quence of a complaint made by Savage to Henley, and was, therefore,
mentioned by him with much resentment. Mr. Savage returned a very solemn
protestation of his innocence, but, however, appeared much disturbed at
the accusation. Some days afterwards he was seized with a pain in his
back and side, which, as it was not violent, was not suspected to be
dangerous; but, growing daily more languid and dejected, on the 25th of
July he confined himself to his room, and a fever seized his spirits.
The symptoms grew every day more formidable, but his condition did not
enable him to procure any assistance. The last time that the keeper saw
him was on July the 31st, 1743; when Savage, seeing him at his bedside,
said, with an uncommon earnestness, "I have something to say to you,
sir;" but, after a pause, moved his hand in a melancholy manner; and,
finding himself unable to recollect what he was going to communicate,
said, "'Tis gone!" The keeper soon after left him; and the next morning
he died. He was buried in the church-yard of St. Peter, at the expense
of the keeper.

Such were the life and death of Richard Savage, a man equally
distinguished by his virtues and vices; and at once remarkable for his
weaknesses and abilities.

He was of a middle stature, of a thin habit of body, a long visage,
coarse features, and melancholy aspect; of a grave and manly deportment,
a solemn dignity of mien, but which, upon a nearer acquaintance,
softened into an engaging easiness of manners. His walk was slow, and
his voice tremulous and mournful. He was easily excited to smiles, but
very seldom provoked to laughter.

His mind was in an uncommon degree vigorous and active. His judgment was
accurate, his apprehension quick, and his memory so tenacious, that he
was frequently observed to know what he had learned from others, in a
short time, better than those by whom he was informed; and could
frequently recollect incidents, with all their combination of
circumstances, which few would have regarded at the present time, but
which the quickness of his apprehension impressed upon him. He had the
peculiar felicity, that his attention never deserted him; he was present
to every object, and regardful of the most trifling occurrences. He had
the art of escaping from his own reflections, and accommodating himself
to every new scene.

To this quality is to be imputed the extent of his knowledge, compared
with the small time which he spent in visible end