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 conversion could not compensate; for what trader would purchase such airy satisfaction, with 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? Distress at last stole upon him by imperceptible degrees; his conduct had already wearied some of those who were at first enamoured of his conversation; but he still might have devolved to others, whom he might have entertained with equal success, had not the decay of his cloaths made it no longer consistent with decency 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 compleat his misery, he was obliged to withdraw from the small number of friends from whom he had still reason to hope for favours. His custom was to lie in bed the greatest part of the day, and to go out in the dark with the utmost privacy, and after having paid his visit, return again before morning to his lodging, which was in the garret of an obscure inn.
Being thus excluded on one hand, and confined on the other, he suffered the utmost extremities of poverty, and often waited 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.
He continued to bear these severe pressures, 'till the landlady of a coffee-house, to whom he owed about eight pounds, compleated his wretchedness. He was arrested by order of this woman, and conducted to the house of a Sheriff's Officer, where he remained some time at a great expence, in hopes of finding bail. This expence he was enabled to support by a present from Mr. Nash of Bath, who, upon hearing of his late mis-fortune, sent him five guineas. No friends would contribute to release him from prison at the expence of eight pounds, and therefore he was removed to Newgate. He bore this misfortune with an unshaken fortitude, and indeed the treatment he met with from Mr. Dagg, the keeper of the prison, greatly softened the rigours of his confinement. He was supported by him at his own table, without any certainty of recompence; 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 the prison, than he had been accustomed to undergo the greatest part of his life. Virtue is undoubtedly most laudable in that state which makes it most difficult; and therefore the humanity of the gaoler certainly deserves this public attestation.
While Mr. Savage was in prison, he began, and almost finished a satire, which he entitled London and Bristol Delineated; in order to be revenged of those who had had no more generosity for a man, to whom they professed friendship, than to suffer him to languish in a gaol for eight pounds. He had now ceased from corresponding with any of his subscribers, except Mr. Pope, who yet continued to remit him twenty pounds a year, which he had promised, and by whom he expected to be in a very short time enlarged; because he had directed the keeper to enquire after the state of his debts.
However he took care to enter his name according to the forms of the court, that the creditors 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 expence. This he treated as an empty menace, and had he not been prevented by death, he would have hastened the publication of the satire, only to shew how much he was superior to their insults.
When he had been six months in prison, he received from Mr. Pope, 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. 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 the keeper saw him was on July 31, when Savage, seeing him at his bed-side, said, with uncommon earnestness, I have something to say to you, sir, but, after a pause, moved his hand in a melancholy manner, and finding himself unable to recollect what he was going to communicate, said, 'tis gone. The keeper soon after left him, and the next morning he died. He was buried in the church-yard of St. Peter, at the expence of the keeper.
Such were the life and death of this unfortunate poet; 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 a 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 judgment was eminently exact, both with regard to writings and to men. The knowledge of life was his chief attainment. He was born rather to bear misfortunes greatly, than to enjoy prosperity with moderation. He discovered an amazing firmness of spirit, in spurning those who presumed to dictate to him in the lowest circumstances of misery; but we never can reconcile the idea of true greatness of mind, with the perpetual inclination Savage discovered to live upon the bounty of his friends. To struggle for independence appears much more laudable, as well as a higher instance of spirit, than to be the pensioner of another.
As Savage had seen so much of the world, and was capable of so deep a penetration into nature, it was strange he could not form some scheme of a livelihood, more honourable than that of a poetical mendicant: his prosecuting any plan of life with diligence, would have thrown more lustre on his character, than, all his works, and have raised our ideas of the greatness of his spirit, much, beyond the conduct we have already seen. If poverty is so great an evil as to expose a man to commit actions, at which he afterwards blushes, to avoid this poverty should be the continual care of every man; and he, who lets slip every opportunity of doing so, is more entitled to admiration than pity, should he bear his sufferings nobly.
Mr. Savage's temper, in consequence of the dominion of his passions, was 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 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. He would even betray those secrets, which, in the warmth of confidence, had been imparted to him. His veracity was often questioned, and not without reason. 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, but his partiality might have sometimes the effect of falshood.