* WJf « fJk- * MJ *J-<& •' if, ~ >f# Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/richardsavagerom01whit RICHARD SAVAGE. A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. BY CHARLES WHITEHEAD, AUTHOR OF "THE SOLITARY." " EARL OF ESjEX," ETC. WITH SEVENTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY LEECH. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : RICHARD BEXTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 1844. $9-3 TO EDWARD WILLIAM ELTON, Esq. THIS WORK, WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF ESTEEM AND FEELING OF REGARD, 1*1 IS INSCRIBED BY HIS SINCERE FRIEND, THE AUTHOR. INTRODUCTION. A few words only will be necessary to the introduction of the following Work. It is by no means of importance that the reader should be informed how this autobiographical memoir of Richard Savage fell into my hands, and thence came into the possession of the publisher. Perhaps it is a secret not hastily to be dis- closed 3 perhaps it is a secret not worth the telling. This, however, may be said respect- ing it : — I found it in no old oak-chest, — I pur- loined it from no library of " a certain noble- man, 55 — I purchased it from no cheesemonger, who told me that a person who had evidently seen better days, came into his shop last week, and with a heavy sigh laid the MS. upon the counter, and stickling for a turn of the scale, and the highest current price, sold it as waste- paper for one and eightpence. After a diligent perusal of the Work now Vlll INTRODUCTION. about to be submitted to the public, and a comparison of the events it records with the facts stated in Johnson's admirable Life of Savage, I find no such material discrepance as should lead me to infer that this Work might not have been written by Savage him- self. I have seen a few specimens of his prose ; one, a performance of exquisite hu- mour, which, were it re-published, would pro- bably be held to be greatly superior to any- thing that will be found in his autobiography. Still, if we are to believe the present Work to be the composition of Savage at all, it must be remembered that it is avowedly written in pri- son; and although Dr. Johnson tells us that amidst all the disadvantages and miseries which attend the residence in a gaol, Savage preserved his serenity unruffled, and even devoted a por- tion of his time to poetical labours, yet I can- not but think that his (so called) serenity was merely an outward appearance of resignation ; for the poetry he wrote in Bristol gaol is great- ly inferior to compositions undertaken at an earlier and happier period of his life — if, indeed, happiness and Savage could at any time of his existence be supposed to be connected. It will not fail, I suspect, of being remarked INTRODUCTION. IX — since it struck me forcibly during the perusal of this autobiography, — that the levity, or the gaiety, or by whatever name it may be termed, which is introduced into it, is the diversion or the relief of an unhappy man, bent upon the completion of a very painful, although a self- imposed task, and, with all the anxiety of morbid pride, desirous to conceal from the reader the anguish his narrative revives with- in his breast. Still more obvious is the intent, frequently disclosed, to impose upon the reader, and even upon himself, by sophistical excuses, and shallow attempts at palliation of his con- duct in several particulars, a recourse to which, however, he disclaims at the outset. This is the common artifice of pride, which were in- deed despicable, did it not, in spite of itself, discover a sense of shame. In conclusion, although nearly a century has elapsed since the death of this unfortunate and erring man, let me bespeak for him, " a wretch" as he arTectingly calls himself in the dedi- cation of a poem to Queen Caroline, " whose days were fewer than his sorrows ;" let me be- speak for him, I say, that indulgent and cha- ritable construction of his conduct which, a year after his death, was pleaded for him with so X INTRODUCTION. touching an earnestness by Samuel Johnson, his illustrious biographer and friend. This it were needless now to do, but that a very few years since an attempt, not altogether unsuccessful, was made to throw utter and con- temptuous discredit upon his story, so impli- citly believed and set forth to the world by Johnson. To this ill-considered, ill-argued, and ignorant attempt, and to its author, I will not more particularly allude. The hand that made it is now as powerless as that of Richard Savage. London, September 1842. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. VOL. I. Savage retaliates upon the Cobbler . Frontispiece Richard Savage at Lady Mason's . . .17 The first day at School .... Savage with Mr. and Mrs. L'Estrange Mrs. Brett interrogating Ludlow Interview between Myte and his new son-in-law Mr. Myte on his return from the wedding dinner ...... The Crimps surprised by Martin Despair of Ludlow at his Wife's misconduct 32 71 134 162 187 270 322 VOL. II. The Mock Marriage . . . Frontispiece Savage introduced to Lovell, at the Club . .92 Savage introduced by Sir Richard Steele to Miss Wilfred .* 193 Mr. Clutterbuck receives a hint that he cannot mistake ...... 327 VOL. III. The Death of Sinclair . . . Frontispiece The Trial 101 Interview between Miss Wilfred and Richard Savage, in Newgate . . . .129 Carousal of Savage and his friends, at Lord Tyr- connel's ...... 261 RICHARD SAVAGE. CHAPTER I. THE REPUTED PARENTS OF RICHARD SAVAGE AR? INTRODUCED TO THE READER. Whenever I am seduced into reflection, for I confess I have no turn for it. nothing strikes me more forcibly than the incurable selfishness of mankind, myself of the number. In prison, and likely to remain so ; — abandoned by my friends — my enemies, (how I scorn and despise them !) exulting, jubilant over my downfall — laying their cool heads together, their cold hearts left at home — and reciting, over the finger and thumb, all the acts of his life which precipitate the proof that Richard Savage must, of necessity, have come to this at last ; — what should Richard Savage do, but, as he does now, snap his unoccupied fingers at the world ? Bid his enemies and his friends — there is no difference between them — sav VOL. I. b 2 RICHARD SAVAGE. their worst of him at leisure, and, if they can, do better at speed ? and afterwards go to the housetop and pray, if it be only like the Pha- risee. I was just upon commending them to a lower place ; but they may wait till they are fetched. Yes, this have I to do. Since the public will no longer have me piecemeal, they shall take me in the lump. If they will not pur- chase my brains for the future, as I have been accustomed to offer them, by small portions at a time, let them buy the whole carcase. I will write my own history, and. make some of the rogues blush and turn pale, too, and some of the folks stare, who have long ceased to look for alternations of red and white in the leathern visages of the said rogues. And surely, in the life that I have led, or rather, in the life that has , misled me, there must be much — more than enough — to be wise, grave, gay, lively, severe, and sad and solemn upon. Ah me ! that joy should depart — that woe should abide — that memory should renew the one as a pre- sence, and recal the other as a shadow ; — that the will should have no power to remove woe, no power to restore joy ! And yet, what have I set down ? That shall be fairly tried. My heart shall dauce, though my soul be weary. My soul shall give my heart a little decorum ; RICHARD SAVAGE. 3 my heart shall lend her sister a little activity. No face-making, or shoulder- shrugs ; no troll- ing of sentiment from a round mouth — no deprecation of censure with expanded palms. There shall be no handkerchief at the eye, when there were no tears ; no laugh upon the lip, when there was no smile. What I believe of myself, within ; what I outwardly know of myself; that will I unfold — neither more nor less. If I shall not spare myself, no one will expect that I shall be merciful to others ; and, if I do not find for their actions such excuses and palliations as I make for my own, it will be because I know my own nature better than theirs ; and because I am not going to do for them what they can do, and probably will do, nay, very likely have done for themselves. And now :• — In the year 1698, and in the purlieus of Chancery Lane lived an obscure couple who had, at one time, seen better days than fortune appeared disposed to allot to them for the time to come. In fact, Mr. Ambrose Freeman had formerly officiated as butler in the family of a noble lord, in which capacity he acted for se- veral years. Unfortunately, however, a pas- sion for drinking which, it seems, he inherited from his mother, and which he was wont to b 2 4 RICHARD SAVAGE. indulge without reference to time, and without regard to place, wrought a conviction in the mind of his Lordship that the services of Am- brose might be dispensed with, seeing that the wine under his care was far too unimpeachable to require so unceasing and rigorous a test as that to which he was accustomed to submit it. When, therefore, he had occasion to wait upon his master for his arrears of wages, with an intimation that if my Lord would generously overlook his last inadvertence, he himself should be most happy to discard from his memory the kicking that had ensued upon it, his proposition met with a decided negative ; and Ambrose was fain, instigated by a little love and a great deal of vengeance, to prevail upon the cook to ratify the compact that had so long subsisted between them, and to be- come Mistress Freeman. It was Hobson's choice with the lady — Freeman or no man. She gave him her thumb upon it, and got his assurance that he would be more circumspect, as to his libations, for the future. With the conjoint amount of their respec- tive savings, this worthy pair, soon after their marriage, entered upon a small ale-house and geneva- shop in the neighbourhood of Clare- Market, from which — so rumours falsely or RICHARD SAVAGE. D with truth gave out — several successive land- lords had retired with a decent maintenance for the winter of their days. But Ambrose, having followed the trade three years, during which space he had openly furnished repeated evidence of the potency of his liquors, dis- covered that the line of lucky vintners was no longer to remain unbroken ; and the house, shortly afterwards, being presented to the justices by the Westminster grand Jury as an intolerable nuisance, he was compelled to make the best of a bad bargain, and to turn himself to another course of life. It were tedious — were I able to do so, and I am not — to enumerate the various shifts, most of them discreditable and none highly praise- worthy to which Freeman was under the ne- cessity of resorting before he settled into a bailiff, a profession which he was destined to practice during the remaining term of his na- tural life. In the winter of the year with which I set out, another inmate was added to the two ground-floor rooms tenanted, by Freeman and his wife. The new comer was an infant under a twelvemonth old, and for a considerable pe- riod after his first appearance, caused no com- mon amount of curious speculation to bestir 6 RICHARD SAVAGE. itself amongst the neighbours. In the first place, the child was clad in garments of far finer material and workmanship than were ever worn by children born in the class of life to which the Freemans belonged ; in the second place, no one could tell — for nobody had seen — by whom the child was brought, and none knew whence it came 5 and lastly, Mrs. Freeman appeared resolutely determined that nobody should know. Ambrose, indeed, when he was not tearfully bewailing his own mani- fold sins and backslidings, which was almost his constant custom in his cups, was exces- sively cunning and cautious, although not very consistent in his relation of matters of fact. Thus, at one time, the child was his nephew, the son of a deceased brother ; at another, he was a poor orphan whose father had been an officer killed in the French wars under the Duke of Marlborough, and whose mother was in the mad-house ; and sometimes he created a diversion by remarking that a man was not bound to criminate himself, and cried 'hush!' significantly when his wife entered the room. Thus was I — for I was that child — consti- tuted son to any imaginary beings that might, from time to time, arise upon poor drunken Freeman's brain \ now, the son of a soldier, RICHARD SAVAGE. 7 then of a civilian. I have been a slip from the mercantile stock one week, and, the next, have been laid at the door of the clergy ; and I de- voutly believe, there is not a trade or profes- sion, or class, or order in the kingdom to which I have not, through Freeman's agency, been indebted for a parent. Ha ! ha ! he shot near the mark once or twice. Nature had planted a heart in the bosom of Ambrose Freeman, although, perfectly unaware of its existence, he himself never appealed to it. He felt a becoming respect for wealth and title ; and for those who possessed them; and in- dulged a strong and natural contempt for the deadly sin of poverty. He could be as blind as a bat when a pretty fellow slipt a couple of pieces into his hand, and as deaf as a beetle when a broken-down tradesman whispered something into his ear about a large family and the horrors of a prison. Still, I have heard, out of his vocation, when the man's natural tendencies had fair play, it might be seen that he was merely ignorant, and that he would have felt for others, if he had been taught to do so. Freeman treated me with singular kindness, and conceived for me as strong an affection as he was capable of feeling for any human being. 8 RICHARD SAVAGE. This might happen because he had no chil- dren of his own, or because I was not his own child or, which is most likely, because Mrs. Freeman was in the habit of subjecting me to very barbarous usage. He would take me abroad on Sundays into the Mall and point out to me the great folks with whom, proba- bly, the course of his profession had made him acquainted. For several successive years he conveyed me to May Fair, to see the cele- brated Lady Mary dance upon the tight rope, and to partake the other amusements of that once delightful resort ; and he sometimes in- troduced me to the convivial companionship of the gentlemen of his own fraternity, whose humour it was to plant me upon the table, and to recommend to me the solace of an occa- sional whiff and the stimulus of strong beer. Nevertheless, I did not discover, I imagine, any corresponding amount of friendship for Ambrose. The truth is, Freeman was not sa- tisfied with being kind to me, but would take frequent opportunities when he was drunk, which was nearly every night, of impressing upon me how very kind he was ; how exces- sively grateful I ought to be, and what stre- nuous efforts I was bound, in after life, to make that my benefactor's grey hairs should RICHARD SAVAGE. not stick up on end at my ingratitude, but be carefully smoothed down by the hand of filial affection. In addition to this — I have often cursed (for boys do curse in their way. and their curses are in effect very like the male- dictions of us full-grown sinners) I have often cursed, I say, the officious and pernicious friendship of the fellow. He frequently fell upon his wife when he discovered that she had been laying hands upon me; the conse- quence of which was, as I felt to my cost, that I got a more malignant drubbing on the next clay, when my protector was from home and unable, therefore, to interfere in my behalf. When I was about nine years of age, an event befel in the family, which, to one of the parties at least, was of no common importance. Freeman was apprized that entertainments of more than ordinary variety were about to take place at Hockley-in-the-Hole. Besides the usual entertainments of cock-fighting, prize- fighting and bear-baiting, a bull was to be turned loose with fire-works all over him, and a mad ass was to be baited — temptations which Am- brose felt himself under no necessity of en- deavouring to resist. During a pause in these refined performances, Freeman casting his eyes around, descried a person against whom b3 10 RICHARD SAVAGE. he had in his pocket a writ of long standing ; and he, accordingly — for even the delights of the bear-garden must give way to business — prepared to serve it upon the unconscious victim. In his endeavour to do so, however, his object got wind ; and some unscrupulous enthusiasts in the cause of liberty, who either had reason to hold the class of which Ambrose was a worthy or unworthy member in abhor- rence, or who had adopted the common pre- judice against the body in general, laid hands upon the specimen before them, and bore him away in triumph to a contiguous pump, where he underwent a cold bath ; — no novelty, indeed ; but which transcended all former water-works of the same kind, whether in his experience as to himself, or in his remembrance as to others. From the effects of this ill-usage Ambrose never recovered. A cold settled upon his lungs and fever supervened ; and he was car- ried off— the invariable case ! — just at the time he felt he could be least spared, and precisely when he was most unwilling to depart. \S I have hinted at Mrs. Freeman's inhumanity towards me. It must be said —but whether it extenuates the barbarity of the woman's con- duct, or may be deemed an aggravation of it, is a question hardly worth the decision — that she RICHARD SAVAGE. 11 really did not know who my parents were — whether they were rich or poor, gentle or simple, living or dead. I had been com- mitted to her care by her own brother, one James Ludlow, a man who had been for many years in the service of the Lady Mason ; and who had constantly answered, if he did not satisfy his sister's inquiries respecting my birth, by stating that I was under the protec- tion of his mistress ; that there were reasons, why I should bear, as I had borne, the name of Freeman; and that if his sister was con- tented to restrain her curiosity till the proper time arrived, she would probably be made as wise in her generation, as to the secret in question, as any other of the children of men. Not one word of all which did Mrs. Freeman believe, she being one of that class of sagacious persons whose incredulity increases in propor- tion to the amount of information furnished, and who are never so certain of the falsity of a story as when there appears a degree of proba- bility on the face of it. This brother of hers, Ludlow, had never cultivated an intimacy with Freeman ; on the contrary, an exceeding distaste of each others company had manifested itself upon all occa- sions when chance brought them together. 12 RICHARD SAVAGE. Ludlow, although twenty years younger than his brother-in-law, was as precise and formal as the other was irregular and diffuse ; and as his predilections seldom led him to the ale- house, and, when they did, never carried him beyond one tankard, Freeman had long since abjured him, protesting that he was a solemn and sober noodle upon whom it was not worth his while to waste his company. Ludlow, accordingly, several years previously to the death of Freeman, had merely made a quarterly call upon his sister, for the purpose of paying into her hand the sum agreed upon for my keep, and of defraying the expenses of my school and clothing. When, however, the obstacle to his visits was re- moved, he came as often as his leisure per- mitted ; and never appeared so happy, or so little miserable (for Ludlow was a very grave person,) as when he was silently drawing from his pocket, and dispensing those palatable presents, which of all others are the most ac- ceptable to children. It was not long before I became sensible of the kindness of my disin- terested benefactor. I could perceive that he had gradually acquired an influence over Mrs. Freeman, which he exerted in my behalf with such success as, in a few months, materially RICHARD SAVAGE. 13 decreased the amount of punishment she had been wont to inflict upon me ; and for the purpose of doing away altogether with an odious and troublesome practice, which had nothing but custom to recommend it, I entered into a tacit compact with my mother, (for so I had been taught to call her.) that, in conside- ration of certain monies to be placed at her disposal, as I, from time to time, received them from Ludlow, she, on her part, was utterly to relinquish all further right of assault and battery upon my animal structure. Mrs. Free- man was not unwilling to fall into this arrange- ment; for, by the time I had attained my tenth year, I not only would not submit pass- ively to her correction, but resisted lustily both with hands and feet; and whenever these combats took place, might more* properly be said to be over matched than conquered. One day, Ludlow made his appearance with a very uncommon cheerfulness of aspect. His sister remarked it. " I don't know," said he, " whether you will be pleased by what I am about to tell you ; but, I believe, you are soon to lose little Richard/' Mrs. Freeman first held up her hands, and then darted a long finger towards me. 14 RICHARD SAVAGE. " And what, in mercy's name, are you going to do with the boy, now ?" " He is to be sent to St. Albans to school." "St. Albans !" cried Mrs. Freeman, "where's that ? As though he didn't get plenty of learning from Old Staines ;" and she pushed me, her erudite charge, out of the way. " He's too much for me with his books and his writing, already. I've no notion of teaching boys so much." " But somebody else has," said Ludlow, drily. " And Lady Mason wishes to see him to-morrow morning, and desires that you will accompany him." " And this is to be the end of all my care and pains," complained Mrs. Freeman ; " after all I've done for him. I'm sure, I've been more like a mother to him than anything else. Ha ! you may grin, you graceless young villain," and she held forth her menacing fist. " I've only been too good to you." " Well," said Ludlow, handing her a written direction, " don't be later than eleven." u Her Ladyship might come to me, T think," muttered Mrs. Freeman, placing the paper in a broken tea-cup on the mantel-piece ; and then, turning suddenly short round, " I'll tell you what, James 3 I shall make so bold as to ask RICHARD SAVAGE. 15 her Ladyship who are the child's parents. I won't let him go without knowing; — no, indeed." "It will do you no good, that," returned Ludlow, hastily, K but much harm. If you ask any questions of the kind, Martha, Lady Mason, I know, will be greatly offended ; and will do nothing for you. She does intend to give you something very handsome for your care of Richard." Mrs. Freeman pulled out the sleeves of her gown, and twitching at the bosom of it, took a seat. " Why," she said, u James Ludlow, you know I love the boy as my own ; and — " "And one day, perhaps, will be told to whom he belongs," interrupted her brother. u Ah ! one day ! a day I shall never see, I doubt," said Mrs. Freeman, with a forced sigh. " Come hither, Dick." I approached. She tenderly took my head between her two hands, and leaning back in her chair, gazed at me, her head fondly jerked on one side. That done, she advanced her shaking visage towards me till her nose touched mine, and saluted me in a sort of rapture. " Bless you, my Dick, must I part with you Y* and a stare and a gulp followed. 16 RICHARD SAVAGE. I had too much cause to doubt the sincerity of Mrs. Freeman's affection, to be at all moved by this unwonted exhibition. Not so, Ludlow, who, watery-eyed fellow ! was deeply affected, and who, wringing his sister's hand, assured her that I was going where I would be well taken care of, and where I should be made a bright man ; and that hereafter she would see reason to be proud of me. On the next morning, the woman and I — she arrayed in her best available apparel, and I combed out and soaped, till my face was as stiff and shiny as a vizard-mask, held our im- portant way towards the court end of the town, and in due time found ourselves at the door of Lady Mason. We were received by Ludlow, who ushered us in silence up a broad flight of stairs, and thence into a magnificent apartment, telling us to wait there till he apprized his mis- tress of our arrival. Mrs. Freeman was not a little daunted by the splendour of the place, and though ready to drop, as she said, (and so was I,) would not permit either herself, or me to occupy one of those, " Lawk ha mercy ! what heavenly chairs." " What heaps of chany ! Dick," she said, gazing wonderingly around. " I wonder where it all comes from ? Tables covered with it — ! RICHARD SAVAGE. If two buffets full of it, mantel-piece crowded with it ! Goggles ! Dick/' (a favourite word of hers, " goggles.") " I wonder what they call those two green animals, one in each corner, holding up their heads, with their mouths open, and their eyes shut, to see what God will send 'em, I suppose. A poor chance, I doubt, ugly beasts ! Well, it's good of 5 em, if they have such ill-favoured creatures in foreign parts, only to send their likenesses here. Hush ! here she comes, I think/' The door opened, and a lady of venerable aspect entered the room, partly supported by a stick, and leaning on Ludlow's arm. He carefully led her to her seat, and declining his head, appeared to receive her commands. " You may bring him to me, now," I heard her say. Ludlow took me by the hand. His own trembled as he whispered, " Come to Lady Mason, my dear ; she wishes to see you," and he placed me by the arm of her chair. " Good heavens ! how like — how very like, Mr. Ludlow ! do you not perceive ?" she ex- claimed, shrinking, as it were, from me. Ludlow with glistening eyes, and bowing silently assented. " Oh, my sweet fellow, my poor dear child !" IS RICHARD SAVAGE. resumed her Ladyship, " what a fate is yours I — and mine/' she added, somewhat wildly, smoothing my hair back from my forehead, and gazing upon me intently. Tears presently gushed from her eyes : she clasped me fer- vently to her bosom ; and her head sinking upon my small shoulder, she sobbed aloud. This was so different a scene from any to which I had been accustomed, that my heart w T as melted. I lifted up my voice, and would have blubbered in right earnest, but was checked by the upraised fist of Mrs. Freeman, who with hideous but intelligible grimaces commanded me to desist. Lady Mason, after some time, recovered her calmness, and wiped away my tears with her handkerchief. " My love is a very good boy, is he not ? I know he is/ 5 she said with a faint smile. My reply was such as may be expected ; — I answered that I was. " Our Richard is a very good boy ?" in- quired her Ladyship, addressing Mrs. Free- man, who, thus appealed to, came forward with many bobs and curtseys. " Why, your good Ladyship," replied Mrs. Freeman, mincingly, " I can't but say he is in general a very good young gentleman, but — " RICHARD SAVAGE. 19 " But what?" said her Ladyship. "Why, ma'am, Master Richard is such a spirit — so passionate-like, and won't bear control." Lady Mason directed a glance at Ludlow, and shook her head with a slight shrug. 6t But he is going to school," she said, turning to me, " where he will learn how wicked it is to give way to his passions. He will be taught better there ; for he is to be a gentleman, one of these days/' u Do you hear that, Master Richard ?" cried Mrs. Freeman. u I'm sure you ought to go down on your knees for such a goodness. Make your best bow to her Ladyship." I did so, and was withdrawn by Ludlow to the other end of the room. A long conversa- tion ensued between Lady Mason, and Mrs. Freeman, during which my ears detected the chinking of gold. When it broke up, the face of "my mother" shone luminously; and she came towards me, and embraced me, with an affectionate fervour, which I not only did not return, but tried my utmost to avoid. When Ludlow led me towards his Lady for the purpose of taking leave, she almost stifled me with kisses, made me promise that I would be the best and cleverest boy in the world, repeated her assurance that I was one day to be a gentleman, and placed in my hand a 20 RICHARD SAVAGE. guinea, with an injunction against spending too much of it at once. We were then taken down to Ludlow's private room, where refreshment was provided for us ; and where Mrs. Freeman once more pressed her brother very hard for an explanation touching the mystery of my birth, but without success. " Goggles, lad," said she, squeezing my ear, " you're somebody, at all events, — I see that plain enough ; and may at last come to be the owner of this fine house, and all it contains ; and there's plenty of one thing and another, I doubt." I had my own thoughts upon the subject; and looked, I believe, at Ludlow, as though I had. He was slightly disconcerted. "You heard what Lady Mason told Richard," he said, addressing his sister. u I can say no more." " You can, if you will," retorted Mrs. Free- man. " I won't then. 5 ' " Ah \" cried Mrs. Freeman, rising, u ob- stinate as a pig. 5 ' (i You will remember," said Ludlow, " that you are not to inform your neighbours where Richard is gone. That you faithfully promised her Ladyship, you know ; and on that de- pends — " RICHARD SAVAGE. 21 " I can keep a secret, I hope," exclaimed Mrs. Freeman, hastily. " When anything is to be kept secret, I'm above letting it be known." " Obstinate as a pig, then, I suppose,' 5 re- turned Ludlow. " You have me there," said his sister, with a sportive slap on the shoulder. " Well, her Ladyship is very much of the lady, I must say that of her, and has done what's handsome by me. Come along, Dick, you're very like some- body, it seems : a pity any one should be like you; and there's a secret for you." Lady Mason's guinea was too fresh in my pocket, to suffer me to take offence at any ill- conditioned jests at my expense. I contented myself, therefore, by making a wide-mouthed grin, as she turned her back, and by a farcical imitation of her gait and gesture, as she pro- ceeded through the hall. Ludlow accompanied us home in a coach, and in the afternoon took me to several shops, where such articles of clothing were ordered as were necessary to my genteel appearance at school; and it was arranged that on the follow- ing Wednesday he was to call for me, for the purpose of escorting me to St. Albans. 22 RICHARD SAVAGE. CHAPTER II. RICHARD SAVAGE AT SCHOOL. Already, I almost repent me of the task I have entailed upon myself. Altogether unused to this species of literary composition. I feel as though I should never kindle in it. A couplet that stings, or a verse that resounds, or even tinkles, delights the mind, or, at least, satisfies the ear ; poetry is a garden in which a man sets] the best flowers he can procure ; but this is \ downright hay-making. How I shall manage the a he saids," and the " she saids," as the vulgar say — the carte and tierce of conversa- tion, I know not. Nevertheless, I must on ; so, with a large brush and a wide canvass, I resume my fresco painting. Ludlow made his appearance punctually on the morning appointed for my departure, and tenderly released me from the affectionate gripe of Mrs. Freeman, who, now that I was about to leave her for ever, discovered agreeable qualities and social virtues in me, of which neither herself nor her charge had heretofore RICHARD SAVAGE. 23 been conscious. We left her in tears, genuine or spurious, I know not ; and making the best of our way to the inn, took our seats in the coach and were in due time conveyed to the place of our destination. Ludlow ordered dinner at the Nag's Head, at which we had been set down, and a pint of burnt sherry for immediate consumption, and led the way to the coffee-room. And here, having first explained that the two fat elderly maiden ladies in the coach — sisters he sup- posed — had so "gallowed" his brains with their incessant tattle, that he hardly knew what he ought to say, or how he ought to say it, the worthy creature earnestly and with tears in his eyes, bestowed upon me an unaccustomed quantity of very good advice, which I gratefully received, and which, I am sorry to confess, went hand in hand with my very good intentions to the place appointed, time out of mind, for the reception of those moral superfluities. Dinner being ended, and the afternoon drawing on apace, Ludlow went forth and secured the services of a round-faced rustic, upon whose impregnable skull my trunk was placed, and under whose guidance we found ourselves, in a short time, at the door of Mr. Burridge. 24 RICHARD SAVAGE. The pedagogue was at home and at leisure, for it was half-holiday — and sent word out that we were to be admitted to his presence. When we entered the apartment, we beheld a gigantic figure reclined almost horizontally in a very large chair. He was smoking a pipe and had, it would seem, recently divested himself of an enormous rusty periwig, which lay clutched in his huge fist upon the table. He regarded us in silence for some moments, through the smoky veil by which he was surrounded, and then rising leisurely, he laid aside his pipe and came towards us. " This letter, sir," said Ludlow, " will explain for what purpose I wait upon you," handing it to him. " A letter — eh !" said Burridge, whipping a pair of spectacles out of his waiscoat pocket, and jerking them on the bridge of his nose. " Let's see — Francis Burridge, Esquire — Esquire !" and he gave a loud whistle. " Ah ! well — very good — just so P' he added, at intervals, as he hastily perused the letter. " This tells me," said he, holding the letter from him, u that I am to take this little fellow — what's his name ? Richard Free- man, under my care — under my tuition/' RICHARD SAVAGE. 25 Ci Yes, sir," said Ludlow. " And that he is to remain with me during the holidays r" Ludlow bowed. " That implies that the lad's parents are dead ; is it so ?" " I believe they are/' replied Ludlow hesitating. u Ah ! not certain ?'' said Burridge ; u per- haps there's more life than death in the matter, eh:'' " I really do not know," replied Ludlow disconcerted. " Ah ! well !" returned Burridge, <: who is Henrietta Mason ?" " My Lady," replied Ludlow, " the Lady Mason." ei The Lady Mason ! — oh ! I beg her pardon," cried Burridge with a low bow, " that's it ; I always bow to a title." He rang the bell. " Bring some wine," as the servant entered. Ludlow began to plead head-ache, but was stopped by the familiar hand of Burridge upon his mouth. " Now, sir," said he, when the wine was put on the table, " I crave pardon — your name ?" " Ludlow, sir.'' " Well, Mr. Ludlow," and he slapped his VOL. I. C 26 RICHARD SAVAGE. brawny leg, " let us drink to the speedy progress of our young student; and we'll give him a glass too, to damp him down, as printers do their paper, before he goes into the press. Let us hope he'll contain something good when he comes out of it." " I hope so, indeed/- said Ludlow, earnestly, setting down his glass. " Will you forgive me ?" he resumed after a pause, (i but I trust — I feel no doubt — indeed, I know that he will be treated kindly. I am, sir," and poor Lud- low smiled with a kind of mournful humility, u I am greatly attached to him." Mr. Burridge raised his black brows, and gazed into the meek countenance of the other. " Ah ! well — you like him f he remarked, at length. 6e Why, yes, we shall treat him kindly enough, I dare say. We keep a school, Ludlow, not a slaughter-house ; — we are not cannibals, but christians ; men, not monsters. But, sir," and here he shook his finger in the air, u Mr. Shakspeare, an author strangely neglected in these our times, albeit, the greatest genius that ever appeared in England, except Milton, and in all, save sublimity, he surpasses even that stupendous genius — Mr. Shakspeare has proposed this question, — ' Treat a man ac- cording to his deserts, and who shall escape RICHARD SAVAGE. 27 whipping ?' Now, sir, if that be true, and I believe it is/' winking his eye knowingly, and pointing with his thumb over to me, " dy'e think the boys ought to go scot free, eh }" " No, indeed," said Ludlow ; " do you hear what Mr. Burridge says, Richard ? You must take care.'' " So he will," cried Burridge, putting on his periwig. "The truth is, the temples of Greece and Rome are c bosom'd high in tufted trees ;' — birch trees, Mr. Ludlow; and I never knew a boy yet who could find his way to those temples without going through those trees. But come, Dick, take leave of your friend ; he is anxious to go." So saying, Mr. Burridge hummed the end of an old song, which I afterwards discovered was the only one ever committed to memory by that gentleman, and taking a turn or two, left the room. " Not anxious to go, dear Richard/ 5 said Ludlow, slipping half-a-guinea into my hand, and kissing my forehead; "but if I stayed longer, I should not reach London to-night. God bless you ! Remember me, kindly, will you? It shall not be long before I see you again." c 2 28 KICHARD SAVAGE. My heart was heavy when my only friend left me; and when I heard the street door fairly close "upon him, I began to weep. Bur- ridge surprised me in this dismal plight. " What ! whimpering ? v said he. " Cease wailing and gnashing, my young Heraclitus : we shall soon be very good friends, I dare say. Here, take heart, and another glass of wine, and leave crying to girls who have knocked their dolls' heads off, and can't put them on again. There! a laugh becomes you much better. Now, what do you say, my man?" and, my head between his hands, he lifted me on to a chair. " Who has been giving you the rudiments — where have you been to school ?" " With Old Staines," said I. " Old Staines ! ah ! well — let's see what hue your mind has acquired from old Staines." Here he put a variety of questions to me, touching my advancement in English grammar, my answers to which were clearly far from satisfactory ; for he knitted his brows and shook his head in token of disapproval, and with a protruded lip stood for a while in meditation. "Ah! well!— well? No— ill," he said, at length, "very ill — very ill, indeed. What was RICHARD SAVAGE. 29 the name ?" he continued, suddenly turning to me, " of the Boeotian, eh ? the blundering bumpkin — the brute who taught you all he knew, and couldn't help it, eh ?** " Old Staines/' I repeated. "Old Staines!" echoed Burridge, throwing up his arms. " Dicky Freeman, such old stains — old blots, rather — ought to be expunged from creation. But, come with me ; we'll begin to-morrow to rub out those old stains/' So saying, he swung me with one arm from the chair in a volant circle, and taking my hand in his, led me into the school room. " Metcalfe/* said he, addressing a dingy old fellow, begrimed with snuff from nose to knees, who was seated at a desk mending pens. ie Call the boys out of the play-ground. Bid them come hither — all of them — instantly.'* Metcalfe passed his hands along his shiny galligaskins, and then flapped his paunch vigorously, causing a cloud of dust to fly out of his waistcoat, and rising with a grunt, made leisurely for a door at the other end of the room. " Stand you here, Freeman/* said Burridge, planting me at the foot of an elevated desk, which he ascended. Presently, in straggled a number of boys 30 RICHARD SAVAGE. of various sizes, ages and appearance, who, catching the masters eye, as he stood towering before them, ranged themselves in something like order and awaited his speech, which, prefaced by a terrific monitory smiting on the desk with a large wooden ruler, ran in pretty nearly these words : — "Young gentlemen; ah! well! young gen- tlemen, for so you are, or rather, for so I mean to make you — behold this young fellow- student whom I here present to you. He is strange, and shy, and, no doubt, not a little disconcerted at present ; be it yours to console, to enliven, to encourage him. Cheer him, my brave fellows, cheer him, my good lads. Be at once the rule and the example of good manners. He's but a little lad, you see — make much of him (Pshaw ! little — make much — very poor that !) In short, since I constantly incul- cate kindness, humanity and politeness, do show, though it be for the first time, that I have not laboured in vain." This address being brought to a conclusion, Mr. Burridge, descended from his desk. " Go amongst them, Dick," said he with a singu- larly sweet and benevolent smile, patting me on the head, — " and make as many friends as you can. Metcalfe, I want you. Follow me RICHARD SAVAGE. 31 to my study/' and he stalked away ; the dingy usher having gone through the same manual operations as before, following at a humble distance. Burridge's speech, delivered, as it had been, in the most persuasive manner a remarkably sonorous voice could adopt, encouraged me greatly. I advanced, therefore, into the middle of the room, and proceeded to scan the coun- tenances of my school-fellows with a view of striking up a friendship with one or more of them. I had not stood long thus, however, when a pull of my hair, from behind, caused me to start round with indignant surprise. My eyes lighted upon a row of faces of singular gravity, with a hand over each mouth as of philosophical speculation. As I turned scowl- ing from these grave Muftis, hopeless of de- tecting the delinquent, a second visitation of the same nature awakened my fury, and turn- ing short upon my heel, with a rapid swing of my arm, I prostrated a small wretch, upon whose upturned visage still lingered a slight vestige of mischievous glee which was instan- taneously succeeded by a look of woe. The lamentations of this victim opened the throats of the smaller fry. " He won't fight." — " He daren't fight. 5 '— " What's his name ?" re- sounded on all sides. 32 RICHARD SAVAGE. "I say, you sir," cried a boy older and taller than myself, strutting briskly up to me — " What's your name ?" " Go it, Sinclair — that's it, Sinclair," shout- ed the ingenuous youths. (Boys are the generous, noble, high-minded beings their grandmothers inspire philosophers to call them.) " What's your name, I tell you ?" repeated Sinclair. " Richard Freeman," said I, sturdily. " Well — have you a mind to fight V 9 " Any one of my own size," I answered ; " and I should like to catch the coward that pulled my hair just now." Although I said this readily and resolutely enough, a sense of my unfriended condition lay heavy at my heart, and mingled grief and rage arose into my throat. I would have averted my head to conceal the tears that sprang to my eyes ; but at this moment, a tap on the shoulder engaged my attention. I looked up, and saw a boy about Sinclair's age. He kindly took me by the hand. " I'm Gregory — Tom Gregory," said he ; "never mind them — I'll stand by you !" In the meanwhile, Sinclair had been taking counsel with his companions. " I'll see what he's made of," he observed