whereas the wayward poet finished his miserable existence in a prison,
at Bristol, 21 years prior to that event. Here I may be allowed a
remark or two on the animadversion which has been heaped on Johnson
for that beautiful piece of biography, "The Life of Richard Savage."
It has hitherto been somewhat of a mystery that the stern critic whose
strictures so severely exposed the minutest derelictions of genius in
all other instances, should have adopted "the melting mood" in
detailing the life of such a man as Savage; for, much as we may admire
the concentrated smiles and tears of his two poems, "The Bastard," and
"The Wanderer," pitying the fortunes and miseries of the author, yet
his ungovernable temper and depraved propensities, which led to his
embruing his hands in blood, his ingratitude to his patrons and
benefactors, (but chiefly to Pope,) and his degraded misemployment of
talents which might have raised him to the capital of the proud column
of intellect of that day,--all conduce to petrify the tear of mingled
mercy and compassion, which the misfortunes of such a being might
otherwise demand. Nevertheless, as was lately observed by a
respectable journal, "there must have been _something_ good about him,
or Samuel Johnson would not have loved him."

**H.

* * * * *


DREAMS.

(_For the Mirror_.)