anecdotes about that gay and brilliant world from which he was
now an outcast. He had observed the great men of both parties in
hours of careless relaxation, had seen the leaders of opposition
without the mask of patriotism, and had heard the prime minister
roar with laughter and tell stories not over decent. During some
months Savage lived in the closest familiarity with Johnson; and
then the friends parted, not without tears. Johnson remained in
London to drudge for Cave. Savage went to the West of England,
lived there as he had lived everywhere, and in 1743, died,
penniless and heart-broken, in Bristol gaol.

Soon after his death, while the public curiosity was strongly
excited about his extraordinary character, and his not less
extraordinary adventures, a life of him appeared widely different
from the catchpenny lives of eminent men which were then a staple
article of manufacture in Grub Street. The style was indeed
deficient in ease and variety; and the writer was evidently too
partial to the Latin element of our language. But the little
work, with all its faults, was a masterpiece. No finer specimen
of literary biography existed in any language, living or dead;
and a discerning critic might have confidently predicted that the
author was destined to be the founder of a new school of English
eloquence.

The life of Savage was anonymous; but it was well known in
literary circles that Johnson was the writer. During the three
years which followed, he produced no important work, but he was
not, and indeed could not be, idle. The fame of his abilities
and learning continued to grow. Warburton pronounced him a man
of parts and genius; and the praise of Warburton was then no