to be placed at a small
grammar school near St. Albans, where he was called by the name of his
nurse, without the least intimation that he had a claim to any other.
Here he was initiated in literature, and passed through several of the
classes, with what rapidity or with what applause cannot now be known. As
he always spoke with respect of his master, it is probable that the mean
rank in which he then appeared did not hinder his genius from being
distinguished, or his industry from being rewarded; and if in so low a
state he obtained distinctions and rewards, it is not likely that they
were gained but by genius and industry.

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

While he was thus cultivating his genius, his father, the Earl Rivers,
was seized with a distemper, which in a short time put an end to his
life. He had frequently inquired after his son, and had always been
amused with fallacious and evasive answers; but being now in his own
opinion on his death-bed, he thought it his duty to provide for him among
his other natural children, and therefore demanded a positive account of
him, with an importunity not to be diverted or denied. His mother, who
could no longer refuse an answer, determined at least to give such as
should cut him off for ever from that happiness which competence affords,
and therefore declared that he was dead; which is perhaps the first
instance of a lie invented by a mother to deprive her son of a provision
which was designed him by another, and which she could not expect
herself, though he should lose it. This was therefore an act of
wickedness which could not be defeated, because it could not be
suspected; the earl did not imagine that there could exist in a human
form a mother that would ruin her son without enriching herself, and
therefore bestowed upon some other person six thousand pounds which he
had in his will bequeathed to Savage.

The same cruelty which incited his mother to intercept this provision
which had been intended him, prompted her in a short time to another
project, a project worthy of such a disposition. She endeavoured to rid
herself from the danger of being at any time made known to him, by
sending him secretly to the American Plantations. By whose kindness this
scheme was counteracted, or by whose interposition she was induced to lay
aside her design, I know not; it is not improbable that the Lady Mason
might persuade or compel her to desist, or perhaps she could not easily
find accomplices wicked enough to concur in so cruel an action; for it
may be conceived that those who had by a long gradation of guilt hardened
their hearts against the sense of common wickedness, would yet be shocked
at the design of a mother to expose her son to slavery and want, to
expose him without interest, and without provocation; and Savage might on
this occasion find protectors and advocates among those who had long
traded in crimes, and whom compassion had never touched before.

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

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

About this time his nurse, who had always treated him as her own son,
died; and it was natural for him to take care of those effects which by
her death were, as he imagined, become his own: he therefore went to her
house, opened her boxes, and examined her papers, among which he found
some letters written to her by the Lady Mason, which informed him of his
birth, and the reasons for which it was concealed. He was no longer
satisfied with the employment which had been allotted him, but thought he
had a right to share the affluence of his mother; and therefore without
scruple applied to her as her son, and made use of every art to awaken
her tenderness and attract her regard. But neither his letters, nor the
interposition of those friends which his merit or his distress procured
him, made any impression on her mind. She still resolved to neglect,
though she could no longer disown him. It was to no purpose that he
frequently solicited her to admit him to see her; she avoided him with
the most vigilant precaution, and ordered him to be excluded from her
house, by whomsoever he might be introduced, and what reason soever he
might give for entering it.

Savage was at the same time so touched with the discovery of his real
mother, that it was his frequent practice to walk in the dark evenings
for several hours before her door, in hopes of seeing her as she might
come by accident to the window, or cross her apartment with a candle in
her hand. But all his assiduity and tenderness were without effect, for
he could neither soften her heart nor open her hand, and was reduced to
the utmost miseries of want, while he was endeavouring to awaken the
affection of a mother. He was therefore obliged to seek some other means
of support; and, having no profession, became by necessity an author.

At this time the attention of the literary world was engrossed by the
Bangorian controversy, which filled the press with pamphlets, and the
coffee-houses with disputants. Of this subject, as most popular, he made
choice for his first attempt, and, without any other knowledge of the
question than he had casually collected from conversation, published a
poem against the bishop. What was the success or merit of this
performance I know not; it was probably lost among the innumerable
pamphlets to which that dispute gave occasion. Mr. Savage was himself in
a little time ashamed of it, and endeavoured to suppress it, by
destroying all the copies that he could collect. He then attempted a more
gainful kind of writing, and in his eighteenth year offered to the stage
a comedy borrowed from a Spanish plot, which was refused by the players,
and was therefore given by him to Mr. Bullock, who, having more interest,
made some slight alterations, and brought it upon the stage, under the
title of _Woman’s a Riddle_, but allowed the unhappy author no part of
the profit.

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

Sir Richard Steele, having declared in his favour with all the ardour of
benevolence which constituted his character, promoted his interest with
the utmost zeal, related his misfortunes, applauded his merit, took all
the opportunities of recommending him, and asserted that “the inhumanity
of his mother had given him a right to find every good man his father.”
Nor was Mr. Savage admitted to his acquaintance only, but to his
confidence, of which he sometimes related an instance too extraordinary
to be omitted, as it affords a very just idea of his patron’s character.
He was once desired by Sir Richard, with an air of the utmost importance,
to come very early to his house the next morning. Mr. Savage came as he
had promised, found the chariot at the door, and Sir Richard waiting for
him, and ready to go out. What was intended, and whither they were to go,
Savage could not conjecture, and was not willing to inquire; but
immediately seated himself with Sir Richard. The coachman was ordered to
drive, and they hurried with the utmost expedition to Hyde Park Corner,
where they stopped at a petty tavern, and retired to a private room. Sir
Richard then informed him that he intended to publish a pamphlet, and
that he had desired him to come thither that he might write for him. He
soon sat down to the work. Sir Richard dictated, and Savage wrote, till
the dinner that had been ordered was put upon the table. Savage was
surprised at the meanness of the entertainment, and after some hesitation
ventured to ask for wine, which Sir Richard, not without reluctance,
ordered to be brought. They then finished their dinner, and proceeded in
their pamphlet, which they concluded in the afternoon.

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

Mr. Savage related another fact equally uncommon, which, though it has no
relation to his life, ought to be preserved. Sir Richard Steele having
one day invited to his house a great number of persons of the first
quality, they were surprised at the number of liveries which surrounded
the table; and after dinner, when wine and mirth had set them free from
the observation of a rigid ceremony, one of them inquired of Sir Richard
how such an expensive train of domestics could be consistent with his
fortune. Sir Richard very frankly confessed that they were fellows of
whom he would very willingly be rid. And being then asked why he did not
discharge them, declared that they were bailiffs, who had introduced
themselves with an execution, and whom, since he could not send them
away, he had thought it convenient to embellish with liveries, that they
might do him credit while they stayed. His friends were diverted with the
expedient, and by paying the debt, discharged their attendance, having
obliged Sir Richard to promise that they should never again find him
graced with a retinue of the same kind.

Under such a tutor, Mr. Savage was not likely to learn prudence or
frugality; and perhaps many of the misfortunes which the want of those
virtues brought upon him in the following parts of his life, might be
justly imputed to so unimproving an example. Nor did the kindness of Sir
Richard end in common favours. He proposed to have established him in
some settled scheme of life, and to have contracted a kind of alliance
with him, by marrying him to a natural daughter, on whom he intended to
bestow a thousand pounds. But though he was always lavish of future
bounties, he conducted his affairs in such a manner that he was very
seldom able to keep his promises, or execute his own intentions; and, as
he was never able to raise the sum which he had offered, the marriage was
delayed. In the meantime he was officiously informed that Mr. Savage had
ridiculed him; by which he was so much exasperated that he withdrew the
allowance which he had paid him, and never afterwards admitted him to his
house.

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

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

As Mr. Wilks was one of those to whom calamity seldom complained without
relief, he naturally took an unfortunate wit into his protection, and not
only assisted him in any casual distresses, but continued an equal and
steady kindness to the time of his death. By this interposition Mr.
Savage once obtained from his mother fifty pounds, and a promise of one
hundred and fifty more; but it was the fate of this unhappy man that few
promises of any advantage to him were performed. His mother was infected,
among others, with the general madness of the South Sea traffic; and
having been disappointed in her expectations, refused to pay what perhaps
nothing but the prospect of sudden affluence prompted her to promise.

Being thus obliged to depend upon the friendship of Mr. Wilks, he was
consequently an assiduous frequenter of the theatres: and in a short time
the amusements of the stage took such possession of his mind that he
never was absent from a play in several years. This constant attendance
naturally procured him the acquaintance of the players, and, among
others, of Mrs. Oldfield, who was so much pleased with his conversation,
and touched with his misfortunes, that she allowed him a settled pension
of fifty pounds a year, which was during her life regularly paid. That
this act of generosity may receive its due praise, and that the good
actions of Mrs. Oldfield may not be sullied by her general character, it
is proper to mention that Mr. Savage often declared, in the strongest
terms, that he never saw her alone, or in any other place than behind the
scenes.

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

In his “Wanderer” he has indeed taken an opportunity of mentioning her;
but celebrates her not for her virtue, but her beauty, an excellence
which none ever denied her: this is the only encomium with which he has
rewarded her liberality, and perhaps he has even in this been too lavish
of his praise. He seems to have thought that never to mention his
benefactress would have an appearance of ingratitude, though to have
dedicated any particular performance to her memory would have only
betrayed an officious partiality, and that without exalting her character
would have depressed his own. He had sometimes, by the kindness of Mr.
Wilks, the advantage of a benefit, on which occasions he often received
uncommon marks of regard and compassion; and was once told by the Duke of
Dorset that it was just to consider him as an injured nobleman, and that
in his opinion the nobility ought to think themselves obliged, without
solicitation, to take every opportunity of supporting him by their
countenance and patronage. But he had generally the mortification to hear
that the whole interest of his mother was employed to frustrate his
applications, and that she never left any expedient untried by which he
might be cut off from the possibility of supporting life. The same
disposition she endeavoured to diffuse among all those over whom nature
or fortune gave her any influence, and indeed succeeded too well in her
design; but could not always propagate her effrontery with her cruelty;
for some of those whom she incited against him were ashamed of their own
conduct, and boasted of that relief which they never gave him. In this
censure I do not indiscriminately involve all his relations; for he has
mentioned with gratitude the humanity of one lady, whose name I am now
unable to recollect, and to whom, therefore, I cannot pay the praises
which she deserves for having acted well in opposition to influence,
precept, and example.

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

The kindness of his friends not affording him any constant supply, and
the prospect of improving his fortune by enlarging his acquaintance
necessarily leading him to places of expense, he found it necessary to
endeavour once more at dramatic poetry; for which he was now better
qualified by a more extensive knowledge and longer observation. But
having been unsuccessful in comedy, though rather for want of
opportunities than genius, he resolved to try whether he should not be
more fortunate in exhibiting a tragedy. The story which he chose for the
subject was that of Sir Thomas Overbury, a story well adapted to the
stage, though perhaps not far enough removed from the present age to
admit properly the fictions necessary to complete the plan; for the mind,
which naturally loves truth, is always most offended with the violation
of those truths of which we are most certain; and we of course conceive
those facts most certain which approach nearer to our own time. Out of
this story he formed a tragedy, which, if the circumstances in which he
wrote it be considered, will afford at once an uncommon proof of strength
of genius and evenness of mind, of a serenity not to be ruffled and an
imagination not to be suppressed.

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

If the performance of a writer thus distressed is not perfect, its faults
ought surely to be imputed to a cause very different from want of genius,
and must rather excite pity than provoke censure. But when, under these
discouragements, the tragedy was finished, there yet remained the labour
of introducing it on the stage, an undertaking which, to an ingenuous
mind, was in a very high degree vexatious and disgusting; for, having
little interest or reputation, he was obliged to submit himself wholly to
the players, and admit, with whatever reluctance, the emendations of Mr.
Cibber, which he always considered as the disgrace of his performance. He
had, indeed, in Mr. Hill another critic of a very different class, from
whose friendship he received great assistance on many occasions, and whom
he never mentioned but with the utmost tenderness and regard. He had been
for some time distinguished by him with very particular kindness, and on
this occasion it was natural to apply to him as an author of an
established character. He therefore sent this tragedy to him, with a
short copy of verses, in which he desired his correction. Mr. Hill, whose
humanity and politeness are generally known, readily complied with his
request; but as he is remarkable for singularity of sentiment, and bold
experiments in language, Mr. Savage did not think this play much improved
by his innovation, and had even at that time the courage to reject
several passages which he could not approve; and, what is still more
laudable, Mr. Hill had the generosity not to resent the neglect of his
alterations, but wrote the prologue and epilogue, in which he touches on
the circumstances of the author with great tenderness.

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

In the publication of his performance he was more successful, for the
rays of genius that glimmered in it, that glimmered through all the mists
which poverty and Cibber had been able to spread over it, procured him
the notice and esteem of many persons eminent for their rank, their
virtue, and their wit. Of this play, acted, printed, and dedicated, the
accumulated profits arose to a hundred pounds, which he thought at that
time a very large sum, having been never master of so much before.

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

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

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

To this Miscellany he wrote a preface, in which he gives an account of
his mother’s cruelty in a very uncommon strain of humour, and with a
gaiety of imagination which the success of his subscription probably
produced. The dedication is addressed to the Lady Mary Wortley Montagu,
whom he flatters without reserve, and, to confess the truth, with very
little art. The same observation may be extended to all his dedications:
his compliments are constrained and violent, heaped together without the
grace of order, or the decency of introduction. He seems to have written
his panegyrics for the perusal only of his patrons, and to imagine that
he had no other task than to pamper them with praises, however gross, and
that flattery would make its way to the heart, without the assistance of
elegance or invention.

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

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

On the 20th of November, 1727, Mr. Savage came from Richmond, where he
then lodged that he might pursue his studies with less interruption, with
an intent to discharge another lodging which he had in Westminster; and
accidentally meeting two gentlemen, his acquaintances, whose names were
Merchant and Gregory, he went in with them to a neighbouring
coffee-house, and sat drinking till it was late, it being in no time of
Mr. Savage’s life any part of his character to be the first of the
company that desired to separate. He would willingly have gone to bed in
the same house, but there was not room for the whole company, and
therefore they agreed to ramble about the streets, and divert themselves
with such amusements as should offer themselves till morning. In this
walk they happened unluckily to discover a light in Robinson’s
Coffee-house, near Charing Cross, and therefore went in. Merchant with
some rudeness demanded a room, and was told that there was a good fire in
the next parlour, which the company were about to leave, being then
paying their reckoning. Merchant, not satisfied with this answer, rushed
into the room, and was followed by his companions. He then petulantly
placed himself between the company and the fire, and soon after kicked
down the table. This produced a quarrel, swords were drawn on both sides,
and one Mr. James Sinclair was killed. Savage, having likewise wounded a
maid that held him, forced his way, with Merchant, out of the house; but
being intimidated and confused, without resolution either to fly or stay,
they were taken in a back court by one of the company, and some soldiers,
whom he had called to his assistance. Being secured and guarded that
night, they were in the morning carried before three justices, who
committed them to the Gatehouse, from whence, upon the death of Mr.
Sinclair, which happened the same day, they were removed in the night to
Newgate, where they were, however, treated with some distinction,
exempted from the ignominy of chains, and confined, not among the common
criminals, but in the Press yard.

When the day of trial came, the court was crowded in a very unusual
manner, and the public appeared to interest itself as in a cause of
general concern. The witnesses against Mr. Savage and his friends were,
the woman who kept the house, which was a house of ill-fame, and her
maid, the men who were in the room with Mr. Sinclair, and a woman of the
town, who had been drinking with them, and with whom one of them had been
seen. They swore in general, that Merchant gave the provocation, which
Savage and Gregory drew their swords to justify; that Savage drew first,
and that he stabbed Sinclair when he was not in a posture of defence, or
while Gregory commanded his sword; that after he had given the thrust he
turned pale, and would have retired, but the maid clung round him, and
one of the company endeavoured to detain him, from whom he broke by
cutting the maid on the head, but was afterwards taken in a court. There
was some difference in their depositions; one did not see Savage give the
wound, another saw it given when Sinclair held his point towards the
ground; and the woman of the town asserted that she did not see
Sinclair’s sword at all. This difference, however, was very far from
amounting to inconsistency; but it was sufficient to show, that the hurry
of the dispute was such that it was not easy to discover the truth with
relation to particular circumstances, and that therefore some deductions
were to be made from the credibility of the testimonies.

Sinclair had declared several times before his death that he received his
wound from Savage: nor did Savage at his trial deny the fact, but
endeavoured partly to extenuate it, by urging the suddenness of the whole
action, and the impossibility of any ill design or premeditated malice;
and partly to justify it by the necessity of self-defence, and the hazard
of his own life, if he had lost that opportunity of giving the thrust: he
observed, that neither reason nor law obliged a man to wait for the blow
which was threatened, and which, if he should suffer it, he might never
be able to return; that it was allowable to prevent an assault, and to
preserve life by taking away that of the adversary by whom it was
endangered. With regard to the violence with which he endeavoured to
escape, he declared that it was not his design to fly from justice, or
decline a trial, but to avoid the expenses and severities of a prison;
and that he intended to appear at the bar without compulsion.

This defence, which took up more than an hour, was heard by the multitude
that thronged the court with the most attentive and respectful silence.
Those who thought he ought not to be acquitted owned that applause could
not be refused him; and those who before pitied his misfortunes now
reverenced his abilities. The witnesses which appeared against him were
proved to be persons of characters which did not entitle them to much
credit; a common strumpet, a woman by whom strumpets were entertained, a
man by whom they were supported: and the character of Savage was by
several persons of distinction asserted to be that of a modest,
inoffensive man, not inclined to broils or to insolence, and who had, to
that time, been only known for his misfortunes and his wit. Had his
audience been his judges, he had undoubtedly been acquitted, but Mr.
Page, who was then upon the bench, treated him with his usual insolence
and severity, and when he had summed up the evidence, endeavoured to
exasperate the jury, as Mr. Savage used to relate it, with this eloquent
harangue:—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But shocked as he was with her falsehood and her cruelty, he imagined
that she intended no other use of her lie than to set herself free from
his embraces and solicitations, and was very far from suspecting that she
would treasure it in her memory as an instrument of future wickedness, or
that she would endeavour for this fictitious assault to deprive him of
his life. But when the queen was solicited for his pardon, and informed
of the severe treatment which he had suffered from his judge, she
answered that, however unjustifiable might be the manner of his trial, or
whatever extenuation the action for which he was condemned might admit,
she could not think that man a proper object of the king’s mercy who had
been capable of entering his mother’s house in the night with an intent
to murder her.

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

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

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

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

This mother is still (1744) alive, and may perhaps even yet, though her
malice was so often defeated, enjoy the pleasure of reflecting that the
life which she often endeavoured to destroy was at last shortened by her
maternal offices; that though she could not transport her son to the
plantations, bury him in the shop of a mechanic, or hasten the hand of
the public executioner, she has yet had the satisfaction of embittering
all his hours, and forcing him into exigencies that hurried on his death.
It is by no means necessary to aggravate the enormity of this woman’s
conduct by placing it in opposition to that of the Countess of Hertford.
No one can fail to observe how much more amiable it is to relieve than to
oppress, and to rescue innocence from destruction than to destroy without
an injury.

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

The nature of the act for which he had been tried was in itself doubtful;
of the evidences which appeared against him, the character of the man was
not unexceptionable, that of the woman notoriously infamous; she whose
testimony chiefly influenced the jury to condemn him afterwards retracted
her assertions. He always himself denied that he was drunk, as had been
generally reported. Mr. Gregory, who is now (1744) collector of Antigua,
is said to declare him far less criminal than he was imagined, even by
some who favoured him; and Page himself afterwards confessed that he had
treated him with uncommon rigour. When all these particulars are rated
together, perhaps the memory of Savage may not be much sullied by his
trial. Some time after he obtained his liberty, he met in the street the
woman who had sworn with so much malignity against him. She informed him
that she was in distress, and, with a degree of confidence not easily
attainable, desired him to relieve her. He, instead of insulting her
misery, and taking pleasure in the calamities of one who had brought his
life into danger, reproved her gently for her perjury, and, changing the
only guinea that he had, divided it equally between her and himself. This
is an action which in some ages would have made a saint, and perhaps in
others a hero, and which, without any hyperbolical encomiums, must be
allowed to be an instance of uncommon generosity, an act of complicated
virtue, by which he at once relieved the poor, corrected the vicious, and
forgave an enemy; by which he at once remitted the strongest
provocations, and exercised the most ardent charity. Compassion was
indeed the distinguishing quality of Savage: he never appeared inclined
to take advantage of weakness, to attack the defenceless, or to press
upon the falling. Whoever was distressed was certain at least of his good
wishes; and when he could give no assistance to extricate them from
misfortunes, he endeavoured to soothe them by sympathy and tenderness.
But when his heart was not softened by the sight of misery, he was
sometimes obstinate in his resentment, and did not quickly lose the
remembrance of an injury. He always continued to speak with anger of the
insolence and partiality of Page, and a short time before his death
revenged it by a satire.

It is natural to inquire in what terms Mr. Savage spoke of this fatal
action when the danger was over, and he was under no necessity of using
any art to set his conduct in the fairest light. He was not willing to
dwell upon it; and, if he transiently mentioned it, appeared neither to
consider himself as a murderer, nor as a man wholly free from the guilt
of blood. How much and how long he regretted it appeared in a poem which
he published many years afterwards. On occasion of a copy of verses, in
which the failings of good men are recounted, and in which the author had
endeavoured to illustrate his position, that “the best may sometimes
deviate from virtue,” by an instance of murder committed by Savage in the
heat of wine, Savage remarked that it was no very just representation of
a good man, to suppose him liable to drunkenness, and disposed in his
riots to cut throats.

He was now indeed at liberty, but was, as before, without any other
support than accidental favours and uncertain patronage afforded him;
sources by which he was sometimes very liberally supplied, and which at
other times were suddenly stopped; so that he spent his life between want
and plenty, or, what was yet worse, between beggary and extravagance,
for, as whatever he received was the gift of chance, which might as well
favour him at one time as another, he was tempted to squander what he had
because he always hoped to be immediately supplied. Another cause of his
profusion was the absurd kindness of his friends, who at once rewarded
and enjoyed his abilities by treating him at taverns, and habituating him
to pleasures which he could not afford to enjoy, and which he was not
able to deny himself, though he purchased the luxury of a single night by
the anguish of cold and hunger for a week.

The experience of these inconveniences determined him to endeavour after
some settled income, which, having long found submission and entreaties
fruitless, he attempted to extort from his mother by rougher methods. He
had now, as he acknowledged, lost that tenderness for her which the whole
series of her cruelty had not been able wholly to repress, till he found,
by the efforts which she made for his destruction, that she was not
content with refusing to assist him, and being neutral in his struggles
with poverty, but was ready to snatch every opportunity of adding to his
misfortunes; and that she was now to be considered as an enemy implacably
malicious, whom nothing but his blood could satisfy. He therefore
threatened to harass her with lampoons, and to publish a copious
narrative of her conduct, unless she consented to purchase an exemption
from infamy by allowing him a pension.

This expedient proved successful. Whether shame still survived, though
virtue was extinct, or whether her relations had more delicacy than
herself, and imagined that some of the darts which satire might point at
her would glance upon them, Lord Tyrconnel, whatever were his motives,
upon his promise to lay aside his design of exposing the cruelty of his
mother, received him into his family, treated him as his equal, and
engaged to allow him a pension of two hundred pounds a year. This was the
golden part of Mr. Savage’s life; and for some time he had no reason to
complain of fortune. His appearance was splendid, his expenses large, and
his acquaintance extensive. He was courted by all who endeavoured to be
thought men of genius, and caressed by all who valued themselves upon a
refined taste. To admire Mr. Savage was a proof of discernment; and to be
acquainted with him was a title to poetical reputation. His presence was
sufficient to make any place of public entertainment popular, and his
approbation and example constituted the fashion. So powerful is genius,
when it is invested with the glitter of affluence!  Men willingly pay to
fortune that regard which they owe to merit, and are pleased when they
have an opportunity at once of gratifying their vanity and practising
their duty.

This interval of prosperity furnished him with opportunities of enlarging
his knowledge of human nature, by contemplating life from its highest
gradations to its lowest; and, had he afterwards applied to dramatic
poetry, he would perhaps not have had many superiors, for, as he never
suffered any scene to pass before his eyes without notice, he had
treasured in his mind all the different combinations of passions, and the
innumerable mixtures of vice and virtue, which distinguished one
character from another; and, as his conception was strong, his
expressions were clear, he easily received impressions from objects, and
very forcibly transmitted them to others. Of his exact observations on
human life he has left a proof, which would do honour to the greatest
names, in a small pamphlet, called “The Author to be Let,” where he
introduces Iscariot Hackney, a prostitute scribbler, giving an account of
his birth, his education, his disposition and morals, habits of life, and
maxims of conduct. In the introduction are related many secret histories
of the petty writers of that time, but sometimes mixed with ungenerous
reflections on their birth, their circumstances, or those of their
relations; nor can it be denied that some passages are such as Iscariot
Hackney might himself have produced. He was accused likewise of living in
an appearance of friendship with some whom he satirised, and of making
use of the confidence which he gained by a seeming kindness, to discover
failings and expose them. It must be confessed that Mr. Savage’s esteem
was no very certain possession, and that he would lampoon at one time
those whom he had praised at another.

It may be alleged that the same man may change his principles, and that
he who was once deservedly commended may be afterwards satirised with
equal justice, or that the poet was dazzled with the appearance of
virtue, and found the man whom he had celebrated, when he had an
opportunity of examining him more narrowly, unworthy of the panegyric
which he had too hastily bestowed; and that, as a false satire ought to
be recanted, for the sake of him whose reputation may be injured, false
praise ought likewise to be obviated, lest the distinction between vice
and virtue should be lost, lest a bad man should be trusted upon the
credit of his encomiast, or lest others should endeavour to obtain like
praises by the same means. But though these excuses may be often
plausible, and sometimes just, they are very seldom satisfactory to
mankind; and the writer who is not constant to his subject, quickly sinks
into contempt, his satire loses its force, and his panegyric its value;
and he is only considered at one time as a flatterer, and a calumniator
at another. To avoid these imputations, it is only necessary to follow
the rules of virtue, and to preserve an unvaried regard to truth. For
though it is undoubtedly possible that a man, however cautious, may be
sometimes deceived by an artful appearance of virtue, or by false
evidences of guilt, such errors will not be frequent; and it will be
allowed that the name of an author would never have been made
contemptible had no man ever said what he did not think, or misled others
but when he was himself deceived.

“The Author to be Let” was first published in a single pamphlet, and
afterwards inserted in a collection of pieces relating to the “Dunciad,”
which were addressed by Mr. Savage to the Earl of Middlesex, in a
dedication which he was prevailed upon to sign, though he did not write
it, and in which there are some positions that the true author would
perhaps not have published under his own name, and on which Mr. Savage
afterwards reflected with no great satisfaction. The enumeration of the
bad effects of the uncontrolled freedom of the press, and the assertion
that the “liberties taken by the writers of journals with their superiors
were exorbitant and unjustifiable,” very ill became men who have
themselves not always shown the exactest regard to the laws of
subordination in their writings, and who have often satirised those that
at least thought themselves their superiors, as they were eminent for
their hereditary rank, and employed in the highest offices of the
kingdom. But this is only an instance of that partiality which almost
every man indulges with regard to himself: the liberty of the press is a
blessing when we are inclined to write against others, and a calamity
when we find ourselves overborne by the multitude of our assailants; as
the power of the Crown is always thought too great by those who suffer by
its influence, and too little by those in whose favour it is exerted; and
a standing army is generally accounted necessary by those who command,
and dangerous and oppressive by those who support it.

Mr. Savage was likewise very far from believing that the letters annexed
to each species of bad poets in the Bathos were, as he was directed to
assert, “set down at random;” for when he was charged by one of his
friends with putting his name to such an improbability, he had no other
answer to make than that “he did not think of it;” and his friend had too
much tenderness to reply, that next to the crime of writing contrary to
what he thought was that of writing without thinking.

After having remarked what is false in this dedication, it is proper that
I observe the impartiality which I recommend, by declaring what Savage
asserted—that the account of the circumstances which attended the
publication of the “Dunciad,” however strange and improbable, was exactly
true.

The publication of this piece at this time raised Mr. Savage a great
number of enemies among those that were attacked by Mr. Pope, with whom
he was considered as a kind of confederate, and whom he was suspected of
supplying with private intelligence and secret incidents; so that the
ignominy of an informer was added to the terror of a satirist. That he
was not altogether free from literary hypocrisy, and that he sometimes
spoke one thing and wrote another, cannot be denied, because he himself
confessed that, when he lived with great familiarity with Dennis, he
wrote an epigram against him.

Mr. Savage, however, set all the malice of all the pigmy writers at
defiance, and thought the friendship of Mr. Pope cheaply purchased by
being exposed to their censure and their hatred; nor had he any reason to
repent of the preference, for he found Mr. Pope a steady and unalienable
friend almost to the end of his life.

About this time, notwithstanding his avowed neutrality with regard to
party, he published a panegyric on Sir Robert Walpole, for which he was
rewarded by him with twenty guineas, a sum not very large, if either the
excellence of the performance or the affluence of the patron be
considered; but greater than he afterwards obtained from a person of yet
higher rank, and more desirous in appearance of being distinguished as a
patron of literature.

As he was very far from approving the conduct of Sir Robert Walpole, and
in conversation mentioned him sometimes with acrimony, and generally with
contempt, as he was one of those who were always zealous in their
assertions of the justice of the late opposition, jealous of the rights
of the people, and alarmed by the long-continued triumph of the Court, it
was natural to ask him what could induce him to employ his poetry in
praise of that man who was, in his opinion, an enemy to liberty, and an
oppressor of his country?  He alleged that he was then dependent upon the
Lord Tyrconnel, who was an implicit follower of the ministry: and that,
being enjoined by him, not without menaces, to write in praise of the
leader, he had not resolution sufficient to sacrifice the pleasure of
affluence to that of integrity.

On this, and on many other occasions, he was ready to lament the misery
of living at the tables of other men, which was his fate from the
beginning to the end of his life; for I know not whether he ever had, for
three months together, a settled habitation, in which he could claim a
right of residence.

To this unhappy state it is just to impute much of the inconsistency of
his conduct, for though a readiness to comply with the inclinations of
others was no part of his natural character, yet he was sometimes obliged
to relax his obstinacy, and submit his own judgment, and even his virtue,
to the government of those by whom he was supported. So that if his
miseries were sometimes the consequences of his faults, he ought not yet
to be wholly excluded from compassion, because his faults were very often
the effects of his misfortunes.

In this gay period of his life, while he was surrounded by affluence and
pleasure, he published “The Wanderer,” a moral poem, of which the design
is comprised in these lines:—

   “I fly all public care, all venal strife,
   To try the still, compared with active, life;
   To prove, by these, the sons of men may owe
   The fruits of bliss to bursting clouds of woe;
   That ev’n calamity, by thought refined,
   Inspirits and adorns the thinking mind.”

And more distinctly in the following passage:—

   “By woe, the soul to daring action swells;
   By woe, in plaintless patience it excels:
   From patience prudent, clear experience springs,
   And traces knowledge through the course of things.
   Thence hope is formed, thence fortitude, success,
   Renown—whate’er men covet and caress.”

This performance was always considered by himself as his masterpiece; and
Mr. Pope, when he asked his opinion of it, told him that he read it once
over, and was not displeased with it; that it gave him more pleasure at
the second perusal, and delighted him still more at the third.

It has been generally objected to “The Wanderer,” that the disposition of
the parts is irregular; that the design is obscure, and the plan
perplexed; that the images, however beautiful, succeed each other without
order; and that the whole performance is not so much a regular fabric, as
a heap of shining materials thrown together by accident, which strikes
rather with the solemn magnificence of a stupendous ruin than the elegant
grandeur of a finished pile. This criticism is universal, and therefore
it is reasonable to believe it at least in a degree just; but Mr. Savage
was always of a contrary opinion, and thought his drift could only be
missed by negligence or stupidity, and that the whole plan was regular,
and the parts distinct. It was never denied to abound with strong
representations of nature, and just observations upon life; and it may
easily be observed that most of his pictures have an evident tendency to
illustrate his first great position, “that good is the consequence of
evil.”  The sun that burns up the mountains fructifies the vales; the
deluge that rushes down the broken rocks with dreadful impetuosity is
separated into purling brooks; and the rage of the hurricane purifies the
air.

Even in this poem he has not been able to forbear one touch upon the
cruelty of his mother, which, though remarkably delicate and tender, is a
proof how deep an impression it had upon his mind. This must be at least
acknowledged, which ought to be thought equivalent to many other
excellences, that this poem can promote no other purposes than those of
virtue, and that it is written with a very strong sense of the efficacy
of religion. But my province is rather to give the history of Mr.
Savage’s performances than to display their beauties, or to obviate the
criticisms which they have occasioned, and therefore I shall not dwell
upon the particular passages which deserve applause. I shall neither show
the excellence of his descriptions, nor expatiate on the terrific
portrait of suicide, nor point out the artful touches by which he has
distinguished the intellectual features of the rebels, who suffer death
in his last canto. It is, however, proper to observe, that Mr. Savage
always declared the characters wholly fictitious, and without the least
allusion to any real persons or actions.

From a poem so diligently laboured, and so successfully finished, it
might be reasonably expected that he should have gained considerable
advantage; nor can it, without some degree of indignation and concern, be
told, that he sold the copy for ten guineas, of which he afterwards
returned two, that the two last sheets of the work might be reprinted, of
which he had in his absence entrusted the correction to a friend, who was
too indolent to perform it with accuracy.

A superstitious regard to the correction of his sheets was one of Mr.
Savage’s peculiarities: he often altered, revised, recurred to his first
reading or punctuation, and again adopted the alteration; he was dubious
and irresolute without end, as on a question of the last importance, and
at last was seldom satisfied. The intrusion or omission of a comma was
sufficient to discompose him, and he would lament an error of a single
letter as a heavy calamity. In one of his letters relating to an
impression of some verses he remarks that he had, with regard to the
correction of the proof, “a spell upon him;” and indeed the anxiety with
which he dwelt upon the minutest and most trifling niceties, deserved no
other name than that of fascination. That he sold so valuable a
performance for so small a price was not to be imputed either to
necessity, by which the learned and ingenious are often obliged to submit
to very hard conditions, or to avarice, by which the booksellers are
frequently incited to oppress that genius by which they are supported,
but to that intemperate desire of pleasure, and habitual slavery to his
passions, which involved him in many perplexities. He happened at that
time to be engaged in the pursuit of some trifling gratification, and,
being without money for the present occasion, sold his poem to the first
bidder, and perhaps for the first price that was proposed, and would
probably have been content with less if less had been offered him.

This poem was addressed to the Lord Tyrconnel, not only in the first
lines, but in a formal dedication filled with the highest strains of
panegyric, and the warmest professions of gratitude, but by no means
remarkable for delicacy of connection or elegance of style. These praises
in a short time he found himself inclined to retract, being discarded by
the man on whom he had bestowed them, and whom he then immediately
discovered not to have deserved them. Of this quarrel, which every day
made more bitter, Lord Tyrconnel and Mr. Savage assigned very different
reasons, which might perhaps all in reality concur, though they were not
all convenient to be alleged by either party. Lord Tyrconnel affirmed
that it was the constant practice of Mr. Savage to enter a tavern with
any company that proposed it, drink the most expensive wines with great
profusion, and when the reckoning was demanded to be without money. If,
as it often happened, his company were willing to defray his part, the
affair ended without any ill consequences; but if they were refractory,
and expected that the wine should be paid for by him that drank it, his
method of composition was, to take them with him to his own apartment,
assume the government of the house, and order the butler in an imperious
manner to set the best wine in the cellar before his company, who often
drank till they forgot the respect due to the house in which they were
entertained, indulged themselves in the utmost extravagance of merriment,
practised the most licentious frolics, and committed all the outrages of
drunkenness. Nor was this the only charge which Lord Tyrconnel brought
against him. Having given him a collection of valuable books, stamped
with his own arms, he had the mortification to see them in a short time
exposed to sale upon the stalls, it being usual with Mr. Savage, when he
wanted a small sum, to take his books to the pawnbroker.

Whoever was acquainted with Mr. Savage easily credited both these
accusations; for having been obliged, from his first entrance into the
world, to subsist upon expedients, affluence was not able to exalt him
above them; and so much was he delighted with wine and conversation, and
so long had he been accustomed to live by chance, that he would at any
time go to the tavern without scruple, and trust for the reckoning to the
liberality of his company, and frequently of company to whom he was very
little known. This conduct, indeed, very seldom drew upon him those
inconveniences that might be feared by any other person, for his
conversation was so entertaining, and his address so pleasing, that few
thought the pleasure which they received from him dearly purchased by
paying for his wine. It was his peculiar happiness that he scarcely ever
found a stranger whom he did not leave a friend; but it must likewise be
added, that he had not often a friend long without obliging him to become
a stranger.

Mr. Savage, on the other hand, declared that Lord Tyrconnel quarrelled
with him because he would not subtract from his own luxury and
extravagance what he had promised to allow him, and that his resentment
was only a plea for the violation of his promise. He asserted that he had
done nothing that ought to exclude him from that subsistence which he
thought not so much a favour as a debt, since it was offered him upon
conditions which he had never broken: and that his only fault was, that
he could not be supported with nothing. He acknowledged that Lord
Tyrconnel often exhorted him to regulate his method of life, and not to
spend all his nights in taverns, and that he appeared desirous that he
would pass those hours with him which he so freely bestowed upon others.
This demand Mr. Savage considered as a censure of his conduct which he
could never patiently bear, and which, in the latter and cooler parts of
his life, was so offensive to him, that he declared it as his resolution
“to spurn that friend who should pretend to dictate to him;” and it is
not likely that in his earlier years he received admonitions with more
calmness. He was likewise inclined to resent such expectations, as
tending to infringe his liberty, of which he was very jealous, when it
was necessary to the gratification of his passions; and declared that the
request was still more unreasonable as the company to which he was to
have been confined was insupportably disagreeable. This assertion affords
another instance of that inconsistency of his writings with his
conversation which was so often to be observed. He forgot how lavishly he
had, in his dedication to “The Wanderer,” extolled the delicacy and
penetration, the humanity and generosity, the candour and politeness of
the man whom, when he no longer loved him, he declared to be a wretch
without understanding, without good nature, and without justice; of whose
name he thought himself obliged to leave no trace in any future edition
of his writings, and accordingly blotted it out of that copy of “The
Wanderer” which was in his hands.

During his continuance with the Lord Tyrconnel, he wrote “The Triumph of
Health and Mirth,” on the recovery of Lady Tyrconnel from a languishing
illness. This performance is remarkable, not only for the gaiety of the
ideas and the melody of the numbers, but for the agreeable fiction upon
which it is formed. Mirth, overwhelmed with sorrow for the sickness of
her favourite, takes a flight in quest of her sister Health, whom she
finds reclined upon the brow of a lofty mountain, amidst the fragrance of
perpetual spring, with the breezes of the morning sporting about her.
Being solicited by her sister Mirth, she readily promises her assistance,
flies away in a cloud, and impregnates the waters of Bath with new
virtues, by which the sickness of Belinda is relieved. As the reputation
of his abilities, the particular circumstances of his birth and life, the
splendour of his appearance, and the distinction which was for some time
paid him by Lord Tyrconnel, entitled him to familiarity with persons of
higher rank than those to whose conversation he had been before admitted,
he did not fail to gratify that curiosity which induced him to take a
nearer view of those whom their birth, their employments, or their
fortunes necessarily placed at a distance from the greatest part of
mankind, and to examine whether their merit was magnified or diminished
by the medium through which it was contemplated; whether the splendour
with which they dazzled their admirers was inherent in themselves, or
only reflected on them by the objects that surrounded them; and whether
great men were selected for high stations, or high stations made great
men.

For this purpose he took all opportunities of conversing familiarly with
those who were most conspicuous at that time for their power or their
influence; he watched their looser moments, and examined their domestic
behaviour, with that acuteness which nature had given him, and which the
uncommon variety of his life had contributed to increase, and that
inquisitiveness which must always be produced in a vigorous mind by an
absolute freedom from all pressing or domestic engagements. His
discernment was quick, and therefore he soon found in every person, and
in every affair, something that deserved attention; he was supported by
others, without any care for himself, and was therefore at leisure to
pursue his observations. More circumstances to constitute a critic on
human life could not easily concur; nor, indeed, could any man, who
assumed from accidental advantages more praise than he could justly claim
from his real merit, admit any acquaintance more dangerous than that of
Savage; of whom likewise it must be confessed, that abilities really
exalted above the common level, or virtue refined from passion, or proof
against corruption, could not easily find an abler judge or a warmer
advocate.

What was the result of Mr. Savage’s inquiry, though he was not much
accustomed to conceal his discoveries, it may not be entirely safe to
relate, because the persons whose characters he criticised are powerful,
and power and resentment are seldom strangers; nor would it perhaps be
wholly just, because what he asserted in conversation might, though true
in general, be heightened by some momentary ardour of imagination, and as
it can be delivered only from memory, may be imperfectly represented, so
that the picture, at first aggravated, and then unskilfully copied, may
be justly suspected to retain no great resemblance of the original.

It may, however, be observed, that he did not appear to have formed very
elevated ideas of those to whom the administration of affairs, or the
conduct of parties, has been intrusted; who have been considered as the
advocates of the Crown, or the guardians of the people; and who have
obtained the most implicit confidence, and the loudest applauses. Of one
particular person, who has been at one time so popular as to be generally
esteemed, and at another so formidable as to be universally detested, he
observed that his acquisitions had been small, or that his capacity was
narrow, and that the whole range of his mind was from obscenity to
politics, and from politics to obscenity.

But the opportunity of indulging his speculations on great characters was
now at an end. He was banished from the table of Lord Tyrconnel, and
turned again adrift upon the world, without prospect of finding quickly
any other harbour. As prudence was not one of the virtues by which he was
distinguished, he made no provision against a misfortune like this. And
though it is not to be imagined but that the separation must for some
time have been preceded by coldness, peevishness, or neglect, though it
was undoubtedly the consequence of accumulated provocations on both
sides, yet every one that knew Savage will readily believe that to him it
was sudden as a stroke of thunder; that, though he might have transiently
suspected it, he had never suffered any thought so unpleasing to sink
into his mind, but that he had driven it away by amusements or dreams of
future felicity and affluence, and had never taken any measures by which
he might prevent a precipitation from plenty to indigence. This quarrel
and separation, and the difficulties to which Mr. Savage was exposed by
them, were soon known both to his friends and enemies; nor was it long
before he perceived, from the behaviour of both, how much is added to the
lustre of genius by the ornaments of wealth. His condition did not appear
to excite much compassion, for he had not been always careful to use the
advantages he enjoyed with that moderation which ought to have been with
more than usual caution preserved by him, who knew, if he had reflected,
that he was only a dependent on the bounty of another, whom he could
expect to support him no longer than he endeavoured to preserve his
favour by complying with his inclinations, and whom he nevertheless set
at defiance, and was continually irritating by negligence or
encroachments.

Examples need not be sought at any great distance to prove that
superiority of fortune has a natural tendency to kindle pride, and that
pride seldom fails to exert itself in contempt and insult; and if this is
often the effect of hereditary wealth, and of honours enjoyed only by the
merits of others, it is some extenuation of any indecent triumphs to
which this unhappy man may have been betrayed, that his prosperity was
heightened by the force of novelty, and made more intoxicating by a sense
of the misery in which he had so long languished, and perhaps of the
insults which he had formerly borne, and which he might now think himself
entitled to revenge. It is too common for those who have unjustly
suffered pain to inflict it likewise in their turn with the same
injustice, and to imagine that they have a right to treat others as they
have themselves been treated.

That Mr. Savage was too much elevated by any good fortune is generally
known; and some passages of his Introduction to “The Author to be Let”
sufficiently show that he did not wholly refrain from such satire, as he
afterwards thought very unjust when he was exposed to it himself; for,
when he was afterwards ridiculed in the character of a distressed poet,
he very easily discovered that distress was not a proper subject for
merriment or topic of invective. He was then able to discern, that if
misery be the effect of virtue, it ought to be reverenced; if of ill
fortune, to be pitied; and if of vice, not to be insulted, because it is
perhaps itself a punishment adequate to the crime by which it was
produced. And the humanity of that man can deserve no panegyric who is
capable of reproaching a criminal in the hands of the executioner. But
these reflections, though they readily occurred to him in the first and
last parts of his life, were, I am afraid, for a long time forgotten; at
least they were, like many other maxims, treasured up in his mind rather
for show than use, and operated very little upon his conduct, however
elegantly he might sometimes explain, or however forcibly he might
inculcate them. His degradation, therefore, from the condition which he
had enjoyed with such wanton thoughtlessness, was considered by many as
an occasion of triumph. Those who had before paid their court to him
without success soon returned the contempt which they had suffered; and
they who had received favours from him, for of such favours as he could
bestow he was very liberal, did not always remember them. So much more
certain are the effects of resentment than of gratitude. It is not only
to many more pleasing to recollect those faults which place others below
them, than those virtues by which they are themselves comparatively
depressed: but it is likewise more easy to neglect than to recompense.
And though there are few who will practise a laborious virtue, there will
never be wanting multitudes that will indulge in easy vice.

Savage, however, was very little disturbed at the marks of contempt which
his ill fortune brought upon him from those whom he never esteemed, and
with whom he never considered himself as levelled by any calamities: and
though it was not without some uneasiness that he saw some whose
friendship he valued change their behaviour, he yet observed their
coldness without much emotion, considered them as the slaves of fortune,
and the worshippers of prosperity, and was more inclined to despise them
than to lament himself.

It does not appear that after this return of his wants he found mankind
equally favourable to him, as at his first appearance in the world. His
story, though in reality not less melancholy, was less affecting, because
it was no longer new. It therefore procured him no new friends, and those
that had formerly relieved him thought they might now consign him to
others. He was now likewise considered by many rather as criminal than as
unhappy, for the friends of Lord Tyrconnel, and of his mother, were
sufficiently industrious to publish his weaknesses, which were indeed
very numerous, and nothing was forgotten that might make him either
hateful or ridiculous. It cannot but be imagined that such
representations of his faults must make great numbers less sensible of
his distress; many who had only an opportunity to hear one part made no
scruple to propagate the account which they received; many assisted their
circulation from malice or revenge; and perhaps many pretended to credit
them, that they might with a better grace withdraw their regard, or
withhold their assistance.

Savage, however, was not one of those who suffered himself to be injured
without resistance, nor was he less diligent in exposing the faults of
Lord Tyrconnel, over whom he obtained at least this advantage, that he
drove him first to the practice of outrage and violence; for he was so
much provoked by the wit and virulence of Savage, that he came with a
number of attendants, that did no honour to his courage, to beat him at a
coffee-house. But it happened that he had left the place a few minutes,
and his lordship had, without danger, the pleasure of boasting how he
would have treated him. Mr. Savage went next day to repay his visit at
his own house, but was prevailed on by his domestics to retire without
insisting on seeing him.

Lord Tyrconnel was accused by Mr. Savage of some actions which scarcely
any provocation will be thought sufficient to justify, such as seizing
what he had in his lodgings, and other instances of wanton cruelty, by
which he increased the distress of Savage without any advantage to
himself.

These mutual accusations were retorted on both sides, for many years,
with the utmost degree of virulence and rage; and time seemed rather to
augment than diminish their resentment. That the anger of Mr. Savage
should be kept alive is not strange, because he felt every day the
consequences of the quarrel; but it might reasonably have been hoped that
Lord Tyrconnel might have relented, and at length have forgot those
provocations, which, however they might have once inflamed him, had not
in reality much hurt him. The spirit of Mr. Savage, indeed, never
suffered him to solicit a reconciliation; he returned reproach for
reproach, and insult for insult; his superiority of wit supplied the
disadvantages of his fortune, and enabled him to form a party, and
prejudice great numbers in his favour. But though this might be some
gratification of his vanity, it afforded very little relief to his
necessities, and he was frequently reduced to uncommon hardships, of
which, however, he never made any mean or importunate complaints, being
formed rather to bear misery with fortitude than enjoy prosperity with
moderation.

He now thought himself again at liberty to expose the cruelty of his
mother; and therefore, I believe, about this time, published “The
Bastard,” a poem remarkable for the vivacious sallies of thought in the
beginning, where he makes a pompous enumeration of the imaginary
advantages of base birth, and the pathetic sentiments at the end, where
he recounts the real calamities which he suffered by the crime of his
parents. The vigour and spirit of the verses, the peculiar circumstances
of the author, the novelty of the subject, and the notoriety of the story
to which the allusions are made, procured this performance a very
favourable reception; great numbers were immediately dispersed, and
editions were multiplied with unusual rapidity.

One circumstance attended the publication which Savage used to relate
with great satisfaction. His mother, to whom the poem was with “due
reverence” inscribed, happened then to be at Bath, where she could not
conveniently retire from censure, or conceal herself from observation;
and no sooner did the reputation of the poem begin to spread, than she
heard it repeated in all places of concourse; nor could she enter the
assembly-rooms or cross the walks without being saluted with some lines
from “The Bastard.”

This was perhaps the first time that she ever discovered a sense of
shame, and on this occasion the power of wit was very conspicuous; the
wretch who had, without scruple, proclaimed herself an adulteress, and
who had first endeavoured to starve her son, then to transport him, and
afterwards to hang him, was not able to bear the representation of her
own conduct, but fled from reproach, though she felt no pain from guilt,
and left Bath in the utmost haste to shelter herself among the crowds of
London. Thus Savage had the satisfaction of finding that, though he could
not reform his mother, he could punish her, and that he did not always
suffer alone.

The pleasure which he received from this increase of his poetical
reputation was sufficient for some time to overbalance the miseries of
want, which this performance did not much alleviate; for it was sold for
a very trivial sum to a bookseller, who, though the success was so
uncommon that five impressions were sold, of which many were undoubtedly
very numerous, had not generosity sufficient to admit the unhappy writer
to any part of the profit. The sale of this poem was always mentioned by
Mr. Savage with the utmost elevation of heart, and referred to by him as
an incontestable proof of a general acknowledgment of his abilities. It
was, indeed, the only production of which he could justly boast a general
reception. But, though he did not lose the opportunity which success gave
him of setting a high rate on his abilities, but paid due deference to
the suffrages of mankind when they were given in his favour, he did not
suffer his esteem of himself to depend upon others, nor found anything
sacred in the voice of the people when they were inclined to censure him;
he then readily showed the folly of expecting that the public should
judge right, observed how slowly poetical merit had often forced its way
into the world; he contented himself with the applause of men of
judgment, and was somewhat disposed to exclude all those from the
character of men of judgment who did not applaud him. But he was at other
times more favourable to mankind than to think them blind to the beauties
of his works, and imputed the slowness of their sale to other causes;
either they were published at a time when the town was empty, or when the
attention of the public was engrossed by some struggle in the Parliament
or some other object of general concern; or they were, by the neglect of
the publisher, not diligently dispersed, or, by his avarice, not
advertised with sufficient frequency. Address, or industry, or liberality
was always wanting, and the blame was laid rather on any person than the
author.

By arts like these, arts which every man practises in some degree, and to
which too much of the little tranquillity of life is to be ascribed,
Savage was always able to live at peace with himself. Had he, indeed,
only made use of these expedients to alleviate the loss or want of
fortune or reputation, or any other advantages which it is not in a man’s
power to bestow upon himself, they might have been justly mentioned as
instances of a philosophical mind, and very properly proposed to the
imitation of multitudes who, for want of diverting their imaginations
with the same dexterity, languish under afflictions which might be easily
removed.

It were doubtless to be wished that truth and reason were universally
prevalent; that everything were esteemed according to its real value; and
that men would secure themselves from being disappointed, in their
endeavours after happiness, by placing it only in virtue, which is always
to be obtained; but, if adventitious and foreign pleasures must be
pursued, it would be perhaps of some benefit, since that pursuit must
frequently be fruitless, if the practice of Savage could be taught, that
folly might be an antidote to folly, and one fallacy be obviated by
another. 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 error 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 production 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 prayer;
   No father’s guardian hand my youth maintained,
   Called forth my virtues, or from vice restrained.”

“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 publicly
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_,
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 following
    verses; which were no sooner published, but the late queen sent to a
    bookseller for them. 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 Guilford, 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, etc.”

Such was the performance, 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 panegyric 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
heroic 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 anything 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. 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 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 topics 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 topic 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_ with severity, which he did not seem
inclined to forget.

But 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 Free-thinker,” 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
acquaintance, 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 superior 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 Public
Spirit, with regard to Public Works.”

The plan of this poem is very extensive, and comprises a multitude of
topics, 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 public 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 ornament 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 overburthened by
accidental calamities set at ease by the care of the public; 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 be 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 flowering pride of gardens rare,
   However royal, or however fair,
   If gates which to excess 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 public 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 public
affairs. It must be however allowed, in justification of the public, 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,
majestic 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 the bulk, or
in the winter, with his associate, 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,
   (Oh, let none censure, if, untried by grief,
   If, amidst woe, untempted by relief),
   He stooped reluctant to low arts of shame,
   Which then, e’en then, he scorned, and blushed 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 public 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
request 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 amusement 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 domestic 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 the 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 indeed not 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 critic, 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
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 consequence 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 much 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 public; 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 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 as 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 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 public-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, to 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 embittered 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 panegyric. 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 panegyric. 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 topics 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 his 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
levée, 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 publicly known, and his friends therefore thought it
proper to concert some measures for his relief; and one of them [Pope]
wrote a letter to him, in which he expressed his concern “for the
miserable withdrawing of this 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 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 Tyrconnel’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 this 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 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 exact 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 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 stage-coach; nor did his friends expect to hear from him till he
informed them of his arrival at Swansea. But when they least expected,
arrived a letter dated the 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 public 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. Powel and Mrs. Jones, by some
verses which he inserted in _The Gentleman’s Magazine_. 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 superior 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 towards 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 subscription 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 error 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 into 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 public places. He now began
to find every man from home at whose house he called; and was therefore
no longer able to procure the necessaries of life, but wandered about the
town, slighted and neglected, in quest of a dinner, which he did not
always obtain.

To 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 get 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
inconveniences 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 be only
momentary, and that the same necessity would quickly return.

At last he quitted the house of his friend, and returned to his lodgings
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 upstairs 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 entreat 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 burthensome 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 “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 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 twelvemonth 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 it 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 a 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;
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
public 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.”

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 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 persuade 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. Woolaston 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— 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 at 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, 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 superior 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, 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 churchyard 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 that 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 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 or elegant, and equally happy upon grave and 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 used 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 anything 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 and 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 critic, 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 majestic, 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 surely may be readily
pardoned in him, to whom life afforded no other comforts than barren
praises, and the consciousness of deserving them.

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

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



SWIFT.


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

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

Whatever was his birth, his education was Irish. He was sent at the age
of six to the school at Kilkenny, and in his fifteenth year (1682) was
admitted into the University of Dublin. In his academical studies he was
either not diligent or not happy. It must disappoint every reader’s
expectation, that, when at the usual time he claimed the Bachelorship of
Arts, he was found by the examiners too conspicuously deficient for
regular admission, and obtained his degree at last by _special favour_; a
term used in that university to denote want of merit.

Of this disgrace it may be easily supposed that he was much ashamed, and
shame had its proper effect in producing reformation. He resolved from
that time to study eight hours a day, and continued his industry for
seven years, with what improvement is sufficiently known. This part of
his story well deserves to be remembered; it may afford useful admonition
and powerful encouragement to men whose abilities have been made for a
time useless by their passions or pleasures, and who having lost one part
of life in idleness, are tempted to throw away the remainder in despair.
In this course of daily application he continued three years longer at
Dublin; and in this time, if the observation and memory of an old
companion may be trusted, he drew the first sketch of his “Tale of a
Tub.”

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

Temple received with sufficient kindness the nephew of his father’s
friend, with whom he was, when they conversed together, so much pleased,
that he detained him two years in his house. Here he became known to King
William, who sometimes visited Temple, when he was disabled by the gout,
and, being attended by Swift in the garden, showed him how to cut
asparagus in the Dutch way. King William’s notions were all military; and
he expressed his kindness to Swift by offering to make him a captain of
horse.

When Temple removed to Moor Park, he took Swift with him; and when he was
consulted by the Earl of Portland about the expedience of complying with
a bill then depending for making parliaments triennial, against which
King William was strongly prejudiced, after having in vain tried to show
the earl that the proposal involved nothing dangerous to royal power, he
sent Swift for the same purpose to the king. Swift, who probably was
proud of his employment, and went with all the confidence of a young man,
found his arguments, and his art of displaying them, made totally
ineffectual by the predetermination of the king; and used to mention this
disappointment as his first antidote against vanity. Before he left
Ireland he contracted a disorder, as he thought, by eating too much
fruit. The original of diseases is commonly obscure. Almost everybody
eats as much fruit as he can get, without any great inconvenience. The
disease of Swift was giddiness with deafness, which attacked him from
time to time, began very early, pursued him through life, and at last
sent him to the grave, deprived of reason. Being much oppressed at Moor
Park by this grievous malady, he was advised to try his native air, and
went to Ireland; but finding no benefit, returned to Sir William, at
whose house he continued his studies, and is known to have read, among
other books, Cyprian and Irenæus. He thought exercise of great necessity,
and used to run half a mile up and down a hill every two hours.

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

While he lived with Temple, he used to pay his mother at Leicester a
yearly visit. He travelled on foot, unless some violence of weather drove
him into a waggon; and at night he would go to a penny lodging, where he
purchased clean sheets for sixpence. This practice Lord Orrery imputes to
his innate love of grossness and vulgarity: some may ascribe it to his
desire of surveying human life through all its varieties: and others,
perhaps with equal probability, to a passion which seems to have been
deeply fixed in his heart, the love of a shilling. In time he began to
think that his attendance at Moor Park deserved some other recompense
than the pleasure, however mingled with improvement, of Temple’s
conversation; and grew so impatient, that (1694) he went away in
discontent. Temple, conscious of having given reason for complaint, is
said to have made him deputy Master of the Rolls in Ireland; which,
according to his kinsman’s account, was an office which he knew him not
able to discharge. Swift therefore resolved to enter into the Church, in
which he had at first no higher hopes than of the chaplainship to the
Factory at Lisbon; but being recommended to Lord Capel, he obtained the
prebend of Kilroot in Connor, of about a hundred pounds a year. But the
infirmities of Temple made a companion like Swift so necessary, that he
invited him back, with a promise to procure him English preferment in
exchange for the prebend, which he desired him to resign. With this
request Swift complied, having perhaps equally repented their separation,
and they lived on together with mutual satisfaction; and, in the four
years that passed between his return and Temple’s death, it is probable
that he wrote the “Tale of a Tub,” and the “Battle of the Books.”

Swift began early to think, or to hope, that he was a poet, and wrote
Pindaric Odes to Temple, to the king, and to the Athenian Society, a knot
of obscure men, who published a periodical pamphlet of answers to
questions, sent, or supposed to be sent, by letters. I have been told
that Dryden, having perused these verses, said, “Cousin Swift, you will
never be a poet;” and that this denunciation was the motive of Swift’s
perpetual malevolence to Dryden. In 1699 Temple died, and left a legacy
with his manuscripts to Swift, for whom he had obtained, from King
William, a promise of the first prebend that should be vacant at
Westminster or Canterbury. That this promise might not be forgotten,
Swift dedicated to the king the posthumous works with which he was
intrusted; but neither the dedication, nor tenderness for the man whom he
once had treated with confidence and fondness, revived in King William
the remembrance of his promise. Swift awhile attended the Court; but soon
found his solicitations hopeless. He was then invited by the Earl of
Berkeley to accompany him into Ireland, as his private secretary; but,
after having done the business till their arrival at Dublin, he then
found that one Bush had persuaded the earl that a clergyman was not a
proper secretary, and had obtained the office for himself. In a man like
Swift, such circumvention and inconstancy must have excited violent
indignation. But he had yet more to suffer. Lord Berkeley had the
disposal of the deanery of Derry, and Swift expected to obtain it; but by
the secretary’s influence, supposed to have been secured by a bribe, it
was bestowed on somebody else; and Swift was dismissed with the livings
of Laracor and Rathbeggin in the diocese of Meath, which together did not
equal half the value of the deanery. At Laracor he increased the
parochial duty by reading prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and
performed all the offices of his profession with great decency and
exactness.

Soon after his settlement at Laracor, he invited to Ireland the
unfortunate Stella, a young woman whose name was Johnson, the daughter of
the steward of Sir William Temple, who, in consideration of her father’s
virtues, left her a thousand pounds. With her came Mrs. Dingley, whose
whole fortune was twenty-seven pounds a year for her life. With these
ladies he passed his hours of relaxation, and to them he opened his
bosom; but they never resided in the same house, nor did he see either
without a witness. They lived at the Parsonage when Swift was away, and,
when he returned, removed to a lodging, or to the house of a neighbouring
clergyman.

Swift was not one of those minds which amaze the world with early
pregnancy: his first work, except his few poetical Essays, was the
“Dissensions in Athens and Rome,” published (1701) in his thirty-fourth
year. After its appearance, paying a visit to some bishop, he heard
mention made of the new pamphlet that Burnet had written, replete with
political knowledge. When he seemed to doubt Burnet’s right to the work,
he was told by the bishop that he was “a young man,” and still persisting
to doubt, that he was “a very positive young man.”

Three years afterwards (1704) was published “The Tale of a Tub;” of this
book charity may be persuaded to think that it might be written by a man
of a peculiar character without ill intention; but it is certainly of
dangerous example. That Swift was its author, though it be universally
believed, was never owned by himself, nor very well proved by any
evidence; but no other claimant can be produced, and he did not deny it
when Archbishop Sharp and the Duchess of Somerset, by showing it to the
queen, debarred him from a bishopric. When this wild work first raised
the attention of the public, Sacheverell, meeting Smalridge, tried to
flatter him by seeming to think him the author, but Smalridge answered
with indignation, “Not all that you and I have in the world, nor all that
ever we shall have, should hire me to write the ‘Tale of a Tub.’”

The digression relating to Wotton and Bentley must be confessed to
discover want of knowledge or want of integrity; he did not understand
the two controversies, or he willingly misrepresented them. But Wit can
stand its ground against Truth only a little while. The honours due to
Learning have been justly distributed by the decision of posterity.

“The Battle of the Books” is so like the “_Combat des Livres_,” which the
same question concerning the Ancients and Moderns had produced in France,
that the improbability of such a coincidence of thoughts without
communication, is not, in my opinion, balanced by the anonymous
protestation prefixed, in which all knowledge of the French book is
peremptorily disowned.

For some time after, Swift was probably employed in solitary study,
gaining the qualifications requisite for future eminence. How often he
visited England, and with what diligence he attended his parishes, I know
not. It was not till about four years afterwards that he became a
professed author; and then one year (1708) produced “The Sentiments of a
Church of England Man;” the ridicule of Astrology under the name of
“Bickerstaff;” the “Argument against abolishing Christianity;” and the
defence of the “Sacramental Test.”

“The Sentiments of a Church of England Man” is written with great
coolness, moderation, ease, and perspicuity. The “Argument against
abolishing Christianity” is a very happy and judicious irony. One passage
in it deserves to be selected:—

“If Christianity were once abolished, how could the free-thinkers, the
strong reasoners, and the men of profound learning, be able to find
another subject so calculated, in all points, whereon to display their
abilities?  What wonderful productions of wit should we be deprived of
from those whose genius, by continual practice, hath been wholly turned
upon raillery and invectives against religion, and would therefore never
be able to shine or distinguish themselves upon any other subject!  We
are daily complaining of the great decline of wit among us, and would
take away the greatest, perhaps the only topic we have left. Who would
ever have suspected Asgill for a wit, or Toland for a philosopher, if the
inexhaustible stock of Christianity had not been at hand to provide them
with materials?  What other subject, through all art or nature, could
have produced Tindal for a profound author, or furnished him with
readers?  It is the wise choice of the subject that alone adorns and
distinguishes the writer. For had a hundred such pens as these been
employed on the side of religion, they would have immediately sunk into
silence and oblivion.”

The reasonableness of a _Test_ is not hard to be proved; but perhaps it
must be allowed that the proper test has not been chosen. The attention
paid to the papers published under the name of “Bickerstaff,” induced
Steele, when he projected the _Tatler_, to assume an appellation which
had already gained possession of the reader’s notice.

In the year following he wrote a “Project for the Advancement of
Religion,” addressed to Lady Berkeley, by whose kindness it is not
unlikely that he was advanced to his benefices. To this project, which is
formed with great purity of intention, and displayed with sprightliness
and elegance, it can only be objected, that, like many projects, it is,
if not generally impracticable, yet evidently hopeless, as it supposes
more zeal, concord, and perseverance than a view of mankind gives reason
for expecting. He wrote likewise this year a “Vindication of
Bickerstaff,” and an explanation of an “Ancient Prophecy,” part written
after the facts, and the rest never completed, but well planned to excite
amazement.

Soon after began the busy and important part of Swift’s life. He was
employed (1710) by the Primate of Ireland to solicit the queen for a
remission of the First Fruits and Twentieth Parts to the Irish Clergy.
With this purpose he had recourse to Mr. Harley, to whom he was mentioned
as a man neglected and oppressed by the last Ministry, because he had
refused to co-operate with some of their schemes. What he had refused has
never been told; what he had suffered was, I suppose, the exclusion from
a bishopric by the remonstrances of Sharp, whom he describes as “the
harmless tool of others’ hate,” and whom he represents as afterwards
“suing for pardon.”

Harley’s designs and situation were such as made him glad of an auxiliary
so well qualified for his service: he therefore soon admitted him to
familiarity, whether ever to confidence some have made a doubt; but it
would have been difficult to excite his zeal without persuading him that
he was trusted, and not very easy to delude him by false persuasions. He
was certainly admitted to those meetings in which the first hints and
original plan of action are supposed to have been formed; and was one of
the sixteen ministers, or agents of the Ministry, who met weekly at each
other’s houses, and were united by the name of “Brother.”  Being not
immediately considered as an obdurate Tory, he conversed indiscriminately
with all the wits, and was yet the friend of Steele; who, in the
_Tatler_, which began in April, 1709, confesses the advantage of his
conversation, and mentions something contributed by him to his paper. But
he was now emerging into political controversy; for the year 1710
produced the _Examiner_, of which Swift wrote thirty-three papers. In
argument he may be allowed to have the advantage: for where a wide system
of conduct, and the whole of a public character, is laid open to inquiry,
the accuser, having the choice of facts, must be very unskilful if he
does not prevail: but with regard to wit, I am afraid none of Swift’s
papers will be found equal to those by which Addison opposed him.

He wrote in the year 1711 a “Letter to the October Club,” a number of
Tory gentlemen sent from the country to Parliament, who formed themselves
into a club, to the number of about a hundred, and met to animate the
zeal and raise the expectations of each other. They thought, with great
reason, that the Ministers were losing opportunities; that sufficient use
was not made of the ardour of the nation; they called loudly for more
changes, and stronger efforts; and demanded the punishment of part and
the dismission of the rest, of those whom they considered as public
robbers. Their eagerness was not gratified by the queen, or by Harley.
The queen was probably slow because she was afraid; and Harley was slow
because he was doubtful; he was a Tory only by necessity, or for
convenience; and, when he had power in his hands, had no settled purpose
for which he should employ it; forced to gratify to a certain degree the
Tories who supported him, but unwilling to make his reconcilement to the
Whigs utterly desperate, he corresponded at once with the two expectants
of the Crown, and kept, as has been observed, the succession
undetermined. Not knowing what to do, he did nothing; and, with the fate
of a double dealer, at last he lost his power, but kept his enemies.

Swift seems to have concurred in opinion with the “October Club;” but it
was not in his power to quicken the tardiness of Harley, whom he
stimulated as much as he could, but with little effect. He that knows not
whither to go, is in no haste to move. Harley, who was perhaps not quick
by nature, became yet more slow by irresolution; and was content to hear
that dilatoriness lamented as natural, which he applauded in himself as
politic. Without the Tories, however, nothing could be done; and, as they
were not to be gratified, they must be appeased; and the conduct of the
Minister, if it could not be vindicated, was to be plausibly excused.

Early in the next year he published a “Proposal for Correcting,
Improving, and Ascertaining the English Tongue,” in a Letter to the Earl
of Oxford; written without much knowledge of the general nature of
language, and without any accurate inquiry into the history of other
tongues. The certainty and stability which, contrary to all experience,
he thinks attainable, he proposes to secure by instituting an academy;
the decrees of which every man would have been willing, and many would
have been proud, to disobey, and which, being renewed by successive
elections, would in a short time have differed from itself.

Swift now attained the zenith of his political importance: he published
(1712) the “Conduct of the Allies,” ten days before the Parliament
assembled. The purpose was to persuade the nation to a peace; and never
had any writer more success. The people, who had been amused with
bonfires and triumphal processions, and looked with idolatry on the
General and his friends, who, as they thought, had made England the
arbitress of nations, were confounded between shame and rage, when they
found that “mines had been exhausted, and millions destroyed,” to secure
the Dutch or aggrandise the Emperor, without any advantage to ourselves;
that we had been bribing our neighbours to fight their own quarrel; and
that amongst our enemies we might number our allies. That is now no
longer doubted, of which the nation was then first informed, that the war
was unnecessarily protracted to fill the pockets of Marlborough; and that
it would have been continued without end, if he could have continued his
annual plunder. But Swift, I suppose, did not yet know what he has since
written, that a commission was drawn which would have appointed him
General for life, had it not become ineffectual by the resolution of Lord
Cowper, who refused the seal.

“Whatever is received,” say the schools, “is received in proportion to
the recipient.”  The power of a political treatise depends much upon the
disposition of the people; the nation was then combustible, and a spark
set it on fire. It is boasted, that between November and January eleven
thousand were sold: a great number at that time, when we were not yet a
nation of readers. To its propagation certainly no agency of power or
influence was wanting. It furnished arguments for conversation, speeches
for debate, and materials for parliamentary resolutions. Yet, surely,
whoever surveys this wonder-working pamphlet with cool perusal, will
confess that its efficacy was supplied by the passions of its readers;
that it operates by the mere weight of facts, with very little assistance
from the hand that produced them.

This year (1712) he published his “Reflections on the Barrier Treaty,”
which carries on the design of his “Conduct of the Allies,” and shows how
little regard in that negotiation had been shown to the interest of
England, and how much of the conquered country had been demanded by the
Dutch. This was followed by “Remarks on the Bishop of Sarum’s
Introduction to his third Volume of the History of the Reformation;” a
pamphlet which Burnet published as an alarm, to warn the nation of the
approach of Popery. Swift, who seems to have disliked the bishop with
something more than political aversion, treats him like one whom he is
glad of an opportunity to insult.

Swift, being now the declared favourite and supposed confidant of the
Tory Ministry, was treated by all that depended on the Court with the
respect which dependents know how to pay. He soon began to feel part of
the misery of greatness; he that could say that he knew him, considered
himself as having fortune in his power. Commissions, solicitations,
remonstrances crowded about him; he was expected to do every man’s
business; to procure employment for one, and to retain it for another. In
assisting those who addressed him, he represents himself as sufficiently
diligent; and desires to have others believe what he probably believed
himself, that by his interposition many Whigs of merit, and among them
Addison and Congreve, were continued in their places. But every man of
known influence has so many petitions which he cannot grant, that he must
necessarily offend more than he gratifies, because the preference given
to one affords all the rest reason for complaint. “When I give away a
place,” said Lewis XIV., “I make a hundred discontented, and one
ungrateful.”

Much has been said of the equality and independence which he preserved in
his conversation with the Ministers; of the frankness of his
remonstrances, and the familiarity of his friendship. In accounts of this
kind a few single incidents are set against the general tenour of
behaviour. No man, however, can pay a more servile tribute to the great,
than by suffering his liberty in their presence to aggrandise him in his
own esteem. Between different ranks of the community there is necessarily
some distance; he who is called by his superior to pass the interval, may
properly accept the invitation; but petulance and obtrusion are rarely
produced by magnanimity; nor have often any nobler cause than the pride
of importance, and the malice of inferiority. He who knows himself
necessary may set, while that necessity lasts, a high value upon himself;
as, in a lower condition, a servant eminently skilful may be saucy; but
he is saucy only because he is servile. Swift appears to have preserved
the kindness of the great when they wanted him no longer; and therefore
it must be allowed, that the childish freedom, to which he seems enough
inclined, was overpowered by his better qualities. His disinterestedness
has likewise been mentioned; a strain of heroism which would have been in
his condition romantic and superfluous. Ecclesiastical benefices, when
they become vacant, must be given away; and the friends of power may, if
there be no inherent disqualification, reasonably expect them. Swift
accepted (1713) the deanery of St. Patrick, the best preferment that his
friends could venture to give him. That Ministry was in a great degree
supported by the clergy, who were not yet reconciled to the author of the
“Tale of a Tub,” and would not without much discontent and indignation
have borne to see him installed in an English cathedral. He refused,
indeed, fifty pounds from Lord Oxford; but he accepted afterwards a
draught of a thousand upon the Exchequer, which was intercepted by the
queen’s death, and which he resigned, as he says himself, “_multa
gemens_, with many a groan.”  In the midst of his power and his politics,
he kept a journal of his visits, his walks, his interviews with
Ministers, and quarrels with his servant, and transmitted it to Mrs.
Johnson and Mrs. Dingley, to whom he knew that whatever befell him was
interesting, and no accounts could be too minute. Whether these diurnal
trifles were properly exposed to eyes which had never received any
pleasure from the presence of the Dean may be reasonably doubted: they
have, however, some odd attraction; the reader, finding frequent mention
of names which he has been used to consider as important, goes on in hope
of information; and as there is nothing to fatigue attention, if he is
disappointed he can hardly complain. It is easy to perceive, from every
page, that though ambition pressed Swift into a life of bustle, the wish
for a life of ease was always returning. He went to take possession of
his deanery as soon as he had obtained it; but he was not suffered to
stay in Ireland more than a fortnight before he was recalled to England,
that he might reconcile Lord Oxford and Lord Bolingbroke, who began to
look on one another with malevolence, which every day increased, and
which Bolingbroke appeared to retain in his last years.

Swift contrived an interview, from which they both departed discontented;
he procured a second, which only convinced him that the feud was
irreconcilable; he told them his opinion, that all was lost. This
denunciation was contradicted by Oxford; but Bolingbroke whispered that
he was right. Before this violent dissension had shattered the Ministry,
Swift had published, in the beginning of the year (1714), “The Public
Spirit of the Whigs,” in answer to “The Crisis,” a pamphlet for which
Steele was expelled from the House of Commons. Swift was now so far
alienated from Steele, as to think him no longer entitled to decency, and
therefore treats him sometimes with contempt, and sometimes with
abhorrence. In this pamphlet the Scotch were mentioned in terms so
provoking to that irritable nation, that resolving “not to be offended
with impunity,” the Scotch lords in a body demanded an audience of the
queen, and solicited reparation. A proclamation was issued, in which
three hundred pounds were offered for the discovery of the author. From
this storm he was, as he relates, “secured by a sleight;” of what kind,
or by whose prudence, is not known; and such was the increase of his
reputation, that the Scottish nation “applied again that he would be
their friend.”  He was become so formidable to the Whigs, that his
familiarity with the Ministers was clamoured at in Parliament,
particularly by two men, afterwards of great note, Aislabie and Walpole.
But, by the disunion of his great friends, his importance and designs
were now at an end; and seeing his services at last useless, he retired
about June (1714) into Berkshire, where, in the house of a friend, he
wrote what was then suppressed, but has since appeared under the title of
“Free Thoughts on the present State of Affairs.”  While he was waiting in
this retirement for events which time or chance might bring to pass, the
death of the Queen broke down at once the whole system of Tory politics;
and nothing remained but to withdraw from the implacability of triumphant
Whiggism, and shelter himself in unenvied obscurity.

The accounts of his reception in Ireland, given by Lord Orrery and Dr.
Delany, are so different, that the credit of the writers, both
undoubtedly veracious, cannot be saved, but by supposing, what I think is
true, that they speak of different times. When Delany says, that he was
received with respect, he means for the first fortnight, when he came to
take legal possession; and when Lord Orrery tells that he was pelted by
the populace, he is to be understood of the time when, after the Queen’s
death, he became a settled resident.

The Archbishop of Dublin gave him at first some disturbance in the
exercise of his jurisdiction; but it was soon discovered, that between
prudence and integrity, he was seldom in the wrong; and that, when he was
right, his spirit did not easily yield to opposition.

Having so lately quitted the tumults of a party, and the intrigues of a
court, they still kept his thoughts in agitation, as the sea fluctuates a
while when the storm has ceased. He therefore filled his hours with some
historical attempts, relating to the “Change of the Ministers,” and “The
Conduct of the Ministry.”  He likewise is said to have written a “History
of the Four last Years of Queen Anne,” which he began in her lifetime,
and afterwards laboured with great attention, but never published. It was
after his death in the hands of Lord Orrery and Dr. King. A book under
that title was published with Swift’s name by Dr. Lucas; of which I can
only say, that it seemed by no means to correspond with the notions that
I had formed of it, from a conversation which I once heard between the
Earl of Orrery and old Mr. Lewis.

Swift now, much against his will, commenced Irishman for life, and was to
contrive how he might be best accommodated in a country where he
considered himself as in a state of exile. It seems that his first
recourse was to piety. The thoughts of death rushed upon him at this time
with such incessant importunity, that they took possession of his mind,
when he first waked, for many years together. He opened his house by a
public table two days a week, and found his entertainments gradually
frequented by more and more visitants of learning among the men, and of
elegance among the women. Mrs. Johnson had left the country, and lived in
lodgings not far from the deanery. On his public days she regulated the
table, but appeared at it as a mere guest, like other ladies. On other
days he often dined, at a stated price, with Mr. Worral, a clergyman of
his cathedral, whose house was recommended by the peculiar neatness and
pleasantry of his wife. To this frugal mode of living, he was first
disposed by care to pay some debts which he had contracted, and he
continued it for the pleasure of accumulating money. His avarice,
however, was not suffered to obstruct the claims of his dignity; he was
served in plate, and used to say that he was the poorest gentleman in
Ireland that ate upon plate, and the richest that lived without a coach.
How he spent the rest of his time, and how he employed his hours of
study, has been inquired with hopeless curiosity. For who can give an
account of another’s studies?  Swift was not likely to admit any to his
privacies, or to impart a minute account of his business or his leisure.

Soon after (1716), in his forty-ninth year, he was privately married to
Mrs. Johnson, by Dr. Ashe, Bishop of Clogher, as Dr. Madden told me, in
the garden. The marriage made no change in their mode of life; they lived
in different houses, as before; nor did she ever lodge in the deanery but
when Swift was seized with a fit of giddiness. “It would be difficult,”
says Lord Orrery, “to prove that they were ever afterwards together
without a third person.”

The Dean of St. Patrick’s lived in a private manner, known and regarded
only by his friends; till, about the year 1720, he, by a pamphlet,
recommended to the Irish the use, and consequently the improvement, of
their manufactures. For a man to use the productions of his own labour is
surely a natural right, and to like best what he makes himself is a
natural passion. But to excite this passion, and enforce this right,
appeared so criminal to those who had an interest in the English trade,
that the printer was imprisoned; and, as Hawkesworth justly observes, the
attention of the public being, by this outrageous resentment, turned upon
the proposal, the author was by consequence made popular.

In 1723 died Mrs. Van Homrigh, a woman made unhappy by her admiration of
wit, and ignominiously distinguished by the name of Vanessa, whose
conduct has been already sufficiently discussed, and whose history is too
well known to be minutely repeated. She was a young woman fond of
literature, whom Decanus, the dean, called _Cadenus_ by transposition of
the letters, took pleasure in directing and instructing: till, from being
proud of his praise, she grew fond of his person. Swift was then about
forty-seven, at an age when vanity is strongly excited by the amorous
attention of a young woman. If it be said that Swift should have checked
a passion which he never meant to gratify, recourse must be had to that
extenuation which he so much despised, “men are but men;” perhaps,
however, he did not at first know his own mind, and, as he represents
himself, was undetermined. For his admission of her courtship, and his
indulgence of her hopes after his marriage to Stella, no other honest
plea can be found than that he delayed a disagreeable discovery from time
to time, dreading the immediate bursts of distress, and watching for a
favourable moment. She thought herself neglected, and died of
disappointment, having ordered, by her will, the poem to be published, in
which Cadenus had proclaimed her excellence and confessed his love. The
effect of the publication upon the Dean and Stella is thus related by
Delany:—

    “I have good reason to believe that they both were greatly shocked
    and distressed (though it may be differently) upon this occasion. The
    Dean made a tour to the south of Ireland for about two months at this
    time, to dissipate his thoughts and give place to obloquy. And Stella
    retired (upon the earnest invitation of the owner) to the house of a
    cheerful, generous, good-natured friend of the Dean’s, whom she
    always much loved and honoured. There my informer often saw her, and,
    I have reason to believe, used his utmost endeavours to relieve,
    support, and amuse her, in this sad situation. One little incident he
    told me of on that occasion I think I shall never forget. As his
    friend was an hospitable, open-hearted man, well beloved and largely
    acquainted, it happened one day that some gentlemen dropped in to
    dinner, who were strangers to Stella’s situation; and as the poem of
    _Cadenus and Vanessa_ was then the general topic of conversation, one
    of them said, ‘Surely that Vanessa must be an extraordinary woman
    that could inspire the Dean to write so finely upon her.’  Mrs.
    Johnson smiled, and answered, ‘that she thought that point not quite
    so clear; for it was well known that the Dean could write finely upon
    a broomstick.’”

The great acquisition of esteem and influence was made by the “Drapier’s
Letters,” in 1724. One Wood, of Wolverhampton, in Staffordshire, a man
enterprising and rapacious, had, as is said, by a present to the Duchess
of Munster, obtained a patent, empowering him to coin one hundred and
eighty thousand pounds of halfpence and farthings for the kingdom of
Ireland, in which there was a very inconvenient and embarrassing scarcity
of copper coin, so that it was possible to run in debt upon the credit of
a piece of money; for the cook or keeper of an alehouse could not refuse
to supply a man that had silver in his hand, and the buyer would not
leave his money without change. The project was therefore plausible. The
scarcity, which was already great, Wood took care to make greater, by
agents who gathered up the old halfpence; and was about to turn his brass
into gold, by pouring the treasures of his new mint upon Ireland, when
Swift, finding that the metal was debased to an enormous degree, wrote
letters, under the name of _M. B. Drapier_, to show the folly of
receiving, and the mischief that must ensue by giving gold and silver for
coin worth perhaps not a third part of its nominal value. The nation was
alarmed; the new coin was universally refused, but the governors of
Ireland considered resistance to the king’s patent as highly criminal;
and one Whitshed, then Chief Justice, who had tried the printer of the
former pamphlet, and sent out the jury nine times, till by clamour and
menaces they were frightened into a special verdict, now presented the
Drapier, but could not prevail on the grand jury to find the bill.

Lord Carteret and the Privy Council published a proclamation, offering
three hundred pounds for discovering the author of the Fourth Letter.
Swift had concealed himself from his printers and trusted only his
butler, who transcribed the paper. The man, immediately after the
appearance of the proclamation, strolled from the house, and stayed out
all night, and part of the next day. There was reason enough to fear that
he had betrayed his master for the reward; but he came home, and the Dean
ordered him to put off his livery, and leave the house; “for,” says he,
“I know that my life is in your power, and I will not bear, out of fear,
either your insolence or negligence.”  The man excused his fault with
great submission, and begged that he might be confined in the house while
it was in his power to endanger the master; but the Dean resolutely
turned him out, without taking further notice of him, till the term of
the information had expired, and then received him again. Soon afterwards
he ordered him and the rest of his servants into his presence, without
telling his intentions, and bade them take notice that their
fellow-servant was no longer Robert the butler, but that his integrity
had made him Mr. Blakeney, verger of St. Patrick’s, an officer whose
income was between thirty and forty pounds a year; yet he still continued
for some years to serve his old master as his butler.

Swift was known from this time by the appellation of _The Dean_. He was
honoured by the populace as the champion, patron, and instructor of
Ireland; and gained such power as, considered both in its extent and
duration, scarcely any man has ever enjoyed without greater wealth or
higher station. He was from this important year the oracle of the
traders, and the idol of the rabble, and by consequence was feared and
courted by all to whom the kindness of the traders or the populace was
necessary. The _Drapier_ was a sign; the _Drapier_ was a health; and
which way soever the eye or the ear was turned, some tokens were found of
the nation’s gratitude to the _Drapier_.

The benefit was indeed great; he had rescued Ireland from a very
oppressive and predatory invasion, and the popularity which he had gained
he was diligent to keep, by appearing forward and zealous on every
occasion where the public interest was supposed to be involved. Nor did
he much scruple to boast his influence; for when, upon some attempts to
regulate the coin, Archbishop Boulter, then one of the justices, accused
him of exasperating the people, he exculpated himself by saying, “If I
had lifted up my finger, they would have torn you to pieces.”  But the
pleasure of popularity was soon interrupted by domestic misery. Mrs.
Johnson, whose conversation was to him the great softener of the ills of
life, began in the year of the _Drapier’s_ triumph to decline, and two
years afterwards was so wasted with sickness that her recovery was
considered as hopeless. Swift was then in England, and had been invited
by Lord Bolingbroke to pass the winter with him in France; but this call
of calamity hastened him to Ireland, where perhaps his presence
contributed to restore her to imperfect and tottering health. He was now
so much at ease, that (1727) he returned to England, where he collected
three volumes of Miscellanies in conjunction with Pope, who prefixed a
querulous and apologetical Preface.

This important year sent likewise into the world “Gulliver’s Travels,” a
production so new and strange, that it filled the reader with a mingled
emotion of merriment and amazement. It was received with such avidity,
that the price of the first edition was raised before the second could be
made; it was read by the high and the low, the learned and illiterate.
Criticism was for a while lost in wonder; no rules of judgment were
applied to a book written in open defiance of truth and regularity. But
when distinctions came to be made, the part which gave the least pleasure
was that which describes the Flying Island, and that which gave most
disgust must be the history of Houyhnhnms.

While Swift was enjoying the reputation of his new work, the news of the
king’s death arrived, and he kissed the hands of the new king and queen
three days after their accession. By the queen, when she was princess, he
had been treated with some distinction, and was well received by her in
her exaltation; but whether she gave hopes which she never took care to
satisfy, or he formed expectations which she never meant to raise, the
event was that he always afterwards thought on her with malevolence, and
particularly charged her with breaking her promise of some medals which
she engaged to send him. I know not whether she had not, in her turn,
some reason for complaint. A letter was sent her, not so much entreating,
as requiring her patronage of Mrs. Barber, an ingenious Irishwoman, who
was then begging subscriptions for her Poems. To this letter was
subscribed the name of Swift, and it has all the appearance of his
diction and sentiments; but it was not written in his hand, and had some
little improprieties. When he was charged with this letter, he laid hold
of the inaccuracies, and urged the improbability of the accusation, but
never denied it: he shuffles between cowardice and veracity, and talks
big when he says nothing. He seems desirous enough of recommencing
courtier, and endeavoured to gain the kindness of Mrs. Howard,
remembering what Mrs. Masham had performed in former times; but his
flatteries were, like those of other wits, unsuccessful; the lady either
wanted power, or had no ambition of poetical immortality. He was seized
not long afterwards by a fit of giddiness, and again heard of the
sickness and danger of Mrs. Johnson. He then left the house of Pope, as
it seems, with very little ceremony, finding “that two sick friends
cannot live together;” and did not write to him till he found himself at
Chester. He turned to a home of sorrow: poor Stella was sinking into the
grave, and, after a languishing decay of about two months, died in her
forty-fourth year, on January 28, 1728. How much he wished her life his
papers show; nor can it be doubted that he dreaded the death of her whom
he loved most, aggravated by the consciousness that himself had hastened
it.

Beauty and the power of pleasing, the greatest external advantages that
woman can desire or possess, were fatal to the unfortunate Stella. The
man whom she had the misfortune to love was, as Delany observes, fond of
singularity, and desirous to make a mode of happiness for himself,
different from the general course of things and order of Providence. From
the time of her arrival in Ireland he seems resolved to keep her in his
power, and therefore hindered a match sufficiently advantageous by
accumulating unreasonable demands, and prescribing conditions that could
not be performed. While she was at her own disposal he did not consider
his possession as secure; resentment, ambition, or caprice might separate
them: he was therefore resolved to make “assurance doubly sure,” and to
appropriate her by a private marriage, to which he had annexed the
expectation of all the pleasures of perfect friendship, without the
uneasiness of conjugal restraint. But with this state poor Stella was not
satisfied; she never was treated as a wife, and to the world she had the
appearance of a mistress. She lived sullenly on, in hope that in time he
would own and receive her; but the time did not come till the change of
his manners and depravation of his mind made her tell him, when he
offered to acknowledge her, that “it was too late.”  She then gave up
herself to sorrowful resentment, and died under the tyranny of him by
whom she was in the highest degree loved and honoured. What were her
claims to this eccentric tenderness, by which the laws of nature were
violated to restrain her, curiosity will inquire; but how shall it be
gratified?  Swift was a lover; his testimony may be suspected. Delany and
the Irish saw with Swift’s eyes, and therefore add little confirmation.
That she was virtuous, beautiful, and elegant, in a very high degree,
such admiration from such a lover makes it very probable: but she had not
much literature, for she could not spell her own language; and of her
wit, so loudly vaunted, the smart sayings which Swift himself has
collected afford no splendid specimen.

The reader of Swift’s “Letter to a Lady on her Marriage,” may be allowed
to doubt whether his opinion of female excellence ought implicitly to be
admitted; for, if his general thoughts on women were such as he exhibits,
a very little sense in a lady would enrapture, and a very little virtue
would astonish him. Stella’s supremacy, therefore, was perhaps only
local; she was great because her associates were little.

In some Remarks lately published on the Life of Swift, his marriage is
mentioned as fabulous, or doubtful; but, alas! poor Stella, as Dr. Madden
told me, related her melancholy story to Dr. Sheridan, when he attended
her as a clergyman to prepare her for death; and Delany mentions it not
with doubt, but only with regret. Swift never mentioned her without a
sigh. The rest of his life was spent in Ireland, in a country to which
not even power almost despotic, nor flattery almost idolatrous, could
reconcile him. He sometimes wished to visit England, but always found
some reason of delay. He tells Pope, in the decline of life, that he
hopes once more to see him; “but if not,” says he, “we must part as all
human beings have parted.”

After the death of Stella, his benevolence was contracted, and his
severity exasperated; he drove his acquaintance from his table, and
wondered why he was deserted. But he continued his attention to the
public, and wrote from time to time such directions, admonitions, or
censures, as the exigence of affairs, in his opinion, made proper; and
nothing fell from his pen in vain. In a short poem on the Presbyterians,
whom he always regarded with detestation, he bestowed one stricture upon
Bettesworth, a lawyer eminent for his insolence to the clergy, which,
from very considerable reputation, brought him into immediate and
universal contempt. Bettesworth, enraged at his disgrace and loss, went
to Swift, and demanded whether he was the author of that poem?  “Mr.
Bettesworth,” answered he, “I was in my youth acquainted with great
lawyers, who, knowing my disposition to satire, advised me, that if any
scoundrel or blockhead whom I had lampooned should ask, ‘Are you the
author of this paper?’ I should tell him that I was not the author; and
therefore, I tell you, Mr. Bettesworth, that I am not the author of these
lines.”

Bettesworth was so little satisfied with this account, that he publicly
professed his resolution of a violent and corporal revenge; but the
inhabitants of St. Patrick’s district embodied themselves in the Dean’s
defence. Bettesworth declared in Parliament that Swift had deprived him
of twelve hundred pounds a year.

Swift was popular awhile by another mode of beneficence. He set aside
some hundreds to be lent in small sums to the poor, from five shillings,
I think, to five pounds. He took no interest, and only required that, at
repayment, a small fee should be given to the accountant, but he required
that the day of promised payment should be exactly kept. A severe and
punctilious temper is ill qualified for transactions with the poor: the
day was often broken, and the loan was not repaid. This might have been
easily foreseen; but for this Swift had made no provision of patience or
pity. He ordered his debtors to be sued. A severe creditor has no popular
character; what then was likely to be said of him who employs the
catchpoll under the appearance of charity?  The clamour against him was
loud, and the resentment of the populace outrageous; he was therefore
forced to drop his scheme, and own the folly of expecting punctuality
from the poor.

His asperity continually increasing, condemned him to solitude; and his
resentment of solitude sharpened his asperity. He was not, however,
totally deserted; some men of learning, and some women of elegance, often
visited him; and he wrote from time to time either verse or prose: of his
verses he willingly gave copies, and is supposed to have felt no
discontent when he saw them printed. His favourite maxim was “Vive la
bagatelle:” he thought trifles a necessary part of life, and perhaps
found them necessary to himself. It seems impossible to him to be idle,
and his disorders made it difficult or dangerous to be long seriously
studious, or laboriously diligent. The love of ease is always gaining
upon age, and he had one temptation to petty amusements peculiar to
himself; whatever he did, he was sure to hear applauded; and such was his
predominance over all that approached, that all their applauses were
probably sincere. He that is much flattered soon learns to flatter
himself; we are commonly taught our duty by fear or shame, and how can
they act upon the man who hears nothing but his own praises?  As his
years increased, his fits of giddiness and deafness grew more frequent,
and his deafness made conversation difficult; they grew likewise more
severe, till in 1736, as he was writing a poem called “The Legion Club,”
he was seized with a fit so painful and so long continued, that he never
after thought it proper to attempt any work of thought or labour. He was
always careful of his money, and was therefore no liberal entertainer,
but was less frugal of his wine than of his meat. When his friends of
either sex came to him in expectation of a dinner, his custom was to give
every one a shilling, that they might please themselves with their
provision. At last his avarice grew too powerful for his kindness; he
would refuse a bottle of wine, and in Ireland no man visits where he
cannot drink. Having thus excluded conversation, and desisted from study,
he had neither business nor amusement; for, having by some ridiculous
resolution, or mad vow, determined never to wear spectacles, he could
make like little use of books in his latter years; his ideas, therefore,
being neither renovated by discourse, nor increased by reading, wore
gradually away, and left his mind vacant to the vexations of the hour,
till at last his anger was heightened into madness. He, however,
permitted one book to be published, which had been the production of
former years—“Polite Conversation,” which appeared in 1738. The
“Directions for Servants,” was printed soon after his death. These two
performances show a mind incessantly attentive, and, when it was not
employed upon great things, busy with minute occurrences. It is apparent
that he must have had the habit of noting whatever he observed; for such
a number of particulars could never have been assembled by the power of
recollection. He grew more violent, and his mental powers declined, till
(1741) it was found necessary that legal guardians should be appointed of
his person and fortune. He now lost distinction. His madness was
compounded of rage and fatuity. The last face that he knew was that of
Mrs. Whiteway; and her he ceased to know in a little time. His meat was
brought him cut into mouthfuls: but he would never touch it while the
servant stayed, and at last, after it had stood perhaps an hour, would
eat it walking; for he continued his old habit, and was on his feet ten
hours a day. Next year (1742) he had an inflammation in his left eye,
which swelled it to the size of an egg, with boils in other parts; he was
kept long waking with the pain, and was not easily restrained by five
attendants from tearing out his eye.

The tumour at last subsided; and a short interval of reason ensuing; in
which he knew his physician and his family, gave hopes of his recovery;
but in a few days he sank into a lethargic stupidity, motionless,
heedless, and speechless. But it is said that after a year of total
silence, when his housekeeper, on the 30th of November, told him that the
usual bonfires and illuminations were preparing to celebrate his
birthday, he answered, “It is all folly; they had better let it alone.”

It is remembered that he afterwards spoke now and then, or gave some
intimation of a meaning; but at last sank into a perfect silence, which
continued till about the end of October, 1744, when, in his
seventy-eighth year, he expired without a struggle.

When Swift is considered as an author, it is just to estimate his powers
by their effects. In the reign of Queen Anne he turned the stream of
popularity against the Whigs, and must be confessed to have dictated for
a time the political opinions of the English nation. In the succeeding
reign he delivered Ireland from plunder and oppression: and showed that
wit, confederated with truth, had such force as authority was unable to
resist. He said truly of himself, that Ireland “was his debtor.”  It was
from the time when he first began to patronise the Irish, that they may
date their riches and prosperity. He taught them first to know their own
interest, their weight, and their strength, and gave them spirit to
assert that equality with their fellow-subjects to which they have ever
since been making vigorous advances, and to claim those rights which they
have at last established. Nor can they be charged with ingratitude to
their benefactor; for they reverenced him as a guardian, and obeyed him
as a dictator.

In his works he has given very different specimens both of sentiments and
expression. His “Tale of a Tub” has little resemblance to his other
pieces. It exhibits a vehemence and rapidity of mind, a copiousness of
images, and vivacity of diction, such as he afterwards never possessed,
or never exerted. It is of a mode so distinct and peculiar, that it must
be considered by itself; what is true of that, is not true of anything
else which he has written. In his other works is found an equable tenour
of easy language, which rather trickles than flows. His delight was in
simplicity. That he has in his works no metaphor, as has been said, is
not true; but his few metaphors seem to be received rather by necessity
than choice. He studied purity; and though perhaps all his strictures are
not exact, yet it is not often that solecisms can be found; and whoever
depends on his authority may generally conclude himself safe. His
sentences are never too much dilated or contracted; and it will not be
easy to find any embarrassment in the complication of his clauses, any
inconsequence in his connections, or abruptness in his transitions. His
style was well suited to his thoughts, which are never subtilised by nice
disquisitions, decorated by sparkling conceits, elevated by ambitious
sentences, or variegated by far-sought learning. He pays no court to the
passions; he excites neither surprise nor admiration: he always
understands himself, and his readers always understand him: the peruser
of Swift wants little previous knowledge; it will be sufficient that he
is acquainted with common words and common things; he is neither required
to mount elevations, nor to explore profundities; his passage is always
on a level, along solid ground, without asperities, without obstruction.
This easy and safe conveyance of meaning it was Swift’s desire to attain,
and for having attained he deserves praise. For purposes merely didactic,
when something is to be told that was not known before, it is the best
mode; but against that inattention by which known truths are suffered to
lie neglected, it makes no provision; it instructs, but does not
persuade.

By his political education he was associated with the Whigs; but he
deserted them when they deserted their principles, yet without running
into the contrary extreme; he continued throughout his life to retain the
disposition which he assigns to the “Church-of-England Man,” of thinking
commonly with the Whigs of the State, and with the Tories of the Church.
He was a Churchman, rationally zealous; he desired the prosperity, and
maintained the honour of the clergy; of the Dissenters he did not wish to
infringe the Toleration, but he opposed their encroachments. To his duty
as Dean he was very attentive. He managed the revenues of his church with
exact economy; and it is said by Delany, that more money was, under his
direction, laid out in repairs, than had ever been in the same time since
its first erection. Of his choir he was eminently careful; and though he
neither loved nor understood music, took care that all the singers were
well qualified, admitting none without the testimony of skilful judges.

In his church he restored the practice of weekly communion, and
distributed the sacramental elements in the most solemn and devout manner
with his own hand. He came to church every morning, preached commonly in
his turn, and attended the evening anthem, that it might not be
negligently performed. He read the service, “rather with a strong,
nervous voice, than in a graceful manner; his voice was sharp and
high-toned, rather than harmonious.”  He entered upon the clerical state
with hope to excel in preaching; but complained that, from the time of
his political controversies, “he could only preach pamphlets.”  This
censure of himself, if judgment be made from those sermons which have
been printed, was unreasonably severe.

The suspicions of his irreligion proceeded in a great measure from his
dread of hypocrisy; instead of wishing to seem better, he delighted in
seeming worse than he was. He went in London to early prayers, lest he
should be seen at church; he read prayers to his servants every morning
with such dexterous secrecy, that Dr. Delany was six months in his house
before he knew it. He was not only careful to hide the good which he did,
but willingly incurred the suspicion of evil which he did not. He forgot
what himself had formerly asserted, that hypocrisy is less mischievous
than open impiety. Dr. Delany, with all his zeal for his honour, has
justly condemned this part of his character.

The person of Swift had not many recommendations. He had a kind of muddy
complexion, which, though he washed himself with Oriental scrupulosity,
did not look clear. He had a countenance sour and severe, which he seldom
softened by any appearance of gaiety. He stubbornly resisted any tendency
to laughter. To his domestics he was naturally rough: and a man of a
rigorous temper, with that vigilance of minute attention which his works
discover, must have been a master that few could bear. That he was
disposed to do his servants good, on important occasions, is no great
mitigation; benefaction can be but rare, and tyrannic peevishness is
perpetual. He did not spare the servants of others. Once, when he dined
alone with the Earl of Orrery, he said of one that waited in the room,
“That man has, since we sat to the table, committed fifteen faults.”
What the faults were, Lord Orrery, from whom I heard the story, had not
been attentive enough to discover. My number may perhaps not be exact.

In his economy he practised a peculiar and offensive parsimony, without
disguise or apology. The practice of saving being once necessary, became
habitual, and grew first ridiculous, and at last detestable. But his
avarice, though it might exclude pleasure, was never suffered to encroach
upon his virtue. He was frugal by inclination, but liberal by principle:
and if the purpose to which he destined his little accumulations be
remembered, with his distribution of occasional charity, it will perhaps
appear that he only liked one mode of expense better than another, and
saved merely that he might have something to give. He did not grow rich
by injuring his successors, but left both Laracor and the Deanery more
valuable than he found them. With all this talk of his covetousness and
generosity, it should be remembered that he was never rich. The revenue
of his Deanery was not much more than seven hundred a year. His
beneficence was not graced with tenderness or civility; he relieved
without pity, and assisted without kindness; so that those who were fed
by him could hardly love him. He made a rule to himself to give but one
piece at a time, and therefore always stored his pocket with coins of
different value. Whatever he did he seemed willing to do in a manner
peculiar to himself, without sufficiently considering that singularity,
as it implies a contempt of the general practice, is a kind of defiance
which justly provokes the hostility of ridicule; he, therefore, who
indulges peculiar habits, is worse than others, if he be not better.

Of his humour, a story told by Pope may afford a specimen.

    “Dr. Swift has an odd, blunt way, that is mistaken by strangers for
    ill nature.—’Tis so odd, that there’s no describing it but by facts.
    I’ll tell you one that first comes into my head. One evening Gay and
    I went to see him: you know how intimately we were all acquainted. On
    our coming in, ‘Heyday, gentlemen’ (says the doctor), ‘what’s the
    meaning of this visit?  How came you to leave the great Lords that
    you are so fond of, to come hither to see a poor Dean?’—‘Because we
    would rather see you than any of them.’—‘Ay, anyone that did not know
    so well as I do might believe you. But since you are come, I must get
    some supper for you, I suppose.’—‘No, Doctor, we have supped
    already.’—‘Supped already? that’s impossible! why, ’tis not eight
    o’clock yet: that’s very strange; but if you had not supped, I must
    have got something for you. Let me see, what should I have had?  A
    couple of lobsters; ay, that would have done very well; two
    shillings—tarts, a shilling; but you will drink a glass of wine with
    me, though you supped so much before your usual time only to spare my
    pocket?’—‘No, we had rather talk with you than drink with you.’—‘But
    if you had supped with me, as in all reason you ought to have done,
    you must then have drunk with me. A bottle of wine, two shillings—two
    and two is four, and one is five; just two-and-sixpence a-piece.
    There, Pope, there’s half a crown for you, and there’s another for
    you, sir; for I won’t save anything by you. I am determined.’—This
    was all said and done with his usual seriousness on such occasions;
    and, in spite of everything we could say to the contrary, he actually
    obliged us to take the money.”

In the intercourse of familiar life, he indulged his disposition to
petulance and sarcasm, and thought himself injured if the licentiousness
of his raillery, the freedom of his censures, or the petulance of his
frolics was resented or repressed. He predominated over his companions
with very high ascendancy, and probably would bear none over whom he
could not predominate. To give him advice was, in the style of his friend
Delany, “to venture to speak to him.”  This customary superiority soon
grew too delicate for truth; and Swift, with all his penetration, allowed
himself to be delighted with low flattery. On all common occasions, he
habitually affects a style of arrogance, and dictates rather than
persuades. This authoritative and magisterial language he expected to be
received as his peculiar mode of jocularity: but he apparently flattered
his own arrogance by an assumed imperiousness, in which he was ironical
only to the resentful, and to the submissive sufficiently serious. He
told stories with great felicity, and delighted in doing what he knew
himself to do well; he was therefore captivated by the respectful silence
of a steady listener, and told the same tales too often. He did not,
however, claim the right of talking alone; for it was his rule, when he
had spoken a minute, to give room by a pause for any other speaker. Of
time, on all occasions, he was an exact computer, and knew the minutes
required to every common operation.

It may be justly supposed that there was in his conversation, what
appears so frequently in his Letters, an affectation of familiarity with
the great, an ambition of momentary equality sought and enjoyed by the
neglect of those ceremonies which custom has established as the barriers
between one order of society and another. This transgression of
regularity was by himself and his admirers termed greatness of soul. But
a great mind disdains to hold anything by courtesy, and therefore never
usurps what a lawful claimant may take away. He that encroaches on
another’s dignity puts himself in his power; he is either repelled with
helpless indignity, or endured by clemency and condescension.

Of Swift’s general habits of thinking, if his Letters can be supposed to
afford any evidence, he was not a man to be either loved or envied. He
seems to have wasted life in discontent, by the rage of neglected pride,
and the languishment of unsatisfied desire. He is querulous and
fastidious, arrogant and malignant; he scarcely speaks of himself but
with indignant lamentations, or of others but with insolent superiority
when he is gay, and with angry contempt when he is gloomy. From the
letters that passed between him and Pope it might be inferred that they,
with Arbuthnot and Gay, had engrossed all the understanding and virtue of
mankind; that their merits filled the world; or that there was no hope of
more. They show the age involved in darkness, and shade the picture with
sullen emulation.

When the Queen’s death drove him into Ireland, he might be allowed to
regret for a time the interception of his views, the extinction of his
hopes, and his ejection from gay scenes, important employment, and
splendid friendships; but when time had enabled reason to prevail over
vexation, the complaints, which at first were natural, became ridiculous
because they were useless. But querulousness was now grown habitual, and
he cried out when he probably had ceased to feel. His reiterated wailings
persuaded Bolingbroke that he was really willing to quit his deanery for
an English parish; and Bolingbroke procured an exchange, which was
rejected; and Swift still retained the pleasure of complaining.

The greatest difficulty that occurs, in analysing his character, is to
discover by what depravity of intellect he took delight in revolving
ideas, from which almost every other mind shrinks with disgust. The ideas
of pleasure, even when criminal, may solicit the imagination; but what
has disease, deformity, and filth, upon which the thoughts can be allured
to dwell?  Delany is willing to think that Swift’s mind was not much
tainted with this gross corruption before his long visit to Pope. He does
not consider how he degrades his hero, by making him at fifty-nine the
pupil of turpitude, and liable to the malignant influence of an ascendant
mind. But the truth is, that Gulliver had described his Yahoos before the
visit; and he that had formed those images had nothing filthy to learn.

I have here given the character of Swift as he exhibits himself to my
perception; but now let another be heard who knew him better. Dr. Delany,
after long acquaintance, describes him to Lord Orrery in these terms:—

    “My Lord, when you consider Swift’s singular, peculiar, and most
    variegated vein of wit, always rightly intended, although not always
    so rightly directed; delightful in many instances, and salutary even
    where it is most offensive; when you consider his strict truth, his
    fortitude in resisting oppression and arbitrary power; his fidelity
    in friendship; his sincere love and zeal for religion; his
    uprightness in making right resolutions, and his steadiness in
    adhering to them; his care of his church, its choir, its economy, and
    its income; his attention to all those who preached in his cathedral,
    in order to their amendment in pronunciation and style; as also his
    remarkable attention to the interest of his successors preferably to
    his own present emoluments; his invincible patriotism, even to a
    country which he did not love; his very various, well-devised,
    well-judged, and extensive charities, throughout his life; and his
    whole fortune (to say nothing of his wife’s) conveyed to the same
    Christian purposes at his death; charities, from which he could enjoy
    no honour, advantage, or satisfaction of any kind in this world: when
    you consider his ironical and humorous, as well as his serious
    schemes, for the promotion of true religion and virtue; his success
    in soliciting for the First Fruits and Twentieths, to the unspeakable
    benefit of the Established Church of Ireland; and his felicity (to
    rate it no higher) in giving occasion to the building of fifty new
    churches in London:

    “All this considered, the character of his life will appear like that
    of his writings; they will both bear to be reconsidered, and
    re-examined with the utmost attention, and always discover new
    beauties and excellences upon every examination.

    “They will bear to be considered as the sun, in which the brightness
    will hide the blemishes; and whenever petulant ignorance, pride,
    malignity, or envy interposes to cloud or sully his fame, I take upon
    me to pronounce, that the eclipse will not last long.

    “To conclude—No man ever deserved better of his country, than Swift
    did of his; a steady, persevering, inflexible friend; a wise, a
    watchful, and a faithful counsellor, under many severe trials and
    bitter persecutions, to the manifest hazard both of his liberty and
    fortune.

    “He lived a blessing, he died a benefactor, and his name will ever
    live an honour to Ireland.”

In the poetical works of Dr. Swift there is not much upon which the
critic can exercise his powers. They are often humorous, almost always
light, and have the qualities which recommend such compositions, easiness
and gaiety. They are, for the most part, what their author intended. The
diction is correct, the numbers are smooth, and the rhymes exact. There
seldom occurs a hard-laboured expression, or a redundant epithet; all his
verses exemplify his own definition of a good style; they consist of
“proper words in proper places.”

To divide this collection into classes, and show how some pieces are
gross, and some are trifling, would be to tell the reader what he knows
already, and to find faults of which the author could not be ignorant,
who certainly wrote not often to his judgment, but his humour.

It was said, in a Preface to one of the Irish editions, that Swift had
never been known to take a single thought from any writer, ancient or
modern. This is not literally true; but perhaps no writer can easily be
found that has borrowed so little, or that, in all his excellences and
all his defects, has so well maintained his claim to be considered as
original.

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  Printed by Cassell & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C.





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