"Ay, sir; I would take her by the hand-by both hands, and bidding her look upon the wretch she had made, curse her from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot! Against forgiveness of that woman in this world, I have an oath recorded, where she will never see it-in heaven."

"For the love of heaven, of which you speak," cried Burridge, stopping his ears, "no more. This is too much. "It is," I replied. "I spoke too strongly-but you make me speak. Listen to me, sir. You are a very old, and have been a very good friend of mine. I am indebted to you for more benefits than, I dare say, you remember. I do not forget one. We must not part without shaking hands. But if you and your friends, who are pleased to call themselves my friends likewise-with what truth let the inhuman indelicacy of their conduct towards me declare-if you and your friends think, because you have made, or are about to make, a paltry subscription for me, saddled with wantonly devised and idle conditions, that the price I am to pay for it is to be the mortification of my feelings, the outrage of my pride, the rasping of my soul, be it known to you and to them, I will not pay that price, and I reject your subscription.”

"We mean no such thing; I, at least, have no such meaning," cried Burridge, affected. "Dick! Dick! I have loved you, and I cannot well forego a lingering something here for you still. Your pride has been your bane, and will yet be your ruin. I hope not. Good bye!—I forgot;-Langley and I waited on Mr. Pope yesterday. He desired me to tell you he wished to see you. He has your welfare at heart. To have acquired the friendship of such a man as Pope

"Is, perhaps, to have deserved it, Mr. Burridge."

66

Ah, well! Dick Savage, you could deserve even higher than that."

"Good bye. Say no more. I can and will. But time

-time

"Flies, Dick; and the wind of his wings overthrows many a brave fellow while he is busy, poising his good intentions."

What Burridge declined doing, a less scrupulous acquaintance undertook. I was so well pleased with my letter, that I despatched it to my mother. What effect it produced, I know not. Had I possessed the means of satisfying myself upon this point, I am not sure that I had cared to inquire.

I paid my respects to Mr. Pope on the following morning. He received me with his usual gentle kindness. To borrow a word from the nursery, his fractious peevishness of which the world has heard so much-a consequence of his wretched health-was never exhibited before me. During a considerable time we discoursed of general or of indifferent things, Pope evidently reluctant to enter upon the business for which he had summoned me thither. At length he began by lamenting the necessity I was under of being beholden to my friends; "some of whom, to tell you the truth, sir," he added, "I except Mr. Burridge-appear determined that the obligation they intend you to be under to them, shall not lie heavy upon you. Is there no way of averting the necessity of being obliged to them at all ?*

I assured him that I felt the cruel situation in which I was placed, more than I could express; that there was nothing I could do, that I would not attempt, rather than be degraded into a puppet for others to play what tricks they liked with. Upon hearing this, Pope walked to an adjoining table, from which he took an open letter.

"This," said he, reseating himself, "is a letter I have taken the liberty of writing for you," he hesitated and turned slightly pale-Pope always turned pale when he should have blushed-"I think," he resumed, "it is nearly what you yourself would write. You can copy it here. You know Sir William Lemon ?"

"I do."

"It is to him-to be shown to Lord Tyrconnel."

What! any man take a pen between his fingers, and form letters, and frame words, and connect sentences, and express sentiments, or opinions, or feelings in my name, and without consulting me--and I called upon to scratch a transcript of this emanation from another man's mind, and to

adopt it into my own, as when one jack-pudding sets fire to the tow at Smithfield, another jack-pudding swallows it! I received the letter into my hand with a very ill grace.

But when I came to read it! Why, this was one of the vilest letters! What is it in human nature that causes a man to require his friend to do things that he dares not ask another; or if he dare, that he knows another could not be found mean enough to do? I blushed for Pope. I could do nothing, for a time, but blush. My words, that were rushing from my bosom, almost choked me. He saw my condition, and would have taken the paper out of my hands. I retained it.

"This letter," I said at last, "is to Sir William Lemon. In it I confess my sorrow that I offended Lord Tyrconnel. I feel none. I beg his pardon. I will not. I crave his assistance. I despise it, and him. I hope he will not steel his heart against so small a relation." DDn him! What care I what he does with his heart for or against me? So small a relation? How small? slightly connected-or small-poor, low in the world? Upon my honour, Mr. Pope, I take this letter to be remarkably small. Suppose I tear it into very small pieces, and fling it out of your window ?" and I did so.

Pope attempted to excuse himself, but lamely; and afterwards to rally me upon my pride, but very awkwardly. He must pardon me for saying he looked smaller than usual upon that occasion.

I explained to him, that even had my conduct towards Lord Tyrconnel been culpable-as, upon my life, I believed the fault to have lain entirely on his side, yet that the letter I had just destroyed was not such an one as a gentleman, however greatly in distress, should have written. put it to him, whether Lord Tyrconnel and Mrs. Brett would not be too glad to produce such a letter, as an answer to every charge I had brought, or might hereafter choose to bring, against them?

I wonder Pope bore with my plain speech as he did; but what is a man to do or to say-a man of sense and feeling, when it is shown to him, all on a sudden, that he has done

a very foolish thing, and has just been counselling his friend to do a very base one?

Without entering, therefore, perhaps, into my feelings, or appeasing them, he saw at once the reasonableness of my objections, and agreed with me, that the letter was rightly destroyed, and assuring me of his continued friendship, and that I might rely upon twenty guineas a-year from him, he permitted me to depart.

But not these assurances could heal the wound he had inflicted upon me. This was the unkindest cut of all. I could not believe that Pope imagined I could transcribe such a letter, or permit it to be sent in my name. It was a sly manner—I had another word than sly at my pen's end, a more appropriate word, but I forbear-it was a sly manner of telling me his opinion of the figure I had made in my quarrel with Lord Tyrconnel.

I could not help relating the substance of this interview to Johnson.

"Mr. Johnson," said I, in conclusion, "had fortune treated you as she has dealt by me-had your own imprudence, which, perhaps, is my case, reduced you to my extremity, and you had been requested to transcribe such a letter, believing the appeal made in it would prove successful-would you have done so ?"

He made one of his ugly, majestic faces, threw his arms up into the air, and took the room in three giant strides. "No!" in a burst of thunder. "No! I would not." "And you do not think the better of Pope for urging me to do so ?"

"I admire Pope, Mr. Savage; you know it. He is a man of genius; but, sir, I do not think the better of Pope -I think very much the worse of Pope."

Pope will turn pale, indeed, should he ever read this.

CHAPTER XXXII.

IN WHICH RICHARD SAVAGE TAKES HIS FAREWELL OF LONDON, AND OF ONE WHOM IT HAD BEEN WELL IF HE HAD STRIVEN TO DESERVE IN CONCLUSION, HIS GOOD RESOLUTIONS, AND HOW THEIR EFFECT WAS ANTICIPATED.

THE reader has probably inquired, ere this, what has become of Miss Wilfred? It is very likely he may likewise have desired to know whether I stopped short in my pursuit of the dear fugitive, or renewing it, whether I cast myself at the feet of one whom I had so deeply and wantonly injured, and succeeded in obtaining her forgiveness. I will satisfy his curiosity.

My rupture with Lord Tyrconnel had been long foreseen by me, but in no manner provided against, so that, no sooner had I left his house than I was again flung back upon the world, without any available resource but such as the knowledge of my quarrel with my patron would immediately extinguish. Still, I did not relax my endeavours to discover whither Elizabeth had flown. Perhaps, the knowledge that my recent misfortune (for so I knew she would deem it) would plead in my behalf, somewhat mitigated the remorse I could not but feel at having so basely insulted her; and anxious beyond all things else in the world to clear myself (before heaven, this is the truth!) from the imputation by others, or the suspicion in her own mind-that I had coolly meditated a design against her honour, I continued my search with unabated perseverance for a month-but in vain. By this time, I was reduced to great necessity. Tyrconnel, base beast! had seized upon my clothes, and I was compelled to lie hid in obscurity. As these necessities became extreme, a sense of utter abasement, of deep shame, overcame me. Had I known where to have found her-could I have presented myself before her-I had been ashamed to meet her eyes-those eyes that I had once loved to gaze upon. "Coxcomb once, and now poverty-stricken, out-at-elbows