RICHARD SAVAGE.

A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

EDITED, WITH OCCASIONAL NOTES,
BY CHARLES WHITEHEAD,

AUTHOR OF THE SOLITARY.'

ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN LEECH.

CHAPTER XXIX.

In which Richard Savage the philosopher is transformed in a moment into a very common man. With some worthier specimens of human nature than were to be found (save one) in the foregoing chapter.

THERE was an interval of four days between the trial and the passing of the sentence. That sentence was pronounced upon us by Page when we were brought before him, after I had addressed the court in a short speech, in which, if I pleaded for an extension of mercy, (there were other judges on the bench: to Page I had disdained to appeal,) I did it in no unmanly or unbecoming way, and, I take Heaven to witness, more on my friend Gregory's account than

on my own.

It was of no avail. We were returned to our cells, with an intimation that we must prepare ourselves for an ignominious death, which we were to undergo within a fortnight.

I must mention here that Merchant was burnt in the hand, and discharged.

It is perhaps a happiness of my nature, and not one of my virtues, that I can bear afflictions (and I have had many to bear) not only with fortitude, but with serenity. I endeavoured to shake the old world from off me, and to mould my mind to a frame of becoming resignation to my fate. I confess my chief desire, in the first instance, was to show the world that I could meet death face to face with a gallant spirit. I acknowledge with shame that the next world was not very much in my thoughts, till it was recalled to me by the kindest letter ever written by one friend to another, which I received from Dr. Young, who had then recently entered into orders, and from whom I had experienced many acts of kindness, the last of which had been the introduction of me to the Lady Mary Wortley Montague, a lady whose goodness I shall never cease to reverence, whose generous nature shall have admiration to the last, and this in spite of a man whom I love and venerate as much as I can well do any man breathing, but whom, I take leave to say so, I love the less, and do not entirely venerate, because of his extraordinary, extravagant, and pitiable attacks upon that lady.

This letter, and the Bible to which it bore frequent reference, wrought a change within me; and-beyond one pang of anguish constantly recurring when I thought of my Elizabeth, and which I had not been human (below, not above humanity) had I striven to assuage or to suppress-I felt that now indeed I could die like a man and a Christian.

In this happy disposition of mind, in this elevated condition of soul, I sat down and wrote a letter to my mother, in which I freely forgave her all she had meditated or practised against me. I implored her to send me her blessing, that I might be assured we parted friends. I could not, however, forbear reminding her (not maliciously, I protest) that even as her enmity, if she determined to prolong it, could not injure me after my death, so her friendship, or, if she pleased, forgiveness, could be of no service to me while I was yet living. It was for her sake, not for my own, that I desired a reconciliation. I told her, as I hoped for mercy, my forgiveness was entire and sincere,-and incredible as it may appear,-as incredible as it appears to me now,as incredible as I deemed it in Ludlow's case, I know (for, although I cannot restore the feeling, I can recall the remembrance of it,)—I know I spoke the truth.

There was no answer to my letter. No matter. She was probably ashamed to answer it. Her heart, perhaps, had dictated many answers which her pride forbade her to let go out of it.

In the meantime our friends were using their best exertions to procure a pardon for us. Of these, none were more zealous or active than Burridge. The severity and brutality of Page were well-known. Their exercise in our case had been made public, and was openly commented upon, and strongly condemned. The present King had only recently ascended the throne, and an appeal to Queen Caroline for her intercession in our behalf was resolved upon, and at length submitted to that august lady.

Our execution was stayed, while an inquiry into the particulars of our case was going on.

One morning Burridge obtained admittance to me, and, after gazing at me for some time in silence, burst into tears. I was shocked bevond expression at the agitation of the old man, and begged him, for Heaven's sake, to tell me what he had to say at once.

'Worse than the worst, content,' said I, with his favourite Shakspeare.

I said this, I believe, faulteringly, for my health had suffered during my confinement, and my spirits had in some degree deserted me since Gregory's illness, under which he had languished more than three weeks. The brave fellow felt his father's cruelty and Myte's unkindness more deeply than the perilous circumstances of his own condi

tion.

Worse than the worst, content,' repeated Burridge, laying his hands upon my shoulders; that is well said, my boy Dick; and worse than the worst have you now to bear. Prepare yourself to hear it.'

'I know it already. I am to die. The Queen's intercession has not been successful-has failed?'

A twitch in Burridge's face.

'I am bound to tell you, Richard Savage. Let me thank God that I am a Christian, and let me command you to remember that you are one. The Queen will not interfere to save you. She said she could not think of interceding for a man who had once attempted the life of his mother. She has been told the wretched lie that

Let those who ignorantly proclaim Savage an impostor reflect upon this fact. + George II.

you once broke into Mrs. Brett's house, and endeavoured to murder her and there is too much reason to believe, from the inquiries your friends and I have made, that your mother has caused this story to be conveyed to the Queen. Whether it be so, or not, the Queen is inexorable.'

I uttered a cry of horror, and dashed myself upon the ground.

'By heavens! that I could weep-that I could but weep!' I exclaimed. Oh, that I were crushed out of the world at once -extinguished. Does such a wretch as I breathe in this world? No, no, no, no: it is no place for us. It is hell-hell.'

Come,

'My good lad, my dear boy,' said Burridge soothingly, coming towards me, 'this is so unlike you. Be master of yourself. You knew that it was only a chance whether we succeeded or no. you have often told me you were prepared for the worst. yourself. Be a man.'

Collect

'I am one,' I exclaimed, starting up on one hand, and dashing my fist against my forehead, it is because I am one, Burridge, that I feel this: it is because I am one that I cannot bear it. What! am I a wild beast? I may be; but I am caged-well, let me be butchered-I cannot escape it.'

You talk franticly, young man,' said Burridge; 'I shall leave you till you are more yourself.'

'Am I not calm?' I returned, I wish to be so.' 'That is well.'

'You see that I am calm !'

'I do; and I am glad to see it.'

'Then hear, Mr. Burridge, what I say calmly; what I say in the prospect of death; words that I could wish might live when I am dead, and sting like serpents when this body is the prey of worms. I curse her, sir, with all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my strength. May she live till death becomes to her at once a horror and a refuge, a horror that she cannot bear, a refuge that she dare not embrace, and when she dies,—but no, I pursue her no further; then will her punishment and my revenge begin.'

You have said more than enough, O Richard Savage!' cried Burridge, catching my clasped hands as they descended, more than enough to peril your own soul. You serve her turn-wretch that you are! What! are you so well pleased that she shall destroy you in this world, that you must needs help her to destroy you in the next? This is not madness-it is stupidity. Sit down, and think, -if you can think, and recall your foolish speech. Have you done

so ?'

He led me, like a child, to the stone bench.

'You were ever hasty, Dick,' he continued, after a pause; but never malignant. It is gone, is it?'

'It is, sir; and I am sorry. I was a fool.'

'Ah, well,' said Burridge, all men are fools who will not know how sure an avenger Time is,-or, knowing, will not await his hour.'

At this moment the bolts were drawn back, and the key was turned in the door of my cell.

'My time has expired,' said Burridge peevishly, and I had many things to say to you. These gaolers execute their duty strictly. I will see you to-morrow. What! How's this?'

The door being opened, a lady, her face concealed by a veil, entered the cell hastily. Putting aside her veil, she flew towards me, and clasped me in her arms.

Elizabeth Wilfred, her eyes not dim, but sparkling through her tears, her lips with her own sweet smile upon them,-her face very pale, but exulting, suffused with a white radiance.

She could not speak for some moments, but drew me closer and closer to her bosom; her heart beating violently against mine.

'Dearest Richard,' she said at length, raising her eyes to mine, I was too overpowered to speak, but I can now.'

'Compose yourself, my love; let me lead you to this seat. You tremble.'

I was alarmed by her fluttering manner, and by a strange lightness in her eye.

'I tremble; but it is with joy,' she replied, bursting into tears. 'Forgive me; but I cannot help weeping,-it will do me good. Richard, you are pardoned.'

I directed my eyes to Burridge, who was standing apart. He shook his head, and put up his shoulders.

'Some one has cruelly deceived you, Elizabeth,' said I.

'No, no; I had it from her own lips-the Queen's own lips. The King has granted you and your friend a free pardon. Do not mind me,' sinking on the stone bench, and throwing herself back, when she gave vent to a violent fit of weeping. I shall be well now: but I cannot bear to see that wasted face, and those dreadful fetters.'

Get out of the way!' cried Burridge briskly, pushing me aside. 'Hovering over the young lady like a bird of ill omen. Don't you know it is the sight of you that affects her. Go away into yonder

corner.'

The old gentleman now seated himself by Elizabeth's side, and taking her tenderly round the waist, wiped her tears from her eyes with her handkerchief.'

'Dear madam,' said he soothingly, pray calm yourself. You afflict our unhappy friend, Savage, there, you do indeed. Ah, well! that sigh was the last, I am sure. That smile shows you're a good girl. Come! come!-that's very well. Now, madam, pray don't be in haste to speak,-are you quite certain you are not deceived? Are you sure that Mr. Savage and his friend are par'doned ?'

་

Quite sure, sir. Richard!' she motioned me to seat myself by her side; and, taking my hand between her own, proceeded. 'Mr. Savage and Mr. Gregory will be admitted to bail-Ithink that is the word,-which we must procure at once, preparatory to their pleading the King's pardon.' She turned to me. You have the good Countess to thank for this, who has interested herself for you like a mother.'

'Like a mother!' cried Burridge, springing up. 'Ha! ha!—no matter. I'll be one of their bail,-and I'll soon get the others, What's the amount, my little love; but what does that signify? Does the keeper know of this? Is the prison resonant with it? (what a word is that "resonant,"I'm an old fool!) Have directions come down-or what the deuce do they call 'em-to the keeper of this gaol of Newgate, I wonder?'

I told the men who admitted me, I believe,' said Elizabeth; 'but I did not wait to hear whether they were apprised of it.'

To be sure not, my dear madam,' returned Burridge. 'I'll away to Gregory's cell, and pluck the poor fellow out by the ears. You may well look amazed, Dick. I hope you will go down on your knees to-night, sir, and thank God for your deliverance. But, tell me before I go,-who is this young lady-this angel? I must call you so, my dear, whether you like it or no.'

This young lady, sir,' said I, 'is Miss Elizabeth Wilfred, a daughter of Sir Richard Steele.'

A daughter of Richard Steele!' cried Burridge, throwing up his hands, and then bringing them down gradually till they enclosed the face of Elizabeth between them. Let me look at you, my pretty one. And so you are, sure enough. The eye and the mouth are just his. Ah, well! God bless him! and won't you let an old friend of your father salute you, Miss Elizabeth?'

She lifted up her face to his.

To be sure she will,' cried Burridge, hugging her in his arms in a rapture, and kissing her rather more ardently than upon any other occasion I should altogether have approved. And so you take an interest in this sorry fellow, do you?'

'I have a reason-a very strong reason,' returned Elizabeth, blushing, 'to be grateful to Mr. Savage, and to respect him.'

Burridge gazed at her a while earnestly, and in silence, and then abruptly leaving her, drew out his handkerchief, and stalked to the other end of the cell.

'Fool!' said he, returning suddenly. This is no place, Dick, for the young creature. Whither, madam, shall I have the honour of conducting you?'

'I have a coach at the door,' returned Elizabeth, 'and was going to Mr. Myte's, to inform him and the ladies of the happy event. Miss Martha, I am sure

'Will hasten back with you-ha! ha!' cried Burridge. The sight of his mistress will do Gregory more good than all the doctors that ever pondered over pulse, or puzzled over prescription. We must get our friends into better quarters before you return, if money will do it (and I believe you may melt even a gaoler's heart with it). You will not be long, I dare say. Permit me, madam, to hand you to your coach.'

Burridge returned in a few minutes, bringing Gregory with him, and followed by two fellows, who proceeded to knock off our irons. When that agreeable task was completed, we embraced one another cordially.

'I must leave you for a few minutes together,' said Burridge, 'while I go and take counsel with the keeper about more comfortable lodgings for you: for the man at the gate tells me the bail cannot be perfected to-day.'

6

'Burridge's tidings,' cried Gregory, when the old gentleman had left us to ourselves, have had a miraculous effect upon me. It is now, for the first time, that I pity the unhappy fate of Sinclair.'

I began to do so before you,' I replied, and have left off before you have well begun. Surely the wretch who with his dying breath could have forged a base lie to sacrifice us, is little worthy of pity.'