Being thus abandoned on all Sides to the Frowns of Fortune and a capricious World, without any other Friend but his own Genius to support him, he threw himself upon the barren and unthriving Province of Poetry, a Science how ornamental a Flower soever it may be among the Qualifications of Men of Ease and Fortune, when display'd only for the Amusement of a leisure Hour, yet too frequently held in Contempt, when made the whole Business of a Man's Life, and set to Sale for Bread; and more especially from the Taste of the present Age, in which the Figure and Condition of the Author takes up a greater Share of the Reader's Enquiry, than his Parts or the Matter he writes upon. Had the unfortunate Gentleman I am speaking of, been invested with either of his Father's Titles or Estates, I question not but we should have almost lost the Nobleman in the Honours paid to the Poet: But few modern Authors I fear, who launch into the World, unaided by such Advantages, will, like Virgil, when living, have the same Respect paid to them that was due to an Emperor, or like Homer, have Temples rais'd to their Memories when dead.
The first Poem Mr. Savage published, was whilst he was very young, concerning the Bangorian Controversy; although there were some pretty Lines in it, yet as his Judgment ripened, he grew himself ashamed of this Piece, and contributed all he could to suppress the Edition, so that, it having but an indifferent Sale, very few of them are in any body's Hands at present. His next Performance was a Comedy, wrote at the Age of Eighteen, which he offered to the Managers of Lincoln's-Inn-Fields House, but, they not entirely approving it, he could not get it acted immediately, but not long after, it was altered by Mr. Christopher Bullock, one of the Managers, and brought upon the Stage as his own, under the Title of WOMAN'S A RIDDLE, without any Manner of Benefit or Advantage to the distressed Author: This Play was represented with some Applause in the Year 1716, the Plot is taken from a Spanish Play called, La Dama Duende, and was Dedicated to the then Marquis of Wharton.
Two Years after this he got a Comedy upon the Stage in Drury-Lane, called, LOVE IN A VEIL, built likewise on a Spanish Plot, which he Dedicated to the Right Honourable George Lord Lansdown. This Play was indeed acted for his own Benefit, but it being very late in the Year, either May or June, the Profits of it hardly answer'd the Trouble he was at in writing and getting it acted: It brought him acquainted however with some Persons who were good Friends to him afterwards, particularly a certain Knight, whose Name is not a little known by his Writings, and Mr. Wilks, one of the Patentees of that House; The first was so, for a short Time, but the latter, who is very remarkable, notwithstanding his Profession, for his Humanity and Generosity, has continu'd his Friendship to him to the last, and done him many very kind and charitable Offices: The other Gentleman gave him a constant Allowance, and was for a while so fond of him that, it is said, he proposed his natural Daughter to him, for a Wife, with a Thousand Pounds Portion, and his Interest, which was thought to be very good at that Time, to put him into some small Place in the Government; thinking, as their Births were alike, he could not reproach her, or use her ill, as some others might have Cruelty enough to do, upon that Account. But this was too much good Fortune to fall to the Lot of one who seems to have been born to taste but little of the Comforts of this Life; for some malicious Person, (and he must be so to a great Degree, who could think of injuring the most inoffensive Man living) had framed such a Story to the Knight of scandalous Things said by Mr. Savage against him and his Lady, that he withheld his Bounty from him, and was not easily prevail'd upon to see him afterwards.
Now was he again entirely to seek for every support of Life, when by theAssistance of the Gentleman, just mention'd for his Humanity, he obtain'd the Sum of fifty Pounds as a Present, from a Lady, whose Duty it seem'd to have been to take some Care of him; this Sum he was told should be made up two Hundred, but it being in the Height of the South-Sea Infatuation, by which this Lady was one of the imaginary Gainers, when that Grand Bubble broke, the other Hundred and Fifty Pounds evaporated with it; and the poor Gentleman who is the Subject of our Discourse would have been reduced to as great Extremities as ever, if his Merit had not recommended him to that Ornament of English Poesy, Aaron Hill, Esq; Miserable as he was in every other Part of his Life, his Intimacy and Friendship with this Gentleman was a Happiness he has been much envy'd for, by several, whose Accomplishments could not entitle them to so great a Share of his Esteem as himself.
In the Year 1724 Mr. Savage wrote his Tragedy of Sir Thomas Overbury, which was acted at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane, and dedicated to Herbert Tryst, of the City of Hereford, Esq; In this Play he perform'd the principal Part himself, with much Applause: In an Advertisement to the Reader, printed before it, he acknowledges the Obligations he had to his best and dearest Friend, as he there calls him, Mr. Aaron Hill, for his many judicious Corrections in it. The Prologue and Epilogue were both wrote by that Gentleman; in the former are these Lines concerning the Author.
In a full World, our Author lives, alone!
Unhappy—and, of Consequence unknown;
Yet, amidst Sorrow, he disdains Complaint;
Nor, languid, in the Race of Life, grows faint.
He swims, unyielding, against Fortune's Stream,
Nor, to his private Sufferings, stoops his Theme:
Adopts the Pains, which others undergo;
And for your Pleasure, feels not his own Woe.
The next Year he was perswaded by his Friends to publish his Poems by Subscription, but not being enough in Number to make a compleat Volume, he was favoured with those of several other Gentlemen, among which, Mr. Hill has the largest Share. And the Author of a Paper which came out at that Time, call'd the Plain Dealer, recommended his Undertaking in a very handsome Manner, to the Publick: In which, speaking of him, he says, Perhaps few Things could be more surprizing than an History of his Birth and Usage! Of two Fathers, whom he might have claim'd, and both of them Noble, he lost the Title of the one, and a Provision from the other's Pity, by the Means alone of his Mother! Who, as if she had resolv'd not to leave him a single Comfort, afterwards robb'd him of herself too! And in direct Opposition to the Impulse of her natural Compassion, upon mistaken Notions of a false Delicacy, shut her Memory against his Wants, and cast him out to the severest Miseries; without allowing herself to contribute even such small Aid, as might at least have preserved him from Anguish, and pointed out some Path to his future Industry.
His good Qualities, which are very numerous, ought the more to be esteem'd and cherish'd, because he owes them to himself only: Without the Advantage of Friends, Fortune or Education, he wants neither Knowledge nor Politeness, to deserve a Mother's Blessing, and adorn, rather than disgrace her.——I am strongly perswaded, from the Character, which upon all Occasions, he has taken Pleasure to give of the Lady's Humanity, with regard to the rest of the World, that nothing but her having, much too long, already been a Stranger to such a Son, could make her satisfy'd to continue so.——It is impossible, at least, that she should not distinguish him, by some kind Notice, some little Mark of her returning Tenderness, if, without Regard to his Merit, she knew but his Manner of thinking of her: Which is, itself, a shining Merit! and a surprising Instance of Generosity! if consider'd against those Reasons, which might excuse a different Treatment of her.
He writ the following Copy of Verses, and several others, on the same Subject, at a Time, when, I know not, which was most to be wonder'd at; That he should be serene enough for Poetry, under the Extremity of Ill Fortune!——Or, that his Subject should be the Praise of her, to whom he ow'd a Life of Misery!
Hopeless, abandon'd, aimless, and oppress'd,
Lost to Delight, and, every way, distress'd:
Cross his cold Bed, in wild Disorder, thrown,
Thus, sigh'd Alexis, Friendless, and alone—
Why do I breathe?—What Joy can Being give,
When she, who gave me Life, forgets I live!
Feels not those Wintry Blasts;—nor heeds my Smart.
But shuts me from the Shelter of her Heart!
Saw me expos'd, to Want! to Shame! to Scorn!
To Ills!—which make it Misery, to be born!
Cast me, regardless on the World's bleak Wild:
And bad me, be a Wretch, while yet, a Child!
Where can he hope for Pity, Peace, or Rest,
Who moves no Softness in a Mother's Breast?
Custom, Law, Reason, All! my Cause forsake,
And Nature sleeps, to keep my Woes awake!
Crimes, which the Cruel scarce believe, can be,
The Kind are guilty of, to ruin me!
Even She, who bore me, blasts me, with her Hate,
And, meant my Fortune, makes herself my Fate!
Yet has this sweet Neglecter of my Woes,
The softest, tend'rest, Breast, that Pity knows!
Her Eyes shed Mercy, wheresoe'er they shine;
And her Soul melts, at every Woe—but mine.
Sure, then! some secret Fate, for Guilt, unwill'd,
Some Sentence, pre-ordain'd to be fulfill'd!
Plung'd me, thus deep, in Sorrow's searching Flood:
And wash'd me from the Mem'ry of her Blood.
But, Oh! whatever Cause has mov'd her Hate,
Let me but sigh, in silence, at my Fate.
The God, within, perhaps, may touch her Breast:
And, when she pities, who can be distress'd?