You shall have your own apartments, your own servants, and your own time at command, of which last I hope you will give me as much as you can spare. There can be no friendship where there is no equality. Let it be clearly understood, then, that you are to consider yourself in all respects as your own master; and my house as your own. I would solicit no man's friendship, whose advantage I studied upon other terms; least of all would I insult you by proposing them.'

I believe I have set down the very words of Lord Tyrconnel. I was amazed and affected by his so noble, so disinterested munificence. My face spoke my thanks before my tongue could articulate a syllable. He stopped my acknowledgments by placing his hand upon my mouth.

'Not a word, I insist,' said he; 'the obligation is on my side. Let us remember we are cousins till we become friends. The links of friendship are stronger than the ties of blood. You accept my offer?" With thanks-with gratitude, my lord.'

'Lord me no lords. Here, take this,' handing me familiarly a bank bill for a hundred pounds, 'six months in advance. You see I am a man of business;' then surveying me, how is this? you do not plead guilty after a king's pardon, Savage? I hope the late unhappy passage in your life has not caused you to forswear carrying a sword ?'

To say the truth,' I returned, in some confusion, 'I was in such haste to keep my appointment with your lordship, that I forgot it' (But the real truth is, that I had surrendered it to the pawnbroker a month before.)

You must gratify me by wearing this,' said his lordship, going into an inner room, and presently returning with a silver-hilted sword, which he placed in my hands.

It was now settled that I should take up my abode with him at the expiration of a few days, by which time I should have completed such arrangements as were necessary to my appearance in the quality of a gentleman.

By-the-by, one word more with you,' said he, when I was taking my leave. Mrs. Brett appears very solicitous to know what is become of a young lady-Miss Wilfred, the daughter of Sir Richard Steele, who was many years under her charge. Your mother, I have reason to believe, was greatly attached to the young lady.'

It will be a consolation to her, then, to know,' I answered, that Miss Wilfred is, and has been for a long time past, in honourable hands. Miss Wilfred is living with the Countess of Hertford. I thought Mrs. Brett knew as much; and yet, probably, Sir Richard was too much offended with her, as he well might be, to satisfy her upon the point.'

Did you see Steele before he retired to Wales?

'I did not.'

'When I last saw him he spoke with affectionate kindness of you, and shed tears as he did so. His resentment ceased long since.'

Had I known that,' I replied, 'I would have waited upon him, and taken a farewell of my friend and benefactor. I loved him ever, and it is a happiness to me to hear that he remembered me with kind

ness.'

'Pardon me,' said his lordship, after a pause, 'perhaps I am

impertinently curious; but, was there not, at one time a kind of engagement subsisting between Miss Wilfred and yourself?' There was, and is. It still subsists.'

I really am too free, cousin Savage,' said his lordship, laughing and rubbing his chin; but you will forgive me. To what does that engagement tend?"

You cannot doubt, my lord?' I inquired in surprise.

'I do not know.'

To the approved consummation of such contracts, old fashioned, but still fashionable, matrimony.'

'Matrimony l' with a stare and a whistle; 'what, in the name of the twelve tribes of Israel, put matrimony into your head?"

I returned his stare. 'My lord!'

'Come, come,' said he, you look as grave as though you were already married. I meant nothing. Marriage is an honourable

estate.'

Your lordship is married, I believe?' I observed.

'Why-yes,' with a comical shrug; young men must be fools, else there would be no wise old ones. But, hang it! you mustn't think of it yet. Dick Savage, the gay, the lively, the elegant Dick Savage; the salt, the soul of society, trudging sun-sodden on the Sabbath to Islington-fields with an armful of the next generation! Gods! It must not be.'

1

There was little delicacy in this speech, nor was it well spoken, but it passed. I laughed in concert with the wit, although not quite so heartily, and we parted the best friends in life.

Shortly after I went to reside with Lord Tyrconnel, I obtained an introduction to Mr. Pope, a man of whom his country has just reason to be proud, and who is an honour to his age, which will be honoured by posterity for its handsome appreciation of his genius. About this time, the poet published his Dunciad, that immortal burlesque satire, which set all the small wits at their small wits' end, and which did not destroy, because to exterminate them would have been to put them out of their misery, and because some of them were so small that they might have almost evaded a microscopic eye.' It is true that I tied a knot or two in the lash before the avenging spirit proceeded to wield it; in other words, I acknowledge that I furnished Pope with a few hints, of which he availed himself; but these chiefly related to James Moore Smyth and squarefaced Roome, with whom I had made myself merry in Iscariot Hackney, which I had recently published; but it is altogether false that I was engaged to supply the satirist with the private histories, or with anecdotes of the general swarm of minor victims. However, my intimacy with Pope obtained for me among the sufferers the reputation (they called it the obloquy) of having done so, and I acquired their enmity accordingly, as a confederate with Mr. Pope.

* Notwithstanding the disclaimer of Savage, there is reason to believe that he conveyed particulars to Pope of the lives and conversation of others besides Moore Smyth and Roome. In his Iscariot Hackney there are scurrilous allusions to Pitt and Concanen, the latter of whom had given Pope great offence.

This witty, but virulent production, does credit to the abilities of Savage; I wish I could add, that it does honour to his heart. Dr. Johnson does not praise it higher than it deserves; but at the same time he says truly, that there are many passages in it which Iscariot Hackney might himself have written.

CHAPTER XXXI.

In which Richard Savage does not appear to the best advantage; and wherein the reader will see the last of a strange character.

DURING the first year of my residence with Lord Tyrconnel no man could exercise the offices of friendship with more scrupulous delicacy, with a more heedful regard to my feelings, and to his own dignity, than his lordship. Thus much I owe it to truth and justice to record. The original terms of our connexion he did not once invade or infringe. He expressed, and I think he felt, the utmost friendship for me; the greatest pleasure in my society; the sincerest anxiety for my ease and comfort, and the most zealous desire for my welfare and advancement.

In this interval of prosperity, I found leisure to complete a poem, begun long before, which I entitled 'The Wanderer.' Its purport I know is in the highest degree moral. It attempts to show, and successfully, as I think, that misery while it chastens, purifies the mind; that adversity strengthens the character, and that out of fleeting woe proceeds lasting happiness. I had not suffered in vain. I had been a worse man had I never been made to feel how difficult it is to continue a good one in adversity.

I dedicated The Wanderer' to Lord Tyrconnel in a strain of fervent encomium, which nothing but the strength and sincerity of my gratitude could excuse. If I am conscious of any motive to the expression of so extravagant a praise of my patron as is to be found in that dedication, beyond what the impulse of my then present feelings towards him prompted me to utter, it is a desire to please Lady Tyrconnel by the exaltation of her husband. Of the excellence of this lady; of her sisterly regard; I might almost term it affection, for me, time shall never efface the remembrance from my bosom. For her sake I have borne much, and forborne greatly; but I will not enter upon that here. I have a score to settle which written words will not expunge. When I return to London, which is to be, thank Heaven! shortly, I shall have ample time upon my hands to play the appellant. Dare he abide or answer my appeal? not he.

I sold the copyright of the Wanderer for ten guineas; a very inconsiderable sum, viewed as a payment for labour, but which an immediate, although a momentary want of money, disposed me to accept. And yet, paltry as this sum was, Johnson, several years afterwards, got no more for his poem of London,' a performance which, if it possess less of the vivida vis'-less of the drawn lightning than is to be found in Pope's satires, undoubtedly excels each and all of the productions of the latter in grave, manly, and energetic dignity.

It may be taken for granted that the fame I obtained by the publication of my poem elevated me not less in my own estimation

*There are some fine things in 'The Wanderer,' but it is a poem of very unequal merit. Some passages are painfully elaborated, whilst others have been written apparently with the utmost carelessness. It is altogether original in substance as well as in style.

than in the opinion of the world; it will be believed, also, that my success made the small wits more determinately my professed enemies, and that I took no pains to conciliate their regard, or to assuage their malice. Indeed, I was so much above them, and beyond the reach of their poor devices, that I ridiculed and despised them.

In the meantime, I paid frequent visits to Elizabeth,-the one being in the world who loved me, and to whom, therefore, I could impart my hopes, my expectations, and my feelings, in the assurance of sincere and perfect sympathy. She was delighted with the favourable reception my poem had met with, and predicted that I should at no distant period establish a very high reputation in the world of letters. It was perfectly understood between us that we were to be married so soon as Lord Tyrconnel kept his word with me, of which latterly I had somewhat importunately reminded him, and which was, that he would obtain a lucrative appointment for me from Sir Robert Walpole, a man to say the truth, of whose politics i had no admiration, for whose person I had little regard, and of whose conversation I had the utmost disgust and abhorrence. Nevertheless, he could bestow a place as well as a better man; he had passed his word to Lord Tyrconnel that he would do something for me; and, to do him justice, he had the reputation of being a strict observer of his promise.

It was not until my visits to my mistress had continued for a considerable time that I perceived, or fancied that I perceived, a coldness towards me on the part of Lady Hertford,-a sedate formality of deportment, perfectly within the rules of good breeding, but which partook more of dignity than politeness, although, in my opinion, there was not much of either.

I seized an opportunity, one evening when we were alone, of acquainting Elizabeth with the extent of my observations, and earnestly begged her to tell me in what manner I had offended Lady Hertford, that I might at once put myself in the way of recovering her esteem and confidence.

My appeal embarrassed her greatly. I remarked, however, that her embarrassment arose less from confusion than concern.

'I was not aware,' she said, 'that you had noticed any change in the demeanour of Lady Hertford towards you; neither do I know that you have given her any cause of offence-consciously, I am sure that you have not.'

'What, then, is the cause of her coldness? Tell me all, I entreat you.'

'I shall not offend you, Richard?'' Impossible.'

'Her ladyship, then, has of late frequently expressed her fears to me that you are leading too dissipated a life, and that you may fall into habits of expense and self-gratification that may be injurious to you hereafter. She says

'Many nice things, doubtless,' interrupted I, gaily. A pity the text is not more worthy of the comment. Do you partake her fears, Elizabeth?'

I do not,' she answered, readily. I know the stability of your principles, and the rectitude of your mind. The author of "The Wanderer," she added, with a glow of generous warmth, can never suffer himself to be betrayed into vulgar excesses, at which Lady Hertford hints, or vicious indulgences, of which his writings

proclaim his abhorrence. No. You have been a sufferer; but you › never will be a victim,-least of all to yourself.'

Sweet enthusiast! to have loved thee is indeed to have loved virtue, and in its loveliest shape!

And this is all?' cried I. How proud and grateful I ought to be that Lady Hertford condescends to betray so friendly a solicitude for my well-doing! I must positively return her my acknowledg

ments.'

'I am angry with myself,' said Elizabeth, after a pause, seating herself by my side, that I have so long withheld from you what I am about to tell you.'

She spoke this in so serious a voice, that I could but gaze upon her in silence.

'Lady Hertford,' she resumed, has been very pressing with me for some time past-so much so, I confess, that I am made unhappy by her importunities-to break the engagement between us.'

Ha!-and upon what plea ?-for what reason?—the one you mentioned ?'

'She urges that. But there is a gentleman-a Mr. Grantley-' 'A Mr. Grantley! And he is all that may be wished for, I'll be sworn,' said I, with a sneer,- such a handsome man! such a rich man such a worthy man! Naughty girl! to think of wicked Mr. Savage: you should meditate upon good Mr. Grantley! But this device is grandmotherly, my Elizabeth. Add all my good qualities to Mr. Grantley, and transfer all his bad ones to me, and a taking contrast is presented. I am much obliged to her ladyship. But tell me, who is this Mr. Grantley? A gentleman of figure, of course?' -' He is.'

Is he rich ?'.

'Handsome?'

He is said to be so.'

Very.'

I was startled by so prompt a reply.

You do not love him, Elizabeth?' I inquired at length, looking, as I conjecture, very much like a booby.

Fie! what a question!' she replied. 'Abrupt-but I hope-'

You know I do not,' she said, interrupting me, and laying her hand upon mine. I want your advice. I know not how to carry myself in this unpleasant affair. Lady Hertford begins to be exceedingly, painfully importunate with me. You know my obligations to her; and Mr. Grantley, although I have informed him I am under an engagement to another, still persists-'

In smirking, and sighing, and dropping his eyelids, and looking at his hat, and shrugging his shoulders, and hanging over chair backs. Poor man! Why do you smile at the picture of so pitiful a rogue. I'll hazard a shrewd guess, now, that he hopes time may induce you to look with favour upon him,-that he is perfectly sensible how unworthy he is of so much honour, of so great a happiness, and yet—'

I am sorry I smiled at your whimsical description,' said she. Do not ridicule the misplaced affection of a worthy and honourable man, who deserves, I am sure, a better woman than your Elizabeth, and who, I sincerely hope, will meet with one.'

'I have no great opinion of that man's worth,' I replied,' who persists in persecuting a lady with his addresses, and who would