s. On a bulk, in a
cellar, or in a glass-house, among thieves and beggars, was to be found
the author of The Wanderer, the man, whose remarks in life might have
assisted the statesman, whose ideas of virtue might have enlightened the
moralist, whose eloquence might have influenced senates, and whose
delicacy might have polished courts. His distresses, however afflictive,
never dejected him. In his lowest sphere he wanted not spirit to assert
the natural dignity of wit, and was always ready to repress that
insolence, which superiority of fortune incited, and to trample that
reputation which rose upon any other basis, than that of merit. He never
admitted any gross familiarity, or submitted to be treated otherwise
than as an equal.

Once, when he was without lodging, meat, or cloaths, one of his friends,
a man indeed not remarkable for moderation in prosperity, left a
message, that he desired to see him about nine in the morning. Savage
knew that his intention was to assist him, but was very much disgusted,
that he should presume to prescribe the hour of his attendance; and
therefore rejected his kindness.

The greatest hardships of poverty were to Savage, not the want of
lodging, or of food, but the neglect and contempt it drew upon him. He
complained that as his affairs grew desperate, he found his reputation
for capacity visibly decline; that his opinion in questions of criticism
was no longer regarded, when his coat was out of fashion; and that
those, who in the interval of his prosperity, were always encouraging
him to great undertakings, by encomiums on his genius, and assurances of
success, now received any mention of his designs with coldness, and, in
short, allowed him to be qualified for no other performance than
volunteer-laureat. Yet even this kind of contempt never depressed him,
for he always preserved a steady confidence in his own capacity, and
believed nothing above his reach, which he should at any time earnestly
endeavour to attain.

This life, unhappy as it may be already imagined, was yet embittered in
1738 with new distresses. The death of the Queen deprived him of all the
prospects of preferment, with which he had so long entertained his
imagination. But even against this calamity there was an expedient at
hand. He had taken a resolution of writing a second tragedy upon the
story of Sir Thomas Overbury, in which he made a total alteration of the
plan, added new incidents, and introduced new chara