ven when the coach stopped, was the most terrible moment of my life. We got out of the coach. My old woman came to the door, wondering whether her spectacles were bewitched. I borrowed a candle from her, and led the way to my room. Closing the door upon us, I set down the light upon the table, and sank upon a box placed against the wall.

'I am at home. Dearest, best of women, leave me, Elizabeth Wilfred, I implore you, leave me.'

Here?'-surveying the apartment with a chilly shudder-' here? Oh! Richard!'

'Here. This is where I live-my home. I am better now.'

She came and sat down by my side, and placed her arm around me, the hand resting on my shoulder. I dared not look upon her, and yet I could not help doing so. Her bosom heaved-a sob choked her utterance. She threw herself into my arms, her head upon my breast, and burst into a passion of weeping.

'Great God of heaven! this is too much-too much!' I exclaimed, almost with a shriek, striving to disengage myself; but very gently now, for she would cling to me. Elizabeth, if you have pity, if a miserable man may claim-'

Yes, yes; forgive me, dear Richard, I would not pain you; but joy that I have seen you once again.'

Thou loveliest, gentlest creature!' I exclaimed, and is it thus you requite the wrong I have done you? Oh! Elizabeth! that my brain be not rent in twain, that my heart burst not asunder, leave me-leave me !'-and I stamped upon the ground-' on my knees, I pray you to leave me.'

I would not offend you for the world,' she cried, in agitation, wringing my hands; for mercy's sake compose yourself. I will leave you. Do you wish, Richard, that I should leave you?'

Oh, my God! yes-yes-yes,' falling upon the ground at her feet, and dashing my fists upon the floor; I cannot bear this cannot bear it.' Such ravings as devils might have heard-perhaps did hear, rejoicingly-followed.

She was at my side-on her knees, at my side. That piteous, imploring face close to mine, those hands pressing my burning temples! Nature will have way. With a deep groan I hid my face, and wept aloud like a child. Oh! that then the world had passed away from me!

How long it was ere I recovered from this paroxysm I know not. When I did so, I discovered Elizabeth sitting near me on the chest, trembling violently, her hands clasped before her, and paler than ever before I saw the face of woman. I arose collected, the man of yesterday, or of to-morrow, and seated myself by her side.

Elizabeth,' I said, you have witnessed a strange weakness. I am ashamed of myself; but it is the first and last.' Then kissing her hands fervently, I dare not call you my love, though that I love you, how much more than my life, Heaven is my witness, who knows how valueless life is to me.'

She sighed. 'Oh! Richard! not now such words. We are friends, are we not?'

'Blessed, admirable woman, yes; and I am now happy beyond expression that I have seen you once more before I leave London, perhaps for ever. I thank God for it, and shall learn to thank Him for

all things, knowing that His providence watches over me. ing proves it.'

Our meet

It was more than an hour after this ere she left me. Saying she would see me on the following day, she at length arose. I handed her to the door, and passing my arm around her waist, drew her gently towards me, and kissed her.

'God will bless you, my Elizabeth, even for your kindness to so sad a wretch as Richard Savage.'

You must not talk so, Richard,' she replied. He will bless you, too, when you ask His blessing.'

When I could no longer hear the coach-wheels, I returned to my room. She had left her purse upon the seat. By mistake, I thought, at the first instant; but no. All the blood in my body rushed to my

face.

Averse as I had been from leaving London, from this night I was as anxious to go as my friends could be that I should be gone. I saw Elizabeth Wilfred every day until my departure. I promised a thorough amendment of my life, and intended to set about it. She believed me, and was happy.

My friend, Johnson, attended me to the coach, murmuring comfort and philosophy, whilst the tears stood in his eyes. Nor was I less affected. I embraced him tenderly, and springing into the coach, if not with a light, with a buoyant heart, I bade farewell to London, for, as I believed and designed, a short time. Sight and sound of the vast city were soon lost to me. Longer, O London! have I kept from thee than I contemplated; but a few days longer, and I shall be with thee once again. Already the rumble of the leathern vehicle fills my ears -mine eyes are already full of thee. I come. Foes who have rejoiced that I retired, friends who will lament that I return-I come. -A little older—a little sadder-a little, also, wiser.

I have done. For why relate how time has gone with me since that day? Wherefore tell how my subscribers (all except Pope) have treated me? I despise them too much to resent their baseness.

Were this a moral age, and it is not, and I a moralist, and I am none-the world might derive some profitable instruction from the long commentary I should append to this familiar abstract of the life of Richard Savage, which I am now about to close. For oh! patient and courteous reader, (and you must be both if you have followed me thus far), there is a moral in it.

Time lost or wasted, opportunities neglected or despised, talents misused, or for the most part misapplied; a life of debts, of dependence, of disgrace, of distress-the end a gaol. Surely, though it be an old lesson, there is scope here for a new version of it.

Be it mine to show that the lesson has not been lost upon me. Let my future course manifest, that a life begun and continued in shame, may yet be completed with honour. But to prophesy of my future well-doing in a gaol is somewhat premature.

A security for my future good behaviour will be found in these pages, after they have passed into print. Should I swerve, or fall off, will they not rise in judgment against me?

For what they contain, or for their author, at present I ask no allowance. I deprecate pity or compassion; I am proof against censure. But should there be one into whose hands these pages may fall, virtuous himself, and the cause of virtue in others; a good father of good children; a good husband of a good wife; should such a man be dis

posed altogether to condemn me, to him I say, in words of my own, which he will find upon my title-page:—

'No mother's care

Shielded my infant innocence with prayer;

No father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.'

Gentle reader-farewell!

CONCLUSION.

FROM MR. THOMAS DAGGE TO MR. SAMUEL JOHNSON, TO THE CARE OF MR. EDWARD CAVE, ST. JOHN'S GATE, LONDON.

RESPECTED SIR,

Your letter requests a more particular account of the melancholy events that have recently taken place in this prison; and you wish me to communicate as much as I know of Mr. Savage's manner of life during his stay in Bristol, and of his behaviour while under confinement. I hasten to comply with your wishes; but I regret to inform you that I have no particular information to impart as to the course of life pursued by your friend before he entered this gaol. All that I know has been derived from Mr. Sondes, a gentleman who was very much the friend of Mr. Savage, who accompanied him to prison, and who occasionally visited him until within the last two months, when, I believe, a misunderstanding arose between them, respecting a satire which Mr. Savage had threatened to write against the inhabitants of this city. Mr. Sondes informed me that Mr. Savage had led a very irregular and dissipated life since his coming to Bristol; that several subscriptions had been entered into for him, the money raised by which he had squandered in the most thoughtless manner; that his friends, however willing to serve him, had been exceedingly perplexed to know how they could do so, seeing that he was not to be trusted with money; and that they had at last desisted, satisfied that nothing whatever was to be done with him, or for him.

He added, that whatever was the distress of Mr. Savage, and notwithstanding that it was brought on, for the most part, by his own imprudence, he bore the misery it entailed upon him with fortitude, which might be called magnanimity.

I have already, sir, told you that he was brought to this gaol, accompanied by Mr. Sondes. This was in the latter end of January last. He had been arrested at the suit of a Mrs. Read, the hostess of a small public-house in an obscure part of this city, for a debt of eight pounds. In the hope that, by an application to some of his friends in London and elsewhere, he should be enabled to defray the debt, he had been staying at a sponging house during the space of a fortnight; but, not succeeding (although he himself told me the celebrated Mr. Nash of Bath kindly sent him five pounds), he at last made up his mind to render himself to prison.

His appearance, sir, greatly prepossessed me in his favour. I allotted him the best room then vacant, and requested that he would do me the favour, so long as it was his misfortune to remain in my custody, of taking his meals at my table.

I hasten to relate that of which you require the most particular information.

On the evening of the 24th of July, Mr. Savage, Mr. Price, and I, were enjoying a cheerful glass, when one of my men brought up a

letter to Mr. Savage, which had just been delivered by the postman. Mr. Savage had for some days past been congratulating himself on the prospect of his speedy release from this place, and of his return to London. He told us that Mr. Pope had directed his debts to be looked into with a view to their settlement. You may imagine, sir, the pleasure of Mr. Price and myself. when, upon taking the letter into his hands, we heard the delighted words From Pope!' proceed from his lips.

Alas, sir, our pleasure was not only premature, but short-lived. As he read the letter his countenance changed from pale to red by turns; and when he had completed its perusal he emptied his glass, and arose hastily, without a word.

'Good news, sir, I hope?' said Mr. Price.

'You shall see, gentlemen,' he replied, throwing the letter towards us. Nay, you may read it. D-tion! crooked little rascal' muttering other words, which I could not hear, as he paced the room.

The letter was filled with warm resentment of what Mr. Pope called the ingratitude of Mr. Savage. It seems he charged him with hav ing complained of Mr. Pope's treatment of him to one Henley, a person of whom the writer expressed a very great contempt; and the letter concluded by saying he should do no more for Mr. Savage; and desired never to hear of or see him again.

Why, sir, there must be some mistake here,' observed Mr. Price, when he had read the letter.

'No, Mr. Price,' he replied, there is no mistake. Because he desires to discontinue his vile twenty guineas he must trump up this poor lie! But this is like him, sir; this is his way. The fellow's soul is more warped than his carcass.'

He turned aside, and walked to the other end of the room; but presently returning, seized the candlestick, and hurried to the door. Good night, gentlemen! good night!'

He took Mr. Pope's letter with him. We saw him no more that evening.

me.

On the following morning I was told that Mr. Savage desired to see I went up to him. He was in bed. He requested that I would be so kind as to forward a letter, which he handed me, to the postoffice. It was addressed to Mr. Pope, He looked extremely dispirited and unwell. I begged him to tell me whether he was so.

'Yes-yes,' was his answer. 'And I was about to say I fear I am growing worse-a strange word from a man to whom life has been long a burden. Shall I add to the many obligations I am under to you, Mr. Dagge, by requesting you to let me have a sheet or two of writing paper? I want to send a letter to my friend, Mr. Johnson.'

He said this very languidly. I provided him with the paper, and he wrote a letter to you, which was despatched that night, and which, it is needless to say, you received.

He was so evidently worse the next day, that we called in a doctor. This gentleman, when he came down to us, said there was inflammation in the chest, which might be reduced; but that Mr. Savage was suffering from a fever on the spirits.

That is your phrase for a broken heart?' inquired Mr. Price. The doctor nodded his head.

'If he do not rally he is gone,' said he.

Upon this Mr. Price thought it high time that he should attend Mr.

Savage, and offer that spiritual consolation of which all of us, in the prospect of death, have so much need.

A melancholy change was observable in him on the following morning. He said that during the night he had been visited by horrible. dreams, and desired to be left alone with Mr. Price. The worthy clergyman found him in a happy frame of mind. He forgave his mother freely and entirely, and protested with solemnity that he was now at peace with all the world.

In the afternoon I ventured to look in upon him. He called me towards him with a faint voice, extending his hand. I placed mine in it. He pressed my hand with both his own fervently, and thanked me in the most moving terms for what he was pleased to call my humanity and Christian kindness towards him.

You will oblige me,' he said, at length, by bringing to me all the papers you find in yonder cupboard.'

Before I could bring them to him he sank down upon the bed in an ecstasy of mental agony, burying his face in the clothes, which he grasped convulsively.

Oh! I am lonely-I am lonely!' he groaned; how will thy heart-thy heart of tenderness be riven when thou hearest that I am gone that I am dead!'

A face more filled with grief, when he again raised it, I never beheld, although it has been my lot to see woe in all its degrees and aspects. He then used these remarkable words :

'Yet I will not die raving-for, alas!

My whole life was a phrensy.'

Mr. Price thought they were to be met with in Shakspeare, but he cannot find them.

'This,' he said, presently, taking up a bundle of papers, 'is a tragedy, completed when I was in Wales. Mr. Dagge, I insist upon your acceptance of it.'

Mr. Price had entered the room while he was speaking.

'And this,' he continued, taking up a large packet, 'is my own life, written since I have been an inmate of this gaol. How death destroys our projects, and how the prospect of it alters the feelings that generated them! I intended that it should be published; but no,that must not be. I wish you, sir, when I am dead, to forward this to Miss Elizabeth Wilfred, at the house of Lord Trevor in London. His voice slightly faltered, She can forgive all.'

Mr. Price expressed a strong desire to read it.

I fear,' said Mr. Savage, 'you will hardly find its perusal worth. your labour. I know not what you will think of it, or of me. Yes, you may, if you please, read it.'

And now, sir, I draw towards a close. After this, Mr. Savage sank rapidly. He declined gently, but firmly, all nourishment except some very thin drink, and preserved an almost entire silence. About eight o'clock on the following evening his hour was come.

Mr. Price was praying aloud by his side, and I, a melancholy bystander, was watching on the other side of the bed, when my sister entered the room and beckoned me towards her. There was a lady below,' she whispered to me, 'just arrived from London who must see Mr. Savage.' Ere she had yet finished her brief communication the lady herself glided into the room like an apparition.

Mr. Price had been so absorbed in the function of his sacred