Part 11 (1/2)

Being thus once more turned adrift upon the world, Savage, whose pa.s.sions were very strong, and whose grat.i.tude was very small, exposed the faults of Lord Tyrconnel. He also took revenge upon his mother, by publis.h.i.+ng the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, a poem, remarkable for the vivacity of its beginning (where he humorously enumerates the imaginary advantages of base birth;) and for the pathetic conclusion, wherein he recounts the real calamities which he suffered by the crime of his parents. The following lines, in the opening of the poem, are a specimen of this writer's spirit and versification:

”Blest be the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's birth! thro' wondrous ways He s.h.i.+nes eccentric, like a comet's blaze.

No sickly fruit of faint compliance he; He! stamp'd in nature's mint with ecstasy!

He lives to build, not boast, a generous race; No tenth transmitter of a foolish face.

He, kindling from within, requires no flame; He glories in a b.a.s.t.a.r.d's glowing name.

Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone, His heart unbias'd, and his mind his own.

O mother! yet no mother!--'tis to you My thanks for some distinguish'd claims are due.”

This poem had an extraordinary sale; and its appearance happening at the time when his mother was at Bath, many persons there repeated pa.s.sages from it in her hearing. This was perhaps the first time that ever she 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 haste, to shelter herself among the crowds of London. Some time after this, Savage formed the resolution of applying to the Queen; who, having once given him life, he hoped she might extend her goodness to him, by enabling him to support it. With this view, he published a poem on her birth-day, which he ent.i.tled The Volunteer Laureat; for which she was pleased to send him 50, accompanied with an intimation that he might annually expect the same bounty. But this annual allowance was nothing to a man of his strange and singular extravagance.

His usual custom was, as soon as he had received his pension, to disappear with it, and secrete himself from his most intimate friends, till every s.h.i.+lling of it was spent; which done, he again appeared penniless as before: but he would never inform any person where he had been, nor in what manner his money had been dissipated. From the reports, however, of some who penetrated his haunts, he expended both his time and his cash in the most sordid and despicable sensuality; particularly in eating and drinking, in which he would indulge in the most unsocial manner, sitting whole days and nights by himself, in obscure houses of entertainment, over his bottle and trencher, immersed in filth and sloth, with scarcely decent apparel; generally wrapped up in a horseman's great coat; and, on the whole, with his very homely countenance, exhibiting an object the most disgusting to the sight, if not to some other of the senses.

His wit and parts, however, still raised him new friends, as fast as his misbehaviour lost him his old ones. Yet such was his conduct, that occasional relief only furnished the means of occasional excess; and he defeated all attempts made by his friends to fix him in a decent way. He was even reduced so low as to be dest.i.tute of a lodging; insomuch that he often pa.s.sed his nights in those mean houses that are set open for casual wanderers; sometimes in cellars, amidst the riot and filth of the most profligate of the rabble; and not seldom would he walk the streets till he was weary, and then lie down, in summer, on a bulk,--or, in winter, with his a.s.sociates, among the ashes of a gla.s.shouse. Yet, amidst all his penury and wretchedness, this man had so much pride, and so high an opinion of his own merit, that he was always ready to repress, with scorn and contempt, the least appearance of any slight towards himself, in the behaviour of his acquaintance; among whom he looked upon none as his superior. He would be treated as an equal, even by persons of the highest rank. He once refused to wait upon a gentleman, who was desirous of relieving him, when at the lowest distress, only because the message signified the gentleman's desire to see him at nine in the morning. His life was rendered still more unhappy, by the death of the Queen, in 1738.

His pension was discontinued; and the insolent manner in which he demanded of Sir Robert Walpole to have it restored, for ever cut off his supply, which probably might have been recovered by proper application.

His distress now became so notorious, that a scheme was at length concerted for procuring him a permanent relief. It was proposed that he should retire into Wales, with an allowance of 50 a year, on which he was to live privately, in a cheap place, for ever quitting his town haunts, and resigning all farther pretensions to fame. This offer he seemed gladly to accept; but his intentions were only to deceive his friends, by retiring for awhile to write another tragedy, and then to return with it to London. In 1739, he set out for Swansey, in the Bristol stage-coach, and was furnished with 15 guineas, to bear the expense of his journey.

But, on the 14th day of his departure, his friends and benefactors, the princ.i.p.al of whom was Mr. Pope, who expected to hear of his arrival in Wales, were surprised with a letter from Savage, informing them that he was yet upon the road, and could not proceed for want of money. There was no other remedy than a remittance, which was sent him, and by the help of which he was enabled to reach Bristol, whence he was to proceed to Swansey by water. At Bristol, however, he found an embargo laid upon the s.h.i.+pping; so that he could not immediately obtain a pa.s.sage. Here, therefore, being obliged to stay for some time, he so ingratiated himself with the princ.i.p.al inhabitants, that he was often invited to their houses, distinguished at their public entertainments, and treated with a regard that highly gratified his vanity. At length, with great reluctance, he proceeded to Swansey; where he lived about a year, very much dissatisfied with the diminution of his salary, for he had, in his letters, treated his contributors so insolently, that most of them withdrew their subscriptions. Here he finished his tragedy, and resolved to return with it to London; which was strenuously opposed by his constant friend Mr.

Pope; who proposed that Savage should put this play into the hands of Mr.

Thomson and Mr. Mallet, that they might fit it for the stage; that his friends should receive the profits it might bring in; and that the author should receive the produce by way of annuity. This kind and prudent scheme was rejected by Savage with contempt. He declared he would not submit his works to any one's correction; and that he would no longer be kept in leading-strings. Accordingly, he soon returned to Bristol, in his way to London; but at Bristol, meeting with a repet.i.tion of the same kind treatment he had before found there, he was tempted to make a second stay in that opulent city for some time. Here he was not only caressed and treated, but the sum of 30 was raised for him; with which it would have been happy if he had immediately departed for London. But he never considered that a frequent repet.i.tion of such kindness was not to be expected. In short, he remained here till his company was no longer welcome. His visits in every family were too often repeated, his wit had lost its novelty, and his irregular behaviour grew troublesome. Necessity came upon him before he was aware; his money was spent, his clothes were worn out, his appearance was shabby, and his presence was disgustful at every table. He now began to find every man from home at whose house he called, and he found it difficult to obtain a dinner.

Thus reduced, it would have been prudent in him to have withdrawn from the place; but prudence and Savage were never acquainted. He staid, in the midst of poverty, hunger, and contempt, till the mistress of a coffee-house, to whom he owed about 8l. arrested him for the debt. He remained for some time at the house of the sheriff's officer, in hopes of procuring bail; which expense he was enabled to defray by a present of five guineas from Mr. Nash at Bath. No bail, however, was to be found; so that poor Savage was at last lodged in Newgate, a prison in Bristol. But it was the fortune of this extraordinary mortal always to find more friends than he deserved. The keeper of the prison took compa.s.sion on him, and greatly softened the rigours of his confinement by every kind of indulgence; he supported him at his own table, gave him a commodious room to himself, allowed him to stand at the door of the gaol, and often took him into the fields for the benefit of the air and exercise; so that, in reality, Savage endured fewer hards.h.i.+ps here than he had usually suffered during the greatest part of his life.

While he remained in this agreeable prison, his ingrat.i.tude again broke out, in a bitter satire on the city of Bristol; to which he certainly owed great obligations, notwithstanding his arrest, which was but the lawful act of an individual. This satire is ent.i.tled, London and Bristol delineated; and in it he abused the inhabitants of the latter with such a spirit of resentment, that the reader would imagine he had never received any other than the worst of treatment in that city. When Savage had remained about six months in this hospitable prison, he received a letter from Mr. Pope, (who still allowed him 20 a year,) containing a charge of very atrocious ingrat.i.tude; and though the particulars have not transpired, yet, from the notorious character of the man, there is reason to fear that Savage was but too justly accused: He, however, solemnly protested his innocence; but he was very unusually affected on this occasion:--in a few days after, he was seized with a disorder, which, at first, was not suspected to be dangerous; but growing daily more languid and dejected, at last a fever seized him, and he died on the 1st of August, 1743, in the 46th year of his age.

Thus lived, and thus died, Richard Savage, Esq. leaving behind him a character strangely chequered with vices and good qualities. Of the former we have mentioned a variety of instances; of the latter, his peculiar situation in the world gave him but few opportunities of making any considerable display. He was, however, undoubtedly a man of excellent parts; and had he received the full benefits of a liberal education, and had his natural talents been cultivated to the best advantage, he might have made a respectable figure in life. He was happy in a quick discernment, a retentive memory, and a lively flow of wit, which made his company much coveted; nor was his judgment of men and writings inferior to his wit: but he was too much a slave to his pa.s.sions, and his pa.s.sions were too easily excited. He was warm in his friends.h.i.+ps, but implacable in his enmity; and his greatest fault was ingrat.i.tude. He seemed to think every thing due to his merit, and that he was little obliged to any one for those favours which he thought it their duty to confer upon him. He therefore never rightly estimated the kindness of his many friends and benefactors, or preserved a grateful sense of their generosity towards him. The works of this original writer, after having long lain dispersed in magazines and fugitive publications, were collected and published in an elegant edition, in 2 vols. 8vo. to which are prefixed the admirable Memoirs of Savage, written by Dr. Samuel Johnson.

CHAP. XI.

CURIOSITIES RESPECTING MAN.--(_Concluded._)

WILLIAM HUNTINGDON, a very eccentric personage, who was originally a coal-heaver, and afterwards became a popular preacher of the Calvinistic persuasion. The following account, formed princ.i.p.ally from the preacher's own words, was first presented to the public in the first volume of ”The Pulpit,” 1809. Excepting the circ.u.mstance of enlarging his name from Hunt to Huntingdon, which is stated as one of the inevitable consequences of ”the follies of his youth,” Mr. Huntingdon has already written, with tolerable truth, the greater portion of the history of himself.

He was born, he says, in the Weald of Kent; and ”suffered much from his parents' poverty, when young.” He long felt other disadvantages attending his birth. Being born in ”none of the most polite parts of the world,” he ”retained a good deal of his provincial dialect;” so that many of his ”expressions sounded very harsh and uncouth.” Of this he complains, with some cause, as it afterwards occasioned numbers of ”unsanctified critics to laugh and cavil at” him. He was first an errand boy, then a daily labourer, then a cobbler; and, though he ”worked by day,” and ”cobbled by night,” he, at one time, ”lived upon barley.” His first ministerial preparation is thus told:

”I had now (says Mr. H.) five times a week to preach constantly: on which account I was forced to lay the Bible in a chair by me, and now and then read a little, in order to furnish myself with matter for the pulpit. It sometimes happened that I was under sore temptations and desertions: the Bible, too, appeared a sealed book, insomuch that I could not furnish myself with a text; nor durst I leave my work in order to study or read the Bible; if I did, my little ones would soon want bread; my business would also run very cross at those times.” His earnings did not then amount to more than eight s.h.i.+llings per week. Even when his state grew better, when he got his first ”parsonic livery” on his back, he could not study at his ease. ”My little cot (he says) was placed in a very vulgar neighbourhood, and the windows were so very low, that I could not study at any of them, without being exposed to the view of my enemies; who often threw stones through the gla.s.s, or saluted me with a volley of oaths or imprecations.” This must have been painful enough to one whose ”memory was naturally bad.” Providence had long furnished him with very superior accommodations. After many years of itinerant and irregular preaching, William Huntingdon, weary of living at Thames Ditton, secretly longed to leave it, fully persuaded that he ”should end his ministry in London.”

”Having unsuccessfully laboured in the vineyard of the country,” and as he ”did not see that G.o.d had any thing more for him to do there,” he, like one Durant of late, ”saw the Lord himself open the door” for his removal.

He had resolved to be off; and he contrived to get off. He was now, as he himself says, ”to perch upon the thick boughs.” Ditton was to be left for London. Yet had poor Ditton not been so unkind to him. ”Some few years before I was married,” says Mr. H. ”all my personal effects used to be carried in my hand, or on my shoulders, in one or two large handkerchiefs; but after marriage, for some few years, I used to carry all the goods that we had gotten, on my shoulders, in a large sack: but when we removed from Thames Ditton to London, we loaded two large carts with furniture and other necessaries; besides a post-chaise, well filled with children and cats.”

Being viewed as ludicrous while in the country, he was fearful of being considered as ridiculous elsewhere. I here transcribe his words: ”At this (says Mr. H.--having been advertised in Margaret-street Chapel,) I was sorely offended, being very much averse to preaching in London, for several reasons. First, because I had been told it abounded so much with all sorts of errors, that I was afraid of falling into them, there were so many that lay in wait to deceive. Secondly, because I had no learning, and therefore feared I should not be able to deliver myself with any degree of propriety; and as I knew nothing of Greek or Hebrew, nor even of the English Grammar, that I should be exposed to the scourging tongue of every critic in London.”

”During many weeks, (he adds,) I laboured under much distress of mind respecting my want of abilities to preach in this great metropolis.” I think this one of the few rational pa.s.sages to be found in the ”Bank of Faith.” Mr. Huntingdon here candidly confesses his own conviction of his then ministerial incompetency, and expresses his apprehension as to the probable nullity of his divine mission. His call seems to fail him now. He feels just as most men would feel in the same state,--fears just as they would fear,--and takes the same chance as to the great end he had in view.

”During the s.p.a.ce of three years, (says Mr. Huntingdon,) I secretly wished in my soul, that G.o.d would favour me with a chapel of my own, being sick of the errors that were perpetually broached by some one or other in Margaret-street Chapel, where I then preached. But though I so much desired this, yet I could not ask G.o.d for such a favour, thinking it was not to be brought about by one so very mean, low, and poor as myself.

However, G.o.d sent a person, unknown to me, to look at a certain spot, who afterwards took me to look at it; but I trembled at the very thought of such an immense undertaking. Then G.o.d stirred up a wise man to offer to build a chapel, and to manage the whole work without fee or reward. G.o.d drew the pattern on his imagination, while he was hearing me preach a sermon. I then took the ground; this person executed the plan; and the chapel sprung up like a mushroom. As soon as it was finished, this precious scripture came sweet to my soul, 'He will fulfil the desire of them that fear him:' Psa. cxlv. 19.